learn as you go

there

2006-12-12T22:49:00.000-06:00

not really a poem.. just easier to think this way...

i was there where you were
right then
helping

insulating wires
in your studio
and counting to ten
i was the sound-check
in your basement

i was there where you were
right then
sharing

i massaged your aching
piano hands
in exchange for
letting my cold feet
suck the warmth
from under your knees

i was there where you were
right there
right then
holding

i listened to your chest
as you spoke to the ceiling

you were weary and
wondering what to change
in what direction
and how much more to give

you were alone
so i did not speak

you squeezed my shoulder
as i was
frazzled and penniless
diseased and resigned

i was content too
i scratched your chest
up and down
and you laughed quietly
at the strange gesture
and i thought of cats
and spoke foolishly
of cats again
of being one
of the touch of
strangers on your
belly
and your cat yawned
on the floor
and you said nothing
to this vapid thought

you had a hard-on
and i placed my palm
on your jeans
my fingers searching out
the rib of your head
and we stayed casually
like this
it was just a hello
plus some
palpitations
and i tucked this away
smiling, thinking of how
you came to me on all fours
growling, as i stood with my back
against the styrofoam soundproofing
your head level
with my cunt
and how
you gave it
an open muah
-just to greet again-
through my jeans
soaked with city air
and bus seats
and how i was shy in your
thrust of familarity

later you fucked me
for ten minutes
in your bedroom
carefully, my panties
came off perfunctorily,
and i stuck my fingers in
rapidly, in grim preparation,
so that your cock could
venture out from your briefs
into me like a prudent periscope

the spiderlegs of viruses
real and alive
dead and imagined
crawldanced in our heads
and bound our
hands away from
where they were needed
and i clasped your
one arm to my chest
like a shield
to ward me from
evil
and sighed
and i could not believe
this was real

i could not believe i
was opened again
after all these months,
barely moist
and too tight, unprepared
and i couldn't commit
to this short time
and i couldn't commit
to your caution
i imagined the world away
and i waited, but it didn't happen
and i waited, clenched, tight, and you
murmured to let you in, and it
hurt and you asked me if it hurt
but i said no, because i didn't care
i just wanted you there
right then

during, i hated you
for not losing control, and i
knew neither of us would cum
and i tried to suck you in, flexed
i had thoughts of slapping you
as you pulled out and you apologized
and it was okay, the violence gone, and after
i was tender and happy again and far afterwards
i hated me for not caring
what might happen to you during

you went to the bathroom
i heard you splish splash
your cock clean
the only smell on my fingers
was rubber and i got up and got dressed
and we found each other in the hallway
and we found ourselves in a hug
and i felt so heavy, so happy
in your arms

later as i sat alone on your couch
i sneaked a kiss on the crown of
your moody cat and
he bumped his nose back
unexpectedly onto me
his whispers perked up
like a beaming
wizened old man
and he put a paw on my lap
uncertainly
making to sit there
only to pounce off abruptly
when you walked back in

i was there where you were
right there
right then
tasting

my mouth
my fingers
my nose
all plastered
into you, stifled
and hot,
right at your seam
with her

her salt
mixed with you
on my tongue

a confused flavour
she rode you harder
than i ever did, sucked you
deeper and better
than i ever could
you groaned praise like i had
never heard
this young little thing
and i pulled her hair away from
her face to watch her
and you winked at me
when the strands slipped forward again,
mouthing words i did
not understand

you had kissed my forehead
dutifully, tenderly,
protectively before you
left the room to get her

you started
her with long kisses,
just the long tongue-filled
kisses you never offered me,
just when i had stopped thinking
of this, this is how you started

you hardly knew her
and i watched, frozen,
trying to shake the nightmare
so the dream could begin,
and the dream would
begin, my body was pressed on your back
where you had put me
and i waited, swallowing,
determined not to move

you said later
when i asked, that you guess
you could do it because it was casual
enough with her and i thought of my lips
on him that time, hard and wet and sucking,
strange and easy and hot,
and i hated how much i wanted
to believe you, how easily i rationalized
and i hated
why i should even care

but i do not know
what made you
not even try with me...
was it the caring
or the not caring
when it comes to me?
i do not understand
either alternative
is hard to think
about

i think you do not kiss me because
you are kind and you know me
you see me see you
you see me be with you
right there
right then
right here
right now
writing you

you know me enough not to pull
me any further in
then you want
no more
no less
you ask for nothing
and you reject to take
everything and
you know in your kiss
with me, you would take just this

in the end,
gently, firmly,
you decline

you say no thank you, in a way i cannot
if you think me still
around to change your
mind, change your mind
it is not that, it is simply that i cannot
there is no no inside when it comes to you
i take any chance i get
i cannot
(yet)

we took turns taking off our clothes
you helped her peel off her jeans,
saying let's take off your socks too,
as cute as they are,
then it was my turn, and i did not
look at either of you, pushed it all
down quickly without your help,
i sat on the bed half-naked
i felt strange for not feeling strange
my bras and panties were the same
as those ten minutes on your bed
and it was my only tiny weak
wink in your direction
as you had said that you liked
them very much
she had the same lingerie on
as in her black and white photo
except turquoise, pretty,
i should not have been thinking
of clothes, but it was not
for very long that i did,
mostly i felt odd for feeling
proud, and i was in casual
like for my exposed skin

she looked tiny on you
you looked
a hefty brute
her ass a curvy heart on your lap
and she was quiet just humming
now and then

you lay together
your hand waved backwards
towards stunned me, mouth still on her,
motioning to join, so i breathed
and did

her body reclined
was tempting
a lush sweet
little feast
she looked falsely familiar
i felt no momentous occasion
i was like the teenage
boy and i felt like my ex and
i wanted to squeeze her breasts

you told me to take off
her bra, that she liked that
but i did not give a damn for what you told me
she liked right then; i just curved my fingers underneath
and pulled the two bits of lacy cloth aside
to touch and i felt bold, and i forgot, for
one second, you

i do not think
you liked this much
but then,
i'm not sure if she did either
she felt like soft sugary goodness
in my palms, all that skin, but
she hardly changed at all
i did not know who she hummed for
so quiet, body so limp,
taking it in
i was like that horny teenage boy, unsure,
i did not know why i was there for her
i wish i knew her apart from you
and my interest dipped its head
slightly down

you fucked
her for minute after minute after minute
until i threatened to really get bored
i do not remember how you entered
her; it seemed too fast, too sudden to take in
but i liked how your ass looked on top of
her; you were in the smoky motel mirror too
you looked the part
the part of the man
i wanted to be fucked by

i wanted to be obscene
i think i wanted to violate you
i pulled your hair instead
i did not care how this felt
for you
i just needed something to hold
on to

sometimes
you looked at me
and moved to kiss me too,
short and hard,
i did not want it,
not now, not with
those lips turned inexplicably free,
and i wanted to push you
down and do it properly,
your breath was
warm and your
taste straw-bland
with a whiff
of sweet

sometimes
we held hands

sometimes
i did not know
whose leg i was
rubbing my panties
on or whose hands
were on my nipples

and every time i was
on all fours with my
ass in your view,
you slapped it and
she giggled, surprised,
and i moaned like
i was complaining

still later all i cared
was how it felt for you
put my hand just so for you

her, for you,
i wanted to break down
just enough to know how to
touch so that she dripped
more for you, even make her cum for you
my head my thoughts anything
all focused on honeying
your fuck, my hands all over
both your skins and
the sweetness of this docility
began to overwhelm,
the grandness of this humility...
to put what i found myself watching
at sole helm of my actions,
it was just so sweeping and compelling,
i would have done anything
anything, you understand?

(maybe why i am the one
who suggested this to you,
thinking of the giddiness of the saccharine
surrender i felt that time at your house,
when your cock was out and you were behind me
and i knew simply that you were not going to push inside,
not when like this; but only so close
and true to this real edge,
did i feel a peace

i was strong, you know,
and i did not collapse
or cry or die...
seemed to come close and then
didn't...)

it was hard to look at you
when you did not look at me,
absorbed in your in and out,
and i could not look
away; it was hard to be looked at
by you, the way you caught
my eyes

your eyes looked
the way eyes do when they are
trying to convey a thought
telepathically,
focused and intense
-no accidental
personal exposure with you-
i knew what you were trying to tell me,
i want to fuck you now
i want to right now
i hid away, i looked to the mattress
i bit my lips and half-frowned
with my finger inside her
my cunt in my throat with that look
i worried about my nails instead
and i wondered at her feel
the strange angle and not knowing
which way to go more in
and you pushed me near your ear
you murmured to me see, see
how good it feels and then you
pushed me even closer and so quiet
she could not hear
i want to fuck your brains out now
i want you to know
and your tongue thrust into
my listening

i was happy
but this duplicity
now that we were three
made me uneasy

hapless and reckless
inside her
your cock
got larger than i
thought possible,
larger than i even
managed to muster a picture
of when inside

but right then, with my head twisted
sideways, my stomach was placed
against hers in a cross,
i saw the veins of your cock
sticking out
from inside of her,
every contour
defined,
with the skin pulled back
so taut

so rigid
i couldn't believe how much...
my favorite part of you:
your last stretch
my one hand fisted around your
base and i
felt for your balls
but it was all just pushing to
your buried head bit by bit
as you got ready
you were so thick
so hard
god i remembered
your last stretch
and i sunk my head
in the bed
and she moaned
and i could not keep
my hands there
any longer
to feel the drip
i could hardly
keep balance
i cried out
i barely
heard you

later you put your
right index and third
fingers inside me
your left ones in her
my arm was near her arm
side by side
i resisted first
and then i felt
that warm delicious
streak inside, in your
carelessly confident push,
too sudden,
after all this, so
quickly to come to this,
i tried to fight it but
i was squishing already

i was loud, i did not care
i wanted her, you, world to hear
she got louder too, more
than before, i felt that
she was an echo of
me and i felt bad
to think this

and you said
there we go,
the way you always do
now in front of her
your fingers in her
your fingers in me
you looked at me
you said my name
you counted from ten
you told me when

i came so hard
i came so hard
i came so hard

after i felt tired
and friendly
you left the room
discreetly
to wash your hands
you told us not to go
anywhere
and i muttered that i did
not think we could move anyhow
and she giggled
her simple mmhhmPH,
her strange instant switching into
a channel of pure hilarity

i was alone with her
i lifted my head
and put my hand on her hair
gently, wanting her to
be more real, and i asked her,
grammar unheeding,
are you good?
i felt condescending,
like a big sister,
and she giggled
that mmhmmPH
again, saying yeah,
saying
i've never had sex
in a motel...

you came back, asking if there
was room for you
she laughed and said
we're done with you
and it occurs to me now
how pathetic that i never
could even joke
that i
was
done
with
you

you lay between us
and you asked me if i felt
better now and i just laughed,
she giggled, my chest did those
odd shudders and flutters
i always get afterwards

when asked how that was,
she chirped only
i'd do that again
and i envied her this
decision
though i knew when it came down to it
i would too

(i probably will)

when asked how that was,
i said
it was... cool, quietly
and you felt the need to explain to her
that i was like a computer,
slow and complex to process,
only to spit out pages
and pages of brilliance later
she laughed
i felt a bit mocked
i felt a bit pleased

you held my thigh as we lay there
you squeezed the flesh hard
as we all exchanged
pleasantries,
you twisted me in a series of hard
pinches, short long long short,
and i knew this code
i knew what you were trying to say,
i want to fuck you still
i want to fuck you now

i did not respond, did not
move
it was hard to believe
it was over, that
we had done it
and i'm sorry, but a
part of me was relieved
that i had somewhere to
go, would not have
to lie around after sex
for very long, it's just that we
hardly ever
have alone
and i'm sorry, a part of me
was thinking of where my belongings
were and what time it was,
and i'm sorry, a part of
me was not with you,
right there,
right then

i could not see what
your other hand was doing

keeping up

2006-11-28T09:29:00.000-06:00

Hello!

I'm still around.

Since I've last posted, I've started on meds, my mother has come to live with me, I've tried to finish my project and now have three weeks left if I want to graduate, I've applied to teacher's colleges and thought endlessly about why I want to be a teacher, I've hoped that I am sure, I've felt myself fall more and more into a tender blender with T, I've had sex with him but not fully fulfilling cause we had to be so careful, I've watched him fuck another woman very recently, too recently for me to even talk about, but I want to, I've been hopelessly rude to the kind reader who left a comment on my last post and I want her to know that it touched me and it was what I have hoped for here when I started off, that this blog would hold together somehow as a whole, that I would come across naturally in the build of my erratic scrawl, not just in the flash of any one post, and it made me happy too because I have done just that with so many writers here, just stopped everything and read and read their archives, I have wanted to talk more about dealing with HPV but I am tired of the topic, of this mark on my life, and I have been ashamed of not finishing Jericho's interview after he took so much time and put so much thought into it, but I figured I'd be more ashamed to post a haphazard answer, and there is something in his questions that feels like I'd have to spend a lifetime answering, and I have neglected my darling gracious Justine, and I have wanted to send kisses Anna's way and and I have missed you all so and I've wanted to get back here, to just return to this world and write because there is much to say, to work out, and I want to change my template and put up all the links for the places that I am reading, which I have been wanting to do for over 6 months now, but I am a procrastinator,and there is no time, no proper time at all, and I think maybe it is a sign that I feel healthier, that I can put this aside a bit when I have to, but I miss it, I really really do.

I predict that I will have to continue to take this break, but I want to be back by around January, if not sooner.. we'll see. For now, living.

Love and kisses to anyone reading!

2006-10-24T08:45:00.000-05:00

T tells me he has been talking to a girl online for some time.

It is different from the other girls he has met online. She is mentioned separately. In a clause of her own. In a whole new tone.

She’s from *insert a city from the tiny country I grew up in*. Well, but she’s traveled around a bit in other countries. She is just.. has ...the sweetest, sexiest... I’ve ever.. I mean.. wow. And picture after picture, I couldn’t believe it was her. Some candid too. But just so real too, not, you know, perfect. Just so...yeah.

He sounds quite smitten.

That her and I have lived in the same place makes me laugh. It is an unnecessary twist in the story. For her to share even the smallest thread of me makes me strangely happy. (breaks my heart)

I should show you photos, he says. I almost don’t want to. Hell, it’ll probably turn you into a lesbian. You’re gonna forget about me. Feel kinda jealous. I mean... she’s just... so much prettier than me.

We laugh.

Yes, well, I reply. I don’t think I’m going to be the one talking to her so...

I am laughing (crying) inside at this attempt of his to make light of the facts. I know he is trying to voice my own jealous fear in his round-about way, consciously or not.

How... insensitively sensitive.

The idea of this casting off of someone for another is not a pretty one to bring up.

As much as I knew that is how it would likely be.

Maybe I have waited too long to write this and now need to jump to conclusions.

But like I've said, it doesn’t matter, her, another, now, later.

And it is not like I will be replaced, no. It is worse.

A replacment I could try and chalk up to a general restlessness, out of my hands.

But no, she will probably be given what I have never been offered, whether I wanted it or not.

(sometimes i did, sometimes i didn’t)

(sometimes love wanted naught. but then sometimes I could never love you enough if I couldn’t love the way you loved me too.)

(there is no real bond without it. in limerence , you’re just a strainer for the kinds of loves-- the ones that have an actual flow the way you know deep-down they should--to slip away. everything falls in, welcome, everything falls out, gone. you’re left holding nothing in the end. you’re left fingering the now drying debris fondly.)

(convoluted, forced metaphor for such an obvious thing)

(really i haven’t a clue. )

Thing is I know he would not do it abruptly, cruelly. No, he would be smooth. There would be a morphing, a thoughtful pause in between, phase out me, phase in her. He is probably even doing it now already, easily.

Because the thing about charming people is... they know. They know how to do it.

It is a large responsibility, to know what effect you and your wants have on others. I know he knows this. Most prefer to remain clueless; it gives you more fuzzy freedom. And it is not manipulative or demeaning I think with him. I think he knows each person decides in the end what to do.

Just this weight to his interactions, an awareness of his own momentum.

If he told any lies, it was to be kind. I wonder if sometimes he lies to himself, is kind to himself, convinces himself what he feels is his duty is the same as how he really feels.

But only in small ways. Just in the way he will know when to call, when to apologize, when to ask how you feel, at what point to bring things up, what to hold back, what to tell, what to tweak first a little bit away from the truth then tune a little bit towards until the time is right, what best version of the story of his feelings to present, where to put the emphasis so it comes out just right.

He gets what he wants in the end. Nothing is truly denied. It is just that the picture is tidier. There is less drama along the way. Everyone comes out less scathed.

Am I the one like this?

I am being cynical I think. He is just cautious, cares. Actually it makes his occasional spontaneity all the more charming.

Even that he’s got down. (the bastard.)

What more can you ask from someone?

( a lot)

Yeah, it doesn’t make it that much better, does it?

(nope)

The way that it is done does not change certain things.

I want him to be happy. I know I mean it.

(if she turned out a freak there’d be relief.)

Maybe what I fear the most is to be forgotten.

Or the reasons why I might be.

But then I think, why does it matter? I’m me. I know who I am.

God damn. I know who I am.

(sometimes always too much, sometimes mostly never enough)

Sugasm #51

2006-10-24T08:15:00.000-05:00

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u wanan cybr?

2006-10-19T22:17:00.000-05:00

I hate technology.

I am fiddling with the microphone, speaking into it, but T just cannot hear me. He can see me through the web-cam, but he cannot hear me. We cannot figure out why.

I have worked up the courage to type to him just how horny I feel. How I am filled with an urge to just be mauled and fingered and fucked and kinda... used.

Kinda, because, well, you know... How used can it be, when I want this so bad?

”What are you going to do about it?” he wanted to know, when I told him how I felt.
“Just sit here and tell you about it apparently,” I quipped. We laughed.

Or um, lols were exchanged.

“Well no, I’m going to cum. Soon. Probably now.”
“I want to hear it then. A recording, maybe even a video with sound...I’m bossy today...”

But I want him to see me right then and there instead. And anyways, my video recording software does not work properly.

But then apparently, neither does my microphone. Or it’s his speakers. We’re still not sure. We finally decide to use the phone for sound instead.

We say hi again on the phone. I am shy all of a sudden. I have a black strappy cotton nightie on with a cartoon pink flower splashed in the middle. My breasts are swollen and round because I am about to get my period. My hair is in a bun, and my glasses are sliding off my nose.

“What are you thinkin?” I ask, a bit tritely, biding my time.
“Hmm? Oh, I am thinking.... I’m wondering why I can only see you up to your elbows. I am thinking that I need to see cunt.”

I breathe a nervous laugh.

“Maybe later,” I say, lowering my eyes, my voice dropping to a quiet whine.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing...” I have already moved to adjust the camera, grinning.
“Maybe later my ass,” he snarls.

I angle the camera down so it looks straight between my legs. I have black panties on. I feel very quiet. Just breathing. My joking demeanor gone. I get up so that my mid-section blocks the camera’s view, and slowly slide my panties down. I sit back down, but I cannot help pulling my knees up in front of me. I touch myself a little, as I think of where exactly to put the camera.

“I can’t see your face, hon.”
“Yes, I know... I ..”
“You need to move back.”
“Yes.”

I try to get it right for what seems like forever. I am so horny. I do not have any mind to move either my camera or myself properly. I do not want to reason it out and do it slowly. I just want to throttle my web-cam, give it a kick or two so that it does what I want. Now. The damn pivot of my web-cam is loose, and keeps jostling back and forth. He jokes about getting motion sickness. I joke that I could never be a live chat girl.

And then finally, in one simple maneuver that I should have been able to get all along, I am there. I am sitting on my creaky orange computer chair, a meter or so from my computer, and on my screen is me, from my head down to past my knees. If I part my knees, you can see into my legs.

“Is this good?” I ask, looking up.
“Yes,” he says. “Very good in fact.”

I smile.

Now if I could just part my knees. I am struck into dumb timidity by how it looks. It is not something I see every day: the little triangle of bare, shaved skin below my hiked-up nightie, that curious hint of a slit. I keep moving my hands in front, like a serpent-tricked looking for a figleaf or two. I wonder if it arouses him to see me struggling a bit like this.

“I... feel suddenly reluctant, to show you...my...cunt...” I confess.
“Why?” he questions, both concerned and amused.
“I dunno,” I say stubbornly, with an exaggerated, childish shrug.

He laughs.

It is a ridiculous time to want to be demure. I lift up my chin, and part my legs determinedly, stretching my back up. I seek out my clit with my fingers and sigh.

"Remember," he reminds me, "to tell me when you're going to cum."

"I can make you cum any time I want." he adds off-hand. "But today I want it up to you."

To that, I have nothing to say.

The heated tension between my thighs, waiting patiently throughout the technical and personal difficulties, begins to infuriate me. I want to shake it off into pieces, like a terrier with a chew toy. Just gneah, now, be gone. My fingers speed up, urgent. I groan. My image groans.

The screensaver comes up.

“Hmm.. screensaver's popped up... Do I want to see myself?” I ponder to him out loud.

“I don’t know, you tell me. Do you like to watch yourself?”

“I guess that’s a yes,” he says, as I lean towards the mouse to move it.

It is. I put my hand back. Now, now, now.

“I want to cum,” I pout, after a couple of minutes of frantic strokes and sighs.
“Cum then, babe. What’s stopping you?”

Good question. I go back to it. I begin to build, but too fast, not right, like my insides are coiling too loosely. Or like I’m running with a drink, spilling it all over the place. I am just about to get there, but it’s not quite the there that I want, and I force myself to pull back, stop, panting.

My mind races as I try to figure it out. Performance anxiety? Camera-shy? The position?

I figure I might as well try to finger myself instead. I slide a finger in, pleasant and smooth.

“Need to go slower,” I admit to T.
“Why?”
“I...lose ...some of it ...sometimes...when I go too fast. I don’t wanna-"

My finger has started to feel surprisingly good, good enough to forget about discussing the hows and whys. I slide smoothly in and out, my hand contorted like a rocker’s at a concert, blocking and unblocking my cunt in a lazy flow.

I begin to just explore, all over, at a relaxed pace. Taking my fingers out, stroking my cunt lips upwards to nudge my clit, moving back down in another wet stroke, pushing back into my hole, and then back out to begin again. I do this for a while. So does my image.

It looks rather hot. It feels rather good. I can hear T begin to breathe harder.

As I go on, my eyes avert inadvertently from the screen, only glancing occasionally to make sure I’m still there, still in his eyes. My lashes begin to flutter down. I keep the phone to my mouth, moaning at the sweet, sliding, shivering feel, so capturing.

I am conversely completely relaxed and utterly excited out of my brains.

I feel I am alone. I feel him watching me.

He is watching me as though I were alone. He is watching me be watched.

Like the path of an infinite Mobius strip, I find myself- through the one straight line of my actions- slipping amongst the many red-blue sides of loopy perspectives.

All past awkwardness seems to have disappeared. I am just so buoyant and free. I am pulled equally in all directions, my whole being bobbing up and down, as my hand moves still faster, in and out, in and out, in and out.

I am thinking about fucking him, but even in that, I am rolling back and forth, never fastening to a moment, yet entirely held in each and every one. He is the fantasy, his cock head engorged inside, dipping into my hole, his shaft as my hand, my hips sliding down to meet his thrust, greeted with our grunts at each end. And then I am the fantasy, the woman with the cock inside her, being fucked by him. I am the woman with her hand jammed up her cunt, fucking herself. I am the woman fucking herself as she thinks of being fucked by him. And then he is the fantasy, watching the woman fuck herself, perhaps knowing she is thinking of fucking him. And then I am the fantasy again, the woman beginning to lose it, as I groan harder and harder, and then he is, it is him all along, breathing along the whole while, it is all beginning to merge to its pointed end.

The force of my soaked fingers increases, and I slow again, lifting up my ass, long in, quick out, long in, quick out. I am moaning very loudly now. My cunt begins to stun me in every slippery thrust, like liquid electrocution.

I remember that I must tell him. I remember that the phone is still held tight to my ear and mouth. It is time, not time yet to tell him. I open my mouth to say it. I close it again. I am closer. I am hitting closer. I whimper. I must say it. I spit a letter out, ah, I pull back, mm. He is hearing me as I roll close and pull, aghm, roll closer and pull, roll closer and closer and closer, stutter a, stutter a and pull, the sweetest sensation, over and over, tighter and tighter, so close it hurts and then pull, goddamm goddamm, fuck, fuck, fuck, sohorriblywonderfullyclose, and then I must say it, finally, even if it is too soon, I do not think I will be able to speak at all soon. So I stammer it, mmgoingtocum, I let it out, and I let myself go, my neck stretches back, the back of my computer chair screeches with the weight of my back on it, hammering my fingers one or two more times in to me. I feel my cunt clench, my fingers suddenly sucked further back, like a trapdoor opening below my feet, and I- just-scream.

Split as I am in this alone and not-alone, it as though I have caught him alone too, as I have imagined before; I have caught him listening to a recording of mine, and I get to hear the way his cry breaks as soon as mine does in my final release. But then in catching him, he is not alone anymore either.

My hand and hips wriggle for some time, in, out, around, feeling my drenched insides shudder, sighing and laughing and gasping it off, before finally slouching limp.

My head sags down, weak. My knees bow out. I try hard to catch my breath. I hold my fingers inside me.

“.... so... soaked...” I whisper.

I foggily hear him telling me, lamenting to me, how much I have turned him on, how badly he would like to fuck me. If he could just fuck me, maybe it would be ok with a condom, so tempted to just fuck me, but he is still not sure. His voice is panicked, hard and cold and loud in protection of his vulnerable need. The extent of his arousal has overwhelmed him for just a second, his control slipped for just a second from under him. I feel pain and pleasure all at once, my heart leaping into my mouth.

He tells me he will call me in a few minutes; he needs to cool down just a bit first.

I know he does not like to stay with me when he is like this. I wish for a moment he would. I wish he would break completely. I wish I could goad him, take him just a little bit further, his ejaculate on his surprised fingers like a hormone-soaked teenager, the irreversible mess on his chair that would just not do. I can’t help it... I will always want that power too. I want him opened up to me and entrusted into my hands.

But I am flung like a knitted throw over my computer chair, unable to move or talk either. And I am happy.

I smile ruefully after he is gone. I know he will cum when he calls back, and I will too again, with him. I see my smile on the screen.

I wonder why my screensaver didn't come up again during.

I love technology.

Note: I have an interview with Jericho to finish and friends to write to, but I just thought this place needed a bit of a pick-me-up.

detached

2006-09-29T22:47:00.000-05:00

Why am I telling this story backwards? Because I can. Because I need some kind of device to keep me writing at all.

(Sorry for lack of spaces between sentences, Blogger just keeps swallowing them and I can't figure out why

Afterwards, we sit side by side on another couch. His one hand is on my legs again, below my skirt. I finger the cold metal of his bracelet, complimenting him on it. He tells me where he got it from.

There are only a few minutes left to sit like this.

“It is too bad, you know…” I say, starting off brazen and losing ground fast, “…that we are all about the… pure.. fucking.”

“Well,” I hesitate, “at least, has always been like that for me, from the beginning…”

There is nostalgia in my voice and it embarrasses me.

“Yes, I know.” he mumbles. “It’s just.. something more intense …”

Neither of us bothers to finish our thoughts. He says it might not be insurmountable yet. It is too soon to decide.

I talk about my parents, about how they want me to leave here, want me to ‘find someone’. I’m not sure why this is what I bring up.

He says the pressure must be difficult but I shrug it off. I say I am used to it. I am. There is nothing more to say about it.

I know that once the excitement fades, the bitter after-taste of dissatisfaction awaits me. I do not actually see that there is any hope that we will ‘surmount’ this.

It doesn’t seem to matter right then. The flush of our bodies’ orgasms holds us siege, forced into relaxation.

I trail the icy braid of his bracelet with my scented fingers, round and round.

dessicated

2006-09-24T14:31:00.000-05:00

I've talked of something like this before. I'm a Bitch err Dog: I can't help the obsession with the olfactory.

Hours later, entering a friend’s washroom, I swear I suddenly sense the scent of T’s cock in the air. And with it the secret, fresh memory of having just held it in my hands. Of having breathed onto it, taken it into my mouth, felt its warm skin on the wet inside of my bottom lip, heard it gurgle for a moment against my trapped tongue. Of having laid my body flat and rubbed it in my fist with his pushing body above me, let it spurt into my palm, wiped the residue off, brought the tip of my fingers to my nostrils to smell it still…

But not on my hands this time. In the air. Pervasive. Close to me.

Impossible.

Reaching over to turn on the tap, the scent only seems to intensify.

I spot the clump of roses and sprays of babies’ breath, dried, all in a pearly vase next to the sink.

I lean over near the wheat-colored, paper-curl edges of the rose petals and take a whiff.

It is not just my imagination; sweet with a uric edge, a note of his announces itself through the mix like a brass bell, clear and compelling. Cloying and concentrated.

Persistent and preserved.

tidbit

2006-08-29T22:04:00.000-05:00

My mood is pretty low right now and it be draggin.

Sentences are draggin. And words are draggin. And spaces are draggin. And so on. I will drag out whatever comes to me, the way I guess I always do.

But your comments and e-mails were heaven-sent really. I've answered back below and I hope to get back to you privately soon too. Thank you again. It makes me feel so lucky to have you. I do not have too many I could share this with otherwise.

I meant to post again sooner, because I didn’t want anyone to come out of reading the last post thinking that an ASCUS diagnosis after a pap smear is some horrible calamity. It isn’t. It really, really isn’t. In the whole schema of life thingies, it is actually quite a minor life thingy. An itty bitty thingy even. But a thingy nonetheless.

(It is harder than I thought to write about life thingies as they are happening. That I used ‘thingy’ in four sentences right now should attest to that.)

I also meant to write up a short summary of cited facts I gathered about ASCUS and HPV, but I really don’t feel up for it now. I probably will later because I want to make a small contribution in this way for anyone who hits my site through a search engine. I’m discouraged by the ignorance I’ve encountered. Some from people I have tried to trust too: my doctor, the nurses, T.

Many of my angsty antics surrounding this are just me. It is just the same inner hell I take the steps down to, every so often, like a dutiful Dante. This has just been the lastlastlastlast straw in a general year-round feeling of coming close to something and then never reaching it. Of picking up and then losing it.

I am not really worried for my health because there is only so much I can do for it at this point. Cancer development from HPV, if that is what I have, is typically very slow, from 5-10 years. The most I can do is take better care of myself, eat a varied diet, exercise, keep stress levels down, continue getting my cervical cells monitored.

I am not doing a very good job of the low-stress thing right now. But it has begun to inspire me to do better in this respect. I have started to see a counselor again. There is a doctor I will see. I have changed my project to one I like better and though the lost time is stressful for me, I feel hopeful that it will be better, and it will get done. I have thought a lot about teaching and the more I think of it, the more it has excited me as a future career.

I have always known what a risky business this living, fucking, eating, drinkin thang is. My aunt from my mom’s side has struggled with breast cancer for years. People have died in accidents. Heart attacks and brain strokes. Floods and earthquakes. It’s all out there, I cannot pretend to fully understand why. Well I will get to that later.

No, what bugs me, and I know it is short-sighted of me, is T and I. I want to fuck him. The way the news came, right before a plan to meet him, has me caught up badly. I want to fuck him. I don’t want to talk about. I don’t want to weigh risks. I want to fuck him. I want this to continue for me. I want it. Want. Want. Want. I’ve wanted like this past the point where I can feel normal about it. I cannot even wax poetic-like about it anymore.

I’ve had to push this all back and give him the facts, and in my attempts not to sway him one way, especially the way I want, I’ve had to grit my teeth and not leave a thing out. I hate to say it, but it has really tested my morals in a strong way. I've done my best, I've told him over and over to go read about it himself.

I’ve had to ignore the voice in the back of my head that laughs at how I had to cancel plans with T once before the doctor’s call. How we could have fucked then but didn’t. How I probably got it from him anyways. How he probably has it anyways because it is so common. How he cannot get tested for it. How other girls before me might not have bothered to tell him about something like this. How even my doctor told me I had no obligation to tell him of it. How I had to research and ask about getting an actual DNA test done to confirm whether or not I have HPV at this current point in time, and how the doctor knew nothing of such a test. How he was staunchly against my taking it, since, in his words, it would open up a whole can of worms needlessly. How he also told me not to take on the responsibility of the world. How I've wished I hadn’t fucked N because it would have simplified my decisions. How I had to ask N about his partners and, as luck would have it, how he mentioned someone in his past who had a history with dysplasia. How even if I got it from my two times with N, T and I have already fucked once after that and he might have caught it already then.

I know these are irrelevant. I will be taking the test this week I think. I have to pay for it and I can ill-afford it right now. Then again, I can live off of my pantry for a while. It's been done before. Knowing for sure is a scary thing. That ASCUS can be caused by other things and is over-diagnosed is annoying. That a good chunk of the infected population will never have to know whether they have it or not- since they will not get the symptoms and healthcare does not screen for it- is annoying. But it does not change what I feel I should do, in light of this shadow of doubt. I feel obliged to inform him the best way I can. Since HPV is thought to often clear up on its own within 6 months to two years, I would probably get the test again in 6 months to see if this has been the case.

We were not sure whether to wait for the results or not for a while, in view of how common and usually harmless it is. He has a whole stretch of two weeks completely free, which happens to be exactly how long getting the results of the test will take. After that, he will only be free for a couple of hours here and there.

But talking to him this morning I felt that I want to wait. I would feel weird not to. We would at least know exactly what we we are dealing with. What kind of strain it is if it is present. And there is still a significant chance that I am clear, and that too would be good to know.

He admitted too that though a part of him wants to just forget about it, he knows it will still be hard to completely look past.

So we are still working out what to do after the test, if it comes back positive.

In a talk, he fucks my mouth, deep-throating me, keeping his fingers in my cunt. It is hot. His domination of me is very complete in that moment. I mewl and sigh and gasp as he drags it out, describing it down to the last detail. I am taken over once again in the sketch of his words, in the heat of his growing arousal. He keeps me at edge until his cum runs down the back of my throat. I scream when I cum, a high-pitched yelp, so edgy and frantic am I from waiting for him.

But later I wonder if this is the possibly less risky option he is thinking of, if I am tested positive. I wonder if he will ever fuck my cunt again. I wonder how long we can keep this up, with the thought of this risk in our minds. I wonder how I would feel if, Chaos forbid, something came up in his life related to this. How much of the responsibility I would feel, how much I should feel.

The decision to have sex had been a newly established one, but something that made me happy. Now we have to reexamine it, look again at where we stand. This too, I guess I will talk more of later.

I have felt horny and sexy, but then from time to time, when I am tired of trying to figure this out, I have wanted to give it all up. Sex seems pointless. It’s a bother. I am afraid of wanting something that I might not get for a long stretch of time. I wonder if I should move on. I think maybe this is just a direction my life needs to take for a while. Celibacy. Scary. Interesting. Scary.

But I miss fucking him so badly. I miss everything. I miss writing to him in a frenzy of lust. I miss feeling clean and excited and clapping and happy about this.

The most of what I felt in the hours after I found about it was a huge anger. Looking back on things I’ve written here, I realize I mention this kind of anger a lot. It surprises me that I haven’t noticed this fully. It turns out that I’m an angry girl. I don’t look it, I don’t act it. But I am.

I throw tantrums in my mind. Childish, whiny, useless ones. Fuckin world just fuckin work the fuckin way I want it to. I am angry because I’ve been trying to do my own thing, and I’ve been trying to fight a lifetime of sexual oppression , and there is a part of me inside that churlishly demand I be ‘rewarded’ for my efforts. That it be easy. That I be right. That I not be ‘punished’. I know the way this Chaos works, or rather I don’t, but sometimes I just want to be Master of it.
I am angry because it seems I have been fed great truths with little lies mixed in, and great lies with little truths in them, and the result has been one great big lie I am always having to unbraid and try to extricate reality from with shaky, uncertain tweezers.

I am angry because even knowing this, I cannot shake the "I told you so"s that taunt me always in the back of my mind.

A lifetime of sexual oppression is a cliché perhaps, and though I have not suffered any great harm to myself, it is still not something I can say with any levity.

I grew up in a country where, if not completely segregated, boys and girls had to sit on opposite sides of the classroom, where the principal peered from the classroom window and motioned for the gap in between the two sides to be opened just a little more, where the discipline supervisor questioned you if you sat alone talking with a boy for too long. Where some families did not let their daughters ride bikes for fear of tearing their hymens. Where you couldn’t walk down the street alone without being followed and taunted, usually by rich, privileged boys in their flashy four-wheel drives, who would not be tried no matter what they tried. Where being gawked at and leered at wherever you went was a matter of fact to be put up with, no matter who you were, no matter how you looked. Where rape was quite simply never mentioned in the papers. Where nipples on breast examination pamphlets and art books got slashed out with permanent black markers. Where the government blocked internet sites about how the female body worked. Where my male biology teacher smirked in the one class where sex did actually come up briefly. Where french kisses got cut out of movies.

(Picture, for your amusement, a Sound of Music where the Captain and Maria can't kiss; they look at each other all fuzzy-camera like under the moonlit tree and you feel tight inside and Maria has never been further from being a nun and then they do an odd shudder and it is over and you know what they've done and you are still tight inside and you will vaguely and wondefully imagine all that went on in this lapse as they go on to sing, "...perhaps I had a wicked childhood, perhaps I had a miserable youth, but somewhere in my wicked, miserable past, I must have had a moment of good...")

The way I sometimes like to put it to people who have grown up here is that I am a woman in her 20s who grew up in the 50s.

I’ve got to where I am by trying to do what’s moral to me and what's natural to me and what makes sense to me. I have tried to stay kind and keep an open mind. I hate that where I am is this.

You see, I haven’t wanted to write of this, my struggle right now with a sexually-transmitted infection, because I guess I already had a story in my head about how me and T would go and it was goddamn beautiful. Righteous even.

When that word comes up is when I know I must step back and start again. Look at the world, take the facts first, form a tentative belief, look for negations, reform the belief accordingly. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. There is of course a heart of belief you must start with first, and that is my question always to the world. What should I believe in first? What will send me the right way?

I have had thoughts on this but they are too convoluted for me to make full sense of. I thought I had a real inkling in a manic mind-torpedo of thought the first night after I found out. It started with whether viruses are alive or not, and just grew from there. I started looking up terms and ideas, and things began to connect from unanticpated directions until I wanted to throw up with excitement. I knew-- even that crazed night-- that I could never quite piece it together, but somehow or the other, something did emerge and it made me feel quite okay.

I must have worked myself into quite a frenzy, whatever it was. I was worn out and content when I went to bed that night. In my dream, I was in T’s arms. He held me to him gently. He was kissing me but it was in a flurry of comforting affection, rather than the passion of want. He wasn’t even kissing my face anyways, just the side of my shoulder where he held me tightly, big, sheltering, smacking kisses, muah, muah. Maybe later, he kept saying, maybe later. Overwhelmed with this shower of affection, just this wrapping weight of his regard and comfort, I beamed with gratitiude, my whole body relaxing. I woke up.

I woke up and it was morning and it was all lost. I had no such T. (Though he has comforted me somewhat since. As have greatly your comments.) But when I woke up then, I just had the paper where I had scribbled all the thoughts that had come my way the night before. I could not make head or tail of it. I felt hopeless and dejected again.

I still can’t understand really. Well, I can a little, but it doesn’t quite come together. Maybe I will bring up some of it later on.

But all that is important for now is that I realize I cannot pretty-up or ugly-down sex for you or for myself. I know those of you who read here are mostly my friends. I am glad for it. It is just the audience in my head I cannot shake off that jeers at me sometimes, the social conflicts that keeps me wanting to fight . I have to keep remembering. I don’t want to be anyone’s poster child. I am not an example. I am not a cause. I have no agenda but to learn.

It’s just a story. My story. If it does add to the overall puzzle, it’s not in as pat as a way as some might think.

Rant over.

How’s that for a tidbit?

and back

2006-08-24T23:02:00.000-05:00

I’ve missed writing here. Well, I’ve missed the desire to write here.

I told myself I wouldn’t come back to write here until I went ahead and got at least three things done on my important-things-to-do-if-I’m-going-to-make-it-in-this-world list. I’ve done five, though one of them was not so significant. It was just doing my laundry.

Yeah I know. And there is still much more to go. But I did something productive at least. Five things even.

Still, getting back here is difficult.

Talk to me three weeks back and you would have talked to someone who felt, for a moment, cautiously happy. I had begun to figure out how I could sort my masters out. My family was all gone. T was on holiday but he had left me a promising and exciting message about how much he looked forward to his return. We had made clear our desire to meet and fuck once he got back. I was excited.

It’s been nearly six months since I’ve had sex. With plans on the horizon, the anticpation seemed a sweet pain in my life once again. Time seemed to come alive and stuff. I sang yearny songs. I hummed while naked in the mirror. I got the occasional body shiver. I smiled to myself. I waited.

A week later I got a call from the doctor. The pap smear from my physical had come back mildly abnormal. ASCUS to be precise. Atypical Squamous Cells of Undetermined Significance. Meaning: we haven’t the faintiest, but come back in six months and we’ll try and tell you.

ASCUS. These five letters have turned my plans-- and for some reason, my world in general-- topsy-turvy.

I have been through hell and back in these past two weeks. I mean both the hell and the back part. I have lost hope. I have felt filled with optimism. I have cried until my nose and lungs begged for reprieve. I have then blown my nose, taken a deep breath, paused for a moment thinking I’m done, and then gone right on crying. I have researched until my brain was black and blue with the constant punches of information from every corner. I have felt staunch and fine and calm and ready to deal with all that comes my way. I’ve wanted to do the right thing. I’ve wanted to weasel out and flake. I’ve been philosophical, I’ve been whiny. I’ve been mature and logical, and then I have wanted to be held in someone’s arms like a baby and scream. I have thought several times that I have come to major decisions in my life and views, and then they have seemed to all vaporize in the next moment’s caprice. You get the idea.

I have gone through these cycles sometimes over a couple of days, sometimes over a day, sometimes a couple of times over a day, sometimes within an hour.

I am not completely sure why this has elicited such a wide range of strong, rapidly fluctuating responses from me.

I’ve a lot to say on this, much to get out, to explain just why I’ve been so all over the place. But for now I just wanted to touch base again. I think I will feel less overwhelmed if I just let it out in as many tidbits as I need, whenever I can.

If anyone's still around, good thoughts are welcome.

something

2006-07-17T17:00:00.000-05:00

"Say something..."
"Something."

I feel strange yet again. Writing feels impossible.

My real urge right now is to continue not posting at all, or just keep posting a series of dot dot dots.

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Much more honest. The only real feeling seems to be in silence. Everything else is just forced and fake.

Why am I here then? What voice to use now? Cheerful one? Despondent one? I don't seem to have an actual voice. My thoughts/feelings/whatever all feel like options, and after some analysis, I find I can only chose from them arbitrarily . And then when not analyzed at all, there is nothing really left behind. Listen to your heart, bullshit; it’s not calling for me. Close my eyes and what do I really feel? Despair, I guess, would be the closest approximation. To say you “feel” numb is dumb.

Tired too, but then I'm tired of being tired and you must be tired of hearing how tired I am. Let’s move from these things.

I know I have painted myself into a corner on this blog regarding T. I spent a couple of days thinking again of the mismatch between my tone when I speak to ‘him’ here, and that when I actually speak to him on the phone. There is truth in my letters and other pieces. As I have said before, all the events recounted here are real. But I cannot shake the feeling that my retrospective interpretation of them is distorted. I am writing to someone else. There is fiction here too. I feel I do love the real T in my mind in a sucker-punch kind of way, like a I would an older brother. (Holy incestuousness, like I didn’t get enough ‘incest’ hits already from mentioning my mom and sex in the same blog…) But then I love the imaginary T too like I would a god, with terror and hope and awe. And then the truth lies somewhere in between, or they are all lies, I am not sure, because the two- the real and the dream- do share quite a few similarities, they do sometimes overlap, they do sometimes bump into each other in my thought-bubbles and then disappear with a pop.

Sounds crazy. Yes.

But realizing this, I stopped caring about it really. I gave up on it. So I wove a free little story, drawing threads from T, who cares? Maybe it is just a writer’s thing, who knows? As long as I could realize this, I was ok, right? Until T asked me why I’d stopped sending him pieces from my blog, said he could remember a time when I did. And then asked me if I could start sending him the parts that I could, so that he would feel a little less curious, not worry about what frustration I may or may not be venting here. (The whole issue of him possibly reading here is finally settled by the way. He was clearly not. I don’t really feel like going into it, it’s too long and boring, but suffice to say, I was justified in believing that he was, but am also justified in now believing that he isn’t. Just one of those things. Trust me. Blah.)

Looking over there is scarce little I want to send him from since the last time I sent him anything. A currently misplaced part of me deep down knows I should be
horrified. What happened to the heated fantasies, what happened to the excitement, what happened to being open and sharing? Some of it is to be expected with his break-off and the difficulties of a threesome and talk of my own struggles which he cannot expect me to share all of, but some of it is not. Some of it is just melodramatic bullshit that I want to be gone. How do you explain it to a friend anyways? Listen, there’s these letters you see, there are these entries, they’re about you but they’re not really about you. I love you but I don’t really love you. Listen, it’s not important, you don’t have to worry, you’re the inspiration, but you’re not the source, it’s crazy me, there are just-dreams you know, there are just-thoughts, they can happen to anyone, not that you’re not worthy of it, quite the opposite, but honestly, I know how black and white and ugly these words look here, or maybe it is the opposite, maybe you will read more in between the lines then is actually there, either way, just forget about it, these words, these thoughts will pass, they all pass, it was my mistake to put them on record at all.

It's gone on for so long too. So I do what I must. Dash out of the sticky painted room, leave the corner unfinished, hope not too many telling footprints are left behind. How much of my back-track is real? How will I know?

I have always been a bit like this, utterly fantastical in my mind, horribly realistic in practice. Sometimes, I think this is an ok way to be, but it’s that goddam balance thing again, and it is still hard to continue to make the distinctions and still feel like you have an ounce of integrity.

Bah, I don’t care. Why am I even talking of this? Distract, detract, hide.

I have never spent a summer like this. This inside freeze feels so incongruent with my sunny, balmy surroundings. Quite irrelevant to any one specific thought, I’m not all there right now. I have that feeling again. You know that feeling? When you send a wind-up decoy of yourself to pretend to plod along the safe, flat, normal path of your life, while the reality is, you are bit by bit driving yourself off a cliff.

Dramatic? Yes. I can't help it. I feel I am waiting for it all to explode, all to fall apart. I suppose that I will be relieved if I can ferret my way out, come bobbing to the surface once again. But I will also feel a little sick.

My parents are finally gone, though there is some more family still around. I try to comfort myself. Or I think I do. I tell myself all the things I can do now and how great those things are. I know that I will do them, and I will probably even do them with a smile. I’m pretty sure we will go swimming or something, some amusement park or the other, meet with friends blabla, fuck T at some point of the summer, even retry the whole threesome thing yadayayada. Good things, I tell myself, things I would have enjoyed, things I will still probably enjoy somewhat. I will do them out of obligation to myself, out of fear of missed opportunities.

It is strange to feel obliged to your own life. When you stop feeling obliged is when death-like thoughts come in. But I only think of death twice every twenty-four hours: once when I wake up, the second when I try to fall asleep. In between is not so bad. Once again, if you feel worried, you shouldn’t be. I’m not. Failed atempts have permanently botched whatever desperate, ridiculous courage I have ever even slightly had. But to say I don’t think of death wouldn’t be the truth.

You learn to leave thoughts where they are. You remain silent. It’s not so hard. Something lives.

Gah, I don’t want to keep writing this same old crap. Aaaaaaaaaaa.

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T once told me once that it is ok to wallow in a dark mood. That there is something to be gained from it, once you let go to it. That he cannot think of one song he has written that does not draw a little from a dark patch like that. I wouldn’t have really trusted him if he said it like he was trying to romanticize this for me, but he didn’t really say it like that. He said only that I shouldn’t worry about it too much when it comes. And that much makes sense to me, that if I don’t panic and just wait, I can let it pass and come out strong. The problem is I don’t feel I have the luxury of crawling into a hole and disappearing time and time again. Already I am living off the back of others, and there is this panic right now of wanting to start up my life on my own, get somewhere somewhat stable first. I feel like all these setbacks come at the wrong time and will cost me the rest of my life. But that is bullshit, there is never a ‘right’ time for this, I don’t think.

Again, I know I’ve said this before. (And I’ve definitely used the word ‘again’ too many times here.) A year now and this same worry.

Clearly, this is the part of my recurring narrative where I have my so-called revelation that I am truly not well, that I need to do something right now or something. Or that I am well and I can do it on my own or something, Both would be a bit of a lie. When I have said either in the past, it has been a bit of a lie too. No such revelation is really forthcoming. I don't know what all my"or something"s are.

When reasoned out, I figure medication would be my wisest choice right now. But the secret is I have never “come to grips” with taking them and I feel so utterly trite saying that, and wish I could argue it properly, the whole my-existence-extent of outer dependence-definition of self- brain-nerves-body- mind-soul-identity under whose control- etcetera -thingamabob-schpiel. But I start and then I want to stop immediately, it is just too much and too much has been said and I am bored and uncertain already and scared and fuck but I hate the look on a doctor’s face prescribing them to me after a five minute talk, or their damned look when I look at all hesitant about taking them, that kind of ‘get with the new millenia’s enlightened program already’ look that pisses me off. And I know it pisses me off because it is my own defensive interpretation of their look. But really my resistance is there, it is just this gut queasiness I cannot shake off no matter how hard I try. The thought of taking anti-depressants is just depressing. You feel a little better and then you feel worse for having got better. There is no way around it and I hate the contradiction and I hate that I feel that way but I don’t know what else the fuck to do.

I keep finding things I wrote from a year ago. This is around the time when I began to feel much more alive and hopeful last year. It’s difficult to look back on it when I feel like this. I feel like I’ve accomplished nothing if I am here once again like this. I tell myself I’ve accomplished this blog; it is something concrete. But I hate its recursions, I hate its glimpses of ugliness, I hate its fantasy flights. I know I have felt differently about it sometimes. I stop to add to a list of the things I know I will do at some point. To do: celebrate a year of blogging. But I leave it for later again, when and if it can be unspoilt by this mood. Will you trust me when I do it, will you believe that I truly celebrate? Can I trust myself after up and down swings? I try, if there is one thing I think I try-though I can’t be sure- I try to commit myself to brutal honesty in the moment. It’s fucking difficult. And actually it’s quite pointless.

I just remembered how T also told me once that although it sounds horrible, he found that sometimes to survive, you have to lie to your 'heart'. What do you think? It’s not a new idea, and it has come up in different ways over here, and at different times of my life before. Though I can see the validity, I guess the problem is that it makes me question again the value of survival. Oh I don’t know, I’m sorry, I can’t believe how stupid that just sounded again. This is difficult… I need to read, think more and I’m dumb, and not enough time, ever, to decide.

Where now?

PS. I am sorry to all I have not written to or responded to. I do hope you are all doing well and thanks for keeping in touch.

tired

2006-07-05T15:28:00.000-05:00

I'm tired. Posting these letters in a relentless array has been strangely tiring. Day after day spent with my family tiring. Trying and failing to to time any sneaky contact with T tiring. And my libido feeling somtimes just about shot anyways. (I wish my mom would close the door behind her once she's done barging in to wake me up in the mornings.) I'm reading furtively though and loving it all still and it is good to see my bloggyworld soaring along nicely, even when I cannot.

I think I will just sit back and watch for a while. Be sexy as always for me, will you?

10. when we can- begin

2006-06-28T15:45:00.000-05:00

Dear T,

The problem was my legs. My legs uncovered on the bed were sex.

To make matters worse, your shorts were wrapped around my legs. What was once around your legs intimated itself between mine, and I am embarassed to say it, but I swear, you were fondling me already.

I had nearly finished the book. I put it down, sighed with relief inside when you walked in, realising just how much I had been waiting. (Nonsense, nonsense.)

It felt startlingly intimate. I wanted to avoid your sleepy eyes.

We murmured good-mornings and did-you-sleep-wells. My chest was like sex about to happen, trying not to move, not to breathe. Your chest was like sex too, something right here, you said, pushing right on your sternum, like I need weight, force, something. I know the feeling.

You looked so much younger than you are. You looked so open. You looked so dreamy and unarmed. Your body looked so relaxed, but could not seem to slouch, could not help but flaunt its breadth and strength. You looked so unshakeable. You looked so gentle. You looked like you were searching. You looked alive and uncontained, your hand pushed to your chest like that, like an ape trying to make a thumping claim.

You came to me like a cue ball that had to be shot. You were irresistible and you knew it. You were so much like sex it hurt.

Come give me a hug, you said. My smile grew wide.

I got up shyly, my head like sex, flying. I started to give you a hug. No, you said, and spun me round, my ass crushed suddenly against your crotch. Like this. I closed my eyes like sex and tried not to move inside the brace of your arm, afraid.

(In the back of my mind whispered my story, that you were the second man to hold me ever.)

You broke the hug and we stood alone.

You flopped your body on the bed like sex. You threw yourself on the bed I had been sleeping in with a sleepy sigh, lying with me already.

I laughed because it was easy to follow, to flop down next to you. I thanked you inside for making it easy. My body tense and trembling like sex. Laughing like sex. Oh it’s over, you said, if you’re going to lie down next to me, you’re going to have to turn round. You pulled my back to you again. I lay smashed again, my back against your chest again, my ass against your crotch again, my legs down your legs. We were fucking already.

Nonsense, nonsense, was beating still. It made me wait still, unsure. You were laughing in my ear, rambling, embarrassed. I know what you must think, I really do have this feeling, something right here, it’s not a line, I’m not trying to like...

The funny part is I could sense you meant it, as you said it. You prided yourself on the comfort of being a guest at your house, that you did not push, that you were innocuous, that you would never ‘take advantage’.

Shh. I wanted to say. Shh. Let’s go.

I swear it was me who put my hand beneath your shirt first.

The skin on your back was like sex. Fleece and steel and cream.

9. when we can- lure

2006-06-28T15:21:00.000-05:00

Dear T,

You don't know this.

The first night in your house, I woke up early, alone in your guestroom. I got up and opened my door wide- on purpose.

I could not go back to sleep from the anticipation, though I was trying hard to quell it.

Nonsense, I tried to tell myself.

I wanted you, and I wanted you to want me.

I stole a book from your living room- a childhood favorite- and I read. Sentences jived and jumbled in my head.

I kept my bare legs uncovered though I was cold, left only your cat to keep my lap warm.

I remember the scene well because it was my own design. I saw myself doing it, telling myself all the while, nonsense, nonsense.

It was the only thing I knew to do. The only initiative my courage let me take.

I wanted you to find me and fuck me. And you did.

open

2006-06-24T14:15:00.000-05:00

I have a day alone today. I find myself wanting to turn here for a moment of peace. A moment to blather.

I always forget how much I love my privacy and independence until it gets invaded the way it has during this week. There has been a topsy-turvy change in my life with my family here, and it is hard to adjust. I'm sitting here wondering what I can do to make it less so.

This gap between us bothers me. The discrepancy amongst the faces that I show to different people pokes at me still.

Where to start? What would be easiest? Or no, what would be best?

I wonder what it is I expect of myself.

Reading my 'cock' entry, I am dismayed at my own mean-spiritedness. If there is one thing I strive for myself -though there are too many things- it is to be generous. I want to be generous of myself. Not charitable or altruistic, just open and giving. I want to believe in the abundance inside me, I think, because life is too short to be miserly. My heart has no patience really, for counting pennies and finding safe-holds. It makes me unhappy.

Still, I find myself doing it all the time. Maybe some time it is necessary, I don't know. I am sure there are limits to what a person can give, but I am sure those limits don't lie quite as close as I think.

I don't want to be afraid to need. I don't see the point.

Need is a deceptive word anyways.

I am tired of reminding myself this, that whether I will get what I want or not is besides the point. I can't change really, the things I want.

I don't want to begrudge anyone the praise they deserve, because I was too busy struggling with my own desire to maintain some illusory power.

I don't want to hoard anymore. I grow smaller and smaller inside just thinking about it.

I don't want to complain anymore. I want to be grateful when it is due. I want to enjoy. I want strength. I want to be big and I want to have courage.

I will be calling T now. It feels natural and calm between us now.

I called him from school the other day. This time it was me. I called right from the bathroom, did not even bother with much of a preliminary chat. I just felt so horny. I didn't even really ask, he was good telling me that this is what he wanted too. His boarder was in the shower, and he told me to be fast, that he could not cum as fast as me but that he wanted to hear me. I stood in the corner of the bathroom, it was a clinic one with a shower and everything. I leaned against the tiles and slipped a finger in like I was told, and I felt strange, sliding in easier than I expected, wet, throbbing tighter than I expected. When I came like Iwas told, that I could not scream out seemed like the biggest torture and I tried to whimper it out instead, fuck, fuck, fuck, but it was not good enough, did not match the pleasing terror of my body for a moment suspended, my hand scrabbling on to the tiles, but there was no hold. I could not breathe, my breath rattling far too loudly like in a wind tunnel into my cellphone's speaker. Delicious, he whispered. I had to agree. I was dissapointed again not to hear him, and I felt sorry that he couldn't, but it did not seem like such an affront.

I know it's convenient to slip back to this, but I think we both need it right now. Another goodbye or two or three does not seem to matter right now. Still have to talk about it properly with him though. Blah.

I admitted to him already that I didn't want to tell him much of what I did last time on the phone. He sounded a bit wounded. He sounded too a bit sorry for me. Before I could explain more, he told me it hadn' t been
about a secret desire to squash me by asserting his power, that he had been feeling genuinely insecure .

I am glad for our friendship because we have a strange, detached ability to discuss and examine and pick apart and throw away the things that may build resentment toward each other . Even when it is tedious and embarassing, even when I am impatient about it, I can appreciate that much. Few people take the time. And fewer people can actually grasp the nature of relationships enough to be able to try and navigate at all.

I don't know what more to say to him. I am afraid to have him see me fully, but I am more afraid to have him not.

Too many, too many of those.

8. when we can- assure

2006-06-22T22:20:00.000-05:00

Dear T,

I am tired of being asked if I’m sure.

Are you sure you should be where you are, are you sure you want to walk down that street, are you sure you want to wear that skirt, are you sure, are you, you?

The nice ones ask you if you’re sure, the bad ones don’t care if you’re sure. I wanted someone who knew I was sure.

X asked me if I was sure the first time his mouth ventured beneath my flannel pajamas, furrowing beneath a loose button to move onto the beginning of the swell of my breasts. It was the first time anyone had touched my body like that. I thought I would explode.

He began, and then heavy with guilt, he stopped abruptly, turned his back to me without a word and tried to go back to sleep.

I lay with my back on the bed, chest still heaving, staring at his back, wondering idly which one of us was more insane.

I cosied up my breasts onto his back finally, uncertainly, sighing. I felt strange, like I was being forced to play Eve, searching out the arousal he was trying to repress. I moved my hand across his chest, holding him to me. He turned back round finally and began to kiss again on my neck, and then between my breasts. My hands moved to unbutton my top. That is when he asked me if I was sure.

I felt the urge to slap him for asking, for buying into the hysteria. You would have to know how I grew up to fully understand the anger I felt.

But I felt sorry for his struggle. And I knew he meant well.

All I said was yes, yes, yes.

7. when we can- exhibit

2006-06-22T22:18:00.000-05:00

Dear T,

You were busy and I could never reach you. I started to look around.

If you remember, I found N right at the end of my mom's three month stay, my mind deranged from being so demure and contained for so long.

I found him on a dating site and we chatted stupidly, each trying to impress the other, both of us convinced of our own wit. We vied to gain the upper ground from each other from the start.

The worst part is I used you like my badge of pride. I have a guy I have sex with already, thank you very much, I told him, knowing full well it would pique his interest.

Of this, I am definitely not proud. I want to delete that paragraph. It was low, and I felt too reckless to care to stop myself. I think it is the biggest reason I was too ashamed to bring him up to you at once.

Very soon after my mom left, I bought a tight aqua sweater that stopped right below my hips and I showed it to N one night, wearing only that. I curled my legs out on my bed, looking straight at the camera, laughing and talking about other things. I wanted his eyes on me, appraising the curves of my body. I wanted to turn him on despite himself, wanted him to lose his cool, lose his smirk.

He smirked anyways. What had I expected?

I have done similar things with X too. Except X would stare at me with love, groaning. His eyes on me were both comforting and exciting.

Once we were on web-cam again, and I mentioned to X that I wanted to clean my room. He wanted to watch me do it, to make sure that I did. I knew he just wanted to watch me. I could see the look in his eyes. I cleaned my room, pausing to take off my shirt, then a couple of minutes later my pants, then minutes later my bra. I barely looked at him at all, only glancing at the screen once in a while to make sure he was there. He sat there with shy smile, his eyes caressing me. I love your back, I remember him typing, such a sexy back. I just smiled, cleaned my room as I shivered with anticipation, dripping into my panties as he watched me take my time, organizing the top of my dresser, folding my clothes, picking up papers from the floor.

We came soon after.

I have shown myself like that one other time too for two complete strangers.

I was younger then, around 19. I had only just been introduced to the world of sex, and now felt the need to send myself on probing quests, rampaging through all aspects of sex on the Internet. I had no credit card, so the free "tease" video-chat sessions seeemed an interesting option.

Traffic was usually low for the 'men-on-display'. On a particularly slow day-- well okay, on a day when I was the only one in two of these mens' "rooms" -- I struck up the nerve to stop lurking and actually talk. I apologised for having no credit, made it annoyingly clear that I did not intend to get any, and then asked them curiously and even more annoyingly, if they were bored, because they sure looked bored.

(The women on this site tended to maintain a pose of coquetry throughout, some more plastic than others. But the men, I found, in general, whether busy or not, did not even bother to hide their cool apathy, kept it on their face as though their reverse psychology was their only charm. )

You're a funny one, I remember the younger one smirking after a couple of minutes. We exchanged information from there, both men suggesting it to me within minutes of each other. Maybe they were hoping to make a client out of me yet, though it did not occur to me at the time.

Pretty soon, they had me on camera too, both at the same time. With the older one I was discussing music. He played songs for me to listen to though his microphone. The other one was begging me to take off my clothes, please, telling that he had been sitting there trying to maintain a half-hearted hard-on for clients the whole day and he needed release now that he was off-duty.

So I did.

I liked the boy who asked. He was tan, had almond eyes that, while bored, flickered bemused warmth every once in a while too . I found I was aroused and curious about how he had maintained his state of semi-erection for so long.

I did it once again because I could, because I got tired of wondering if I should. I sat in my bra and panties, keeping my back and neck straight, feeling strange and awkward. The young one grinned. I took off my bra. He grinned wider.

I hated the surprise on the other older man’s face, asking me what I was doing, asking if I was sure. He thought I was too young, that I was lying about my age, though it did not stop him from talking to me, nor from staring at me. I hated his condescending protection. But I liked both of their eyes on me, taking in my body, my breasts in the cold air, twinging inside.

Then the twinging stopped and I felt suddenly silly and a bit pathetic, exactly the silly and a bit pathetic girl that I knew they must think of me, as though that mattered. I left, before I could see either of their cocks.

Maybe that two-minute video clip is floating around somewhere on the ethernet, who knows? We’ll find out when I get famous. Heh.

I never did any of that for you. You told me you weren’t a very visual person anyways. Sounds and touch were what got you off, and thoseI had no problem providing, did not even have to try.

You needed only to let me know that your thought had turned to me and I was wet and moaning. It scared me.

Yes, you were different. I did not feel equal to you and I always both hated and loved this.

I've said it before. You had me already exposed, before I could even try to tease you with myself. I was already exhibited to you.

6. when we can - step out

2006-06-22T22:15:00.000-05:00

I guess I will just go on. No time to write. This is a bit of a tangent, and my least favorite letter since it talks more directly about him, which I don't think is fair. But it is something I need to own up to. And does give a glimpse into the true flavor of our relationship.

Dear T,

When I first met you, you were filled with promises too, but I was relaxed because I knew it was not about the impressing with money, nor the bribing to lure me in.

Us going on actual dates. What a concept.

You probably don’t even remember, but for a brief time, there were talks of theaters we could go to, a fancy place you said that a friend could get you cheap, a place we could dress up for, film festivals and jazz festivals and food festivals, scary movies, you said, no one watches scary movies with me.

We did none of these things once we had sex. We never even left your house.

You probably don’t remember, you used to call at 2 a.m. just to talk. You had a game where we asked each other questions that the other couldn't ask back.

We stopped asking at all.

You probably don’t remember, there were photos from the country I grew up in you never looked at, there were my poems you said you wanted to read but then never got back to me on, there were favorite songs I sent you that I never heard about again either.

I got tired of asking. I was shy about it to begin with. I enjoyed when you showed me similar things, and left it at that.

(But I was disappointed. My safe retreat, my private hole, beckoned again.)

Do I sound like the neglected girlfriend? It's not quite like that.

When you met me, it was at a point where a part of me just wanted new people to hang out with, to talk about and share the things I never got to with others. All my old friends seemed to have tied their feet to their narrow spots. There was a part of me that wanted feedback from someone I actually respected, to give me courage to open up.

It's not that you never reached out to me. You were in fact one of the first to give me real credit for the things I actually cared about. You were the first to tell me I could write, to tell me you had printed out one of my writings, to tell me you pressed the 'save' button without hesitation whemever I pressed send. You were the first to tell me I could play. The first to find songs you just knew I would like, the first to go out and buy a CD after listening to it with me.

It's that you reached out and then stopped.

I didn't care though because, more than any of this, I wanted to fuck you. You said it didn’t have to come at a cost to a friendship, but time made it so.

Time was cruel to us in general, we have said it over and over, unlucky clashes in both our schedules persisting throughout. If I believed in signs, I would have given up on us a long time ago. (Signs be damned. )

I know choices were forced, and maybe it was easier for us that way.

I know that was the whole idea, that you did not have the time. No time for a "relationship", yes, but no time for friendship? You had to leave our chats without goodbyes, you had to juggle between phonecalls, you had to kick me out the door come time for work.

It's not that I held it against you. I could be the same from time to time.

You were always working, you are still. And that is your choice.

You’re struggling with that choice now, questioning your addiction to work, what it is covering, asking yourself if it’s worth it, what you're missing out on. I cannot imagine you being less passionate about what you do, but I too wonder what room it leaves you with, and what doors it leaves untouched.

I don't want you to be left lonely one day, and the sad part is I don't mean that I want you to be with me.

As much as I will envy it, I do hope you find someone you want to make time for, as you have said that that is what you want.

This is an old story. I can only wish you well.

cock

2006-06-17T16:24:00.000-05:00

And the award for most frequent use of the word cock goes to... Don't mind the jokes, what else I got?

T,

You are not who I think you are and I don’t know if I can go through with the rest of these letters.

I don’t know if I can reassure you any longer. Coming on my own is what I’ve always done. My comforting retreat. Yes, I am good at it. Yes, it feels good.

You say you know your insecurity is stupid. I don’t think it is but I don’t know what more to tell you.

It comes out of my mouth before I can stop it though. Stubborn.

I need cock.

Humor me, you say, don’t tell me you need cock. Tell me you need my cock

(Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, I don’t need you.)

I want to say it again and again, taunt you with it, cruel in my lie by omission.

I need cock. Cock. Just cock.

I want to push the lie even further. Say exactly what I do not mean.

A cock. Any cock. Just a slab of cocky man- meat. On a vegan day, I'll take a burst of vitamin-any vegetable that pushes my credulity, any I-can't- believe- it's- not-cock carrot, cucumber, zuchinni. A frozen banana for when I'm feeling fruity. Cock straight off the bench-presses. Cock pick-pocketed off the sweltering streets. Cock hiding under drag-queen dresses. Cock strapped onto a woman's hips, jutting below her swaying tits. Cock that makes me fall to my feet. Huge cervix-servicing cock. Tiny clit-tickling cock. Plastic cock. Rubber cock. Pink cock. Purple cock. Glitter and polka-dot cock. Cocks with balloon heads, cocks with girths like open arms, cocks with hair like the prairies, cocks shaved smooth like nectarines. Cock cock cock.

Forcing myself to say more, finally, trying to think of you, trying to show my true feeling, trying not to resent you. It's not humouring you, I tell you, irate, you know I need you, grunting, like the way you split me open, like the way you move inside me, panting, smooth, like your rhythm, sobbing, don't ask questions you should know answers to, yes ok yes...

(What the fuck do you want from me? Don’t make me say anymore, please, babe, throw me a bone here, throw it far away, make me bound on all fours away from you, eager to find it, and then make me forget to come back to you. I cannot find my way back to you, my sweet, my sexy.)

I am weak. It makes me angry inside, and it makes me sad to be so angry. And then I am angry all over again for being sad, and I want to bury you in a crappy shower of mean, crass, merciless words. Use the phrases that can exact the most pain. And there is a violence inside me that brings tears to my eyes. I want to rub your face in dirt, I want to scratch your blood out into my shit, I want to hold you close to me and drag us both into this mud, safe and silent.

(Or take what you want, I’ll say what you want, keep asking, just keep talking about your cock. I know I’m about to cum again.)

I can't even show you I'm angry. Even that admits too much.

I groan and groan, my fingers beneath me. You have me self-conscious of my groans now, but my fingers feel so damn good, slipping all over the place. I think: fuck you, I'll feel the way I want.

And worse, I think: listen to me now. Listen to what I can do without you.

(It's a lie by the way. Are you really afraid to hear me? Even when I am actually groaning under the sound of your moving mouth, your presence on the other line, thoughts of you?)

I groan louder, harder, on purpose, harder than even I feel.

Next time I fuck you, you say, I'm going to make you cum so hard.. so many times..

(Next time you fuck me, you say? And when will that be? I'm laughing now T, evil laughing. telling you, oh, I hope so.)

I know I have failed you... For feeling this, for doing this. If you do not know what you have done for me, then I must have failed you. I don’t know if you can ever know.

It’s just… I don’t want to need you anymore. And it’s cruel of you to ask.

Am I better than the way I'm behaving?

PS. I came all the same, when you told me to, the same as always. I came without you, wishing only that I could have heard you.

PPS. I was the one who couldn' t bring you there.

5. when we can- compete

2006-06-16T22:14:00.000-05:00

Dear T,

My dirty fantasy reminds me of N who could not stop laughing as we first began to kiss and my usual tiny noises begin to escape from my usual heaving chest. He told me later, when I asked to know, that he was laughing because I was funny, a funny contradiction. That he always knew it is the innocent-looking ones like me to watch out for.

It grated on my nerves, even if he did not mean much by it. I felt uneasily pleased and charged. It made me hateful and competitive and defiant, made me want to do even more just to show him up.

There was something about him anyways that felt like he was gathering notches in his belt, just for some kind of undefined prestige. (Driving down to fuck someone I met on the Internet, check!.)

Like how he told me wanted to fuck a T.A. just to say that he had to others. I would lower my standards to fuck one, he shared. (What does that mean, to lower your standards? As far as phrases go it is both a condescending and untruthful one.)

Personally, I can see the attraction to the idea. Because how hot would that power imbalance be? How strident an attraction would there have to be to cross that line? How lovely and rushed and urgent would it be to meet illicitly and give in again and again to temptation?

But when asked why he wanted to do it, he could not tell me. Just for the bragging rights?, I asked. Yeah, he said. Oh, I said. It was the beginning of my vague disappointment. It was just to say to the buddies he did A, B, C and D, never ever really doing A, B, C or D. Bragging rights are over-rated, I could not resist telling him gently.

I was tempted for a moment to offer him just the “prestige” he wanted by getting exactly what I wanted out of him, indulging myself in my own weakness for upmanship, for needlessly proving myself to others.

He promised me expensive dinners, hotels and breakfasts, like I needed bribes to concede to be with him. This was my own negative view I suppose. He had the right to offer what he felt like offering. I didn’t think myself unworthy of “the treatment”. I just didn’t see the need for it. I had only wanted to know him. I had nothing of the sort to offer back to him.

I think it was just the way he said it. I took his breakfast but I couldn’t take the rest.

I fucked him because I could. Because I was tired of being cautious. And it did feel good.

But then I opted out. It all seemed too derivative, insincere, and most of all, pointless.

Which reminds me... why did I start telling you all this again?

4. when we can- tempt

2006-06-15T22:10:00.000-05:00

With mention to O and Nina, for inspiring me to share my own "dirty" fantasies.

Dear T,

I spin the dirtiest fantasies I can these days.

I dream of being a temptress to ugly leery men, old, the workmen maybe who come to my house. I have them stare at me with contempt and lust, disgust and awe. I lure them to bedrooms and demand to be fucked. I watch their faces gauging what they may or may not catch from me, wondering how their imagined demons could come presented to them in such pretty packages, wondering how they couldn’t tell right off from my face, such an innocent face, like my wanting sex should come with a mark for their own protection.

(My mother whispers in my ear that which I have heard her say many times, sitting righteously on her claimed living-room couch, watching TV and tsk, tsk, tsking. The ones we should be most afraid of are those who have lost even their sense of shame. Those are the ones who are truly lost. Mother dear, I am afraid to tell you because I don’t want you to fear me, hate me, but I never had it to begin with. I was ashamed when I lied, when I wasted, when I did not appreciate, when I was idle, when I attacked needlessly, when I hurt spitefully, but this, I could not feel for at all. Should I have forced it? Would you have preferred my struggle? Would I have had the mark then to set me apart?)

This fantasy of mine is a place I can never fully let myself go; when faced with a hint of that look in a man’s eyes in real life, a part of me is left cold.

3. when we can - feel

2006-06-14T22:05:00.000-05:00

Dear T,

I absorb myself in pure sensation these days.

On a makeshift bed in my living room on a heat-wave’s night, I play with an ice cube, circling it on and around my nipples. My breasts sweaty, in a pulled down nightshirt, loose and thin and white, night air through the window and everything blue and grey from the lights outside.

I glide the melting ice down my stomach, wincing, then down by my heating cunt, sliding the diminished slip of chill inside, the drips soaking my folds, the spikes of frosty pleasure-torture through me.

I cram my fingers inside once it's gone, as many as I can, as deep as I can, just to feel how far I can go…

2. when we can- relax

2006-06-13T20:17:00.000-05:00

Dear T,

You have been calling me still to come together with me. You call me and it is the same still. I forget to close my door fully as I rush to lie myself on my bed, ready to hear you.

You need the distraction. You feed off of women, you have admitted it yourself. I know this already, know it is precisely this fetish of yours- to bring about and to hear and to feel a woman’s orgasm- that makes you so addictive. A detached part of me thinks it unfortunate. What will you do when alone? What about that imagination of yours? Will you have to flit from woman to woman as you yearn for the one to devote yourself fully to? It seems a shame.

But for now there is me, and you are comfortable with me.

I don’t even know what there is to tell you anymore. Tell you not to call? Tell you to keep on calling? I can say neither. I just wait. We will live out the limbo. I fill it with our orgasms, and the rest of the time I fill with blather and jokes.

My family will be visiting soon anyways, and that will give us a month to be truly cut off from each other. From then on, I’m sure it will be easier to move on. Either that, or we will be back where we started. Honestly, who cares?

The temptation to call you and ask for "just one more" visit is huge. I haven't had sex in months. I miss you. I feed off of you too, though I can manage alone. I try to resist.

I feel strangely relaxed. It is such a desperate situation that it leaves me calm and bare.

1. when we can- love

2006-06-12T22:37:00.000-05:00

I am going to be busy in this coming month. But after a while of silence, I have suddenly came up with a long, long series of posts. 28 to be precise. Ouch. It is kind of my way of trying to tie up as many loose ends as I can. The only way I can really begin clear my head and take stock. Remember this was all written in a very short amount of time. And my titles suck because I don't have time to think of cool ones. And much of this will be long past by the time I finish posting it all. It might even change.

But in the very least, this place will not be abandoned.

Dear T,

When I can, I tell myself I shouldn’t write letters to you in my head anymore. There are very few to whom I do this. I think of how that was always the biggest sign that I loved you more than I cared to put into words.

Loved my version of you that is. I am not fully blind to that. (Though telling you I see it is a weak form of insurance.)

Love is a strong, mysterious word, and semantics is a game I cannot play, though the gods know I’ve tried, and too many posts where I have have gone unpublished over this year. But I am afraid now as I write this, because all other words -and arguments for these words- begin to look like cop-outs, escapes.

Love. It is not so hard after all, for all the hoopla.

erm

2006-06-07T12:22:00.000-05:00

Much to say but all my mind can manage is 'ahhh bu. bu.. bu. ummm.. hmm'

Oh well.

Around the corner.. it's coming.. I swear.

nonsense

2006-05-28T20:51:00.000-05:00

I've never felt a loss, wasn't made to grasp.

An indefinite hold is the closest palpable approximation to a loss.

To be on hold implies faith.

You live a moment away from being with it, ascetic by chance.

To leave to chance implies faith.

Just undeterminably misplaced. To misplace implies a place.

Unfilled placeholders take up shapeless space.

(I never was lost, will soon be found.

Can the once-seeing imagine the ever-blind?)

I've never felt a zero, wasn't made to hold.

Five or six years old, you read in some book of faith that in the Beginning there was Darkness.

Darkness. Your child's eyes closed. And before? Before the beginning? No, before nothing. No, complete nothing. No, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, no thing, without the hand to wipe it away, free of my mind. Dizzy, lip twitching in a smile, scared. Your heart leaping and your brain reeling circular, furiously trying to rub out completely like with the pink rubber end of a pencil. You cannot go on.

I've never been touched by nothing. Without can't be lived.

long weekend

2006-05-24T22:12:00.000-05:00

In honor of Victoria Day, and the masturbation month of May mayhem. Just to pass the time really before I completely make-over this place.

I wake up too early to the sound of his snoring on the other couch. He is just a friend.

The ceilings are high in this cottage. Sun comes in through unlined clouds, bouncing off a bedsheet lake, slipping through pine tree branches, through an Italian window, onto my face. The ceiling fan spins round and round. The last of the fire in the stove must have died off a couple of hours ago. Traces of alcohol still in my blood I think. I am cold. No one awake.

He is just a friend. Brotherly. Short with a shock of thick black hair. He tells good stories. We like to order each other around. I call him bitch, he calls me ho. Sometimes the other way around, for variety.

I’m lonely. I’m horny. Truth is I just want hands naked on me.

Yes it’s lonely. No one to touch, no one to be touched by.

Yes I’m horny. Always am when I wake up in a new spot. Like territorial pissings, I feel the urge to release signature orgasms wherever I may roam.

First night in T’s guestroom I masturbated into the shorts that he lent me. I remember that I was thinking vaguely of him. I suppose it had slight creepiness factor. We had sex the next morning, if that helps.

That morning really is a stuck record in my memory, as imprinted as his thumbs felt when pushing onto my back right at the very beginning then.

Yes I miss T. My body feels under-exposed, isolated. See myself naked in the mirror after a shower and something is missing. It is that feeling again, the knowledge of being no longer a hop-skip away from his possibility. I know there will be other possibilities. But I must pause now, must rest.

Friend on the other couch, I’m lonely. Come and lie on top of me, your stripped knees on my stripped knees. How much of sex is just a hug anyways?

Nothing left to do now. Tug the checkered sleeping bag over me now, closed. Hide my hands underneath. Unbutton a button, ease a nipple out of my top so it hardens and scrapes against the flannel. Stretch my back slowly like I’m just aching from the previous day, just waking up. This way I can slip one hand straight down and under both my pajama bottoms and panties in one quiet swoop. Feel the wiry curls- I haven’t bothered to shave since - covering my clit.

Begin to pat on the little button of flesh, quietly, just pat.

Friend on the other couch, you stopped snoring. Are you awake? I can’t see you. Are you listening, watching? Can you tell what I’m doing?

I think I almost wish you could.

Send down thoughts now to accompany my little pattering fingers. I have no mind to be specific, no narrative. Thoughts just hit me unsifted, jostled back and forth in wavy dreams.

Fine, if it is T then let it be T. Let him hold me from behind, let me push backwards on to his solid cock. Twitch to that thought if you must, jolt to that. Friend on the other couch, you can join if you want. You can find me here like this and help as T fucks me. Creep up to me now, save me the trouble of having to be quiet like this. Let there be hands on me, just let there be many hands. Let them draw out my pleasure, tug like fishing wire, taut and caught, let them pull me in. Women and men both welcome, sliding sweaty thighs between my sweaty thighs, placing juicy lips on juicy nipples, squeezing firm back with firm hands, there, then there, then there, yes there, again. Being tender and rough at once, in forests, in cramped cottage bathrooms, in canoes, on deserted docks. And you can mock me, taunt me if you want, I can take it. Despise me, humiliate me if you must. Revere me, ignore me, adore me, it doesn’t matter. You will know me, whenever, wherever, take.

Must not be caught. I lay this trap for myself, if no one else will trap me, pin me here to this moment, to this spot.

I am trapped in this sleeping bag. I am trapped by that which I cannot let others see. The heat beginning to rise from my body hovers in gusts over my trapped self.

I circle my two fingers on my aching nerves, quiet now, quiet. My other hand cups onto my soft breast. I want this.

I need to flip on my stomach again, so I do. It is hard to grind like this without moving my whole body too much. I scrape up on my moistening clit with the side of an index nail, around my labia, flicking upwards carefully in warm quivers of sensation.

Friend on the other couch, are you there? You’re getting up aren’t you? Have you seen me? Should I stay still?

He is up. I stay still. He can’t hear my pounding heart, can’t feel my heating body. I keep my face buried in my pillow, hand poised underneath.

I flutter my eyes sideways quickly to catch him walking off drowsily to the bathroom, passing by me, scratching his head, his shock of black hair cocked up like a rooster’s comb.

It is time to let go. Take this moment alone because I want to come hard. Angle my ass up so I can pivot my whole body right on the tip of my two fingers. Grind vigorously so I can forget all. Though I must remember still to stay quiet.

If someone were to walk in, they would see my oscillating bundled up body, tense, humping comically onto the couch.

I pant into the pillow as I feel it loom closer and closer, my eyes screwed shut, and this is the most dangerous part now, the point where it would be near impossible to stop, and then yes I’ve found it, I just need to push one more time now, the world needs to push with me one more time.

And oh this must be heaven, this implosion, the sweat that springs from the back of my neck, the jaw that slacks, the tongue inadvertently out, the ragged scratchy breathing, the body shivering and yawning, this pounding peaceful inferno inside this sleeping bag.

Friend on the other couch, you're back, you missed it.

My heartbeat circuits all through blank me. Me.

He trundles past again and slumps back onto the other couch. I am already falling back asleep.

insane

2006-05-17T17:10:00.000-05:00

It's sunny outside, I thought I could feel it. I can't. I feel fine but I'm uninspired.

Writing is a good laxative. Realised last week was just adjustment time and got over it. Got over stuff with X. Got over most everything really. Called T very late. 2 am. It was a full-moon thing. It's a poor excuse. I just wanted to ask him about my blog. And tell him that all was good because even if he did read my blog, he doesn't deserve to feel like an ass. Because this year was all quite good really, fun and enlightening. So yeah sometimes the world feels like it's off to run away with axed portions of me, sometimes I feel like glass with smudgy fingerprints. Not his fault. My choice. And mostly just me being negative. But his phone was off. Shuts it off when he sleeps. Ass. (Haha. ) Still, could never do that, shut off all contact at night, phonophobia be damned. Night is a time for accidents and bad thoughts and emergencies.

Thoughts of black-markering out X. X hurts. I fucked up with X. I don't want to see him anymore. I do but I can't. He tells me talking with me makes him smile. Makes him feel better already. It makes me feel very very very sick and sad to hear that. But even that feeling's not enough.

Went dancing with sister and husband and his brother and his wife. Drank more than anyone, faster than anyone, stood firm, amazed family, mouthed all the words and and danced and laughed along.

Caught a bad cold. Lost my voice. Called my mom for mother's day sounding like a dying toad. She sounded a bit discouraged. Talked to my grandmother. She had waited up to talk to me too so I had to. She sounded as appalled as expected. I know she would have preferred to have preserved the fantasy of me perpetually healthy and cheerful, foreign lands or no foreign lands. What had I caught like that? What had I done wrong? Was I not keeping warm? Was I taking care of myself?

Couldn't call. Wanted to call. Didn't want to call. Called. Won't pick up.

Feel tired and unfeeling. Feel ok. Have report to write. Don't want to pick a professor for my project. Told everyone I already did. Don't want to do a project. But only one term or so left. Just want to live this out and decide what I really want. I'm an ok scientist but not superb. I adore chemistry but it panics me, never feel like I can go deep enough, broad enough. Just spread myself thin. I can do numbers and equations, my specialty, big whoopdidoo. Every once in a while I get it, but can't communicate and don't know what questions to ask. I can't present and I hate working on anything that's in the least open-ended. I still get good grades. I'm good with grades. I don't study much. I write things last second. Sometimes after last second. Way after last second. Can't seem to do it anymore.

Displicined, effective academic research may not be for me. I think I just want to teach.

Was supposed to see a doctor this week. Two. One check-up, one of the psych persuasion. Can't remember what day or time. Should call and ask. What if I already missed? Owe fine for two missed appointments already. Owe the university books and a CD. Own the corner store a DVD. (Again.) And is it just me or did someone cut my cellphone off?

This can't be that hard to do. Life, that is. I'm not even that poor. I'm not even that busy. I'm not even that stupid. I swear. Um. Sometimes I feel like an idiot savant. And then I don't know which one is hyperbole, the idiot, or the savant.

What if they put me on ritalin? Can you imagine me on speed? What if they hyper-focus my thought and I can become like the streets of Amsterdam, all parallel and perpendicular gridding, all one-way identical streets? Easy to find a venue though, as long as you know where you're going. Otherwise you're completely lost. Actually, I like Amsterdam, though I nearly rolled a friend's parked car into a canal there once. I thought you can't turn off an engine when it's still on 'drive'? I turned the key so I could open a window, saw the fast approaching red boathouse sitting in the canal making its way towards me, panicked and pressed on the accelerator, saw the even fasert approaching boathouse, panicked more and pressed the brakes hard and turned the key back. I don't drive. It all happened in a second really. Key-Boat-Stop-Press-BoatBoatBoat-NottherepressotheroneNOW-Or key-Breathe.

What if I like to meander and detour? Picnic in roundabouts? Where is that line between personality and crazy? The fucking up of life, right, that's the line. How fucked up exactly? Like above paragraphs?

Yes, maybe.

I can't seem to get out. I write here to remember this. That I must.

Oh I forgot, owe a cab driver 12 dollars too. He told me to get my act together. I think that's a sign.

Reponsible. Need to be responsible.

On another note, apparently, when you get a leaky ceiling it requires you to talk to 40 different people about it to get it fixed and paid for. I did not know this. This is all new to me. It does not help that I sound like a 5 year old and look like a 15 year old, so everyone asks to speak with my mommy or daddy.

I did not know that, despite all being in the same company or affiliated, you are required to place each and every one of those concerned on your lap, give them a candy and then recount the full history of your leaky ceiling, from its germination to its death to its aftermath and rippling consequences. Tell them tales of the interesting obstacles your ceiling faced and strenuous treatments it underwent. And when it's all done with, light up a pipe, and ruminate with them on what the future of your ceiling might be. That is until the next "again, again!". And you must spin it longer to them each time, it is a never-ending story.

It was early spring of 2006, early morning. I stepped down from my stairs half an hour after a steamy shower when- much to my surprise and chagrin-

But the questions- Where was your leak ? On your ceiling. And what was the cause? Your shower? So the leak is in your shower or from your shower? How did the water get to your downstairs then? Oh. Kitchen? Where else on your first floor? Entrance? Stairs? Could you be more exact? We need it for our records- When did you first report the leak and where was it? Oh we're asking again because we're the claims department. So what happened with it? What turned out to be the problem? Are you aware of your deductible? - Cost? I don't know I'm just the plumber. You'll have to ask- I'm the project manager. I won't know until the plumber arrives. He should be here in twenty minutes, I lied so he thinks your house is completely flooded - So what's your deductible? -How much water was there exactly? What's your insurance company? Oh they're the ones who referred us? - No dad, they haven't given me an estimate yet- Cost? We're going to be calling the adjustor about that soon, so you can expect a call from him- Oh we're just here to pick up the fans. Noisy buggers huh? Are you sure you didn't have one more fan? We have report of a big red industrial fan- Oh we're just here for emergency repair. That spot's not emergency- Yes well my current status is that there a couple of holes in my ceiling. Well, because they had to knock it out to dry. Well, where the holes are is where the leaks once were. Sure, I can tell you where the leaks once were again- You do know you have a deductible right?- Did you call to report this? Called three times you say? Well who did you talk to? Was it Helga? We don't have that on record here. When did you call the plumber? Oh we recommended them to you? -

It's fun distraction. I could keep a blog about that alone. Could refer all interested parties to it for a blow by blow account of all the details, every hour on the hour, as it happens. Would save me some time.

On the bright side, some of the people stopping by to check out my infamous ceiling are HOT.

But ok, that was a huge tangent.

What I meant to say is I looked over my blog, felt good about T after all, didn't even feel too strange to read over, felt cool, will cover that later.

But then felt bad about me and the constant cycles of pathetic angst and hopeful renewal over this year. Something needs be done. Time to make a plan.

I also really need a vibrator.

habit

2006-05-11T10:15:00.000-05:00

Sometimes when I want to cum, I like to hear your voice. It is too early for a sometimes but it feels that long.

Sometimes I imagine I would give up the touch of flesh for this. Like I could bargain this, like there is some cost I must pay, a part of me to give up so that I could have this.

I’ve felt trapped now and then in the cold dread before a realization. It’s creeping and crawling on the skin of my arms still. My heart pounds suddenly at odd times, just when I know I’m about to realize it again. But it’s already too late. I realize what a slot-machine game I’d been playing this whole year. What a hook your gamble was. How the possibility of your call was contained in all other calls. I am caught in the moment before I realize there is nothing to anticipate that way. That I can no longer look to see if it’s you, that I will not feel that inner palpitating somersault again. I could think of our calls more, but sometimes it feels like too long-gone a thought. I wish again though that I had had more to say when you called, more to give. You don’t know how my many long silences will haunt me, how I feel they wrapped me, embalmed me, buried me away from you. And how tired I am of that whine inside me.

Sometimes when I want to cum, I want to hear your voice. I lie myself down on my bed and feel like an uncontained dye, bleeding and spreading into my bedsheets without a thought to hold me in. Other times I lie myself down on my bed and the icy dread is there again, has me frozen to my pillow. And I am a phantom whisper of containment this time, held in the moment before I realize your stencil is long-gone for the tracing.

Sometimes I know I shouldn’t have depended on you so much to rein me in. I wish you hadn’t bothered to take control. I wish I hadn’t bothered to struggle to let you have it. I wish you hadn’t bothered to command, I hadn’t bothered to obey. I wish you hadn’t troubled yourself with words like ‘own’ or ‘for me’ or ‘now’. I wish you hadn’t taken the time to talk with me, to read my words. I wish you hadn't stopped to make me tell you I want you, to let me know for even a moment I was yours. I wish I was better at role-play. That it didn’t slip dangerous under my skin quite so much. I wish I had real reproach against you. I wish I didn’t like the sound of you so much.

Sometimes when I want to cum, I try not to hear your voice. I imagine, I dread, that this effort will go on. I will pause to not hear you even with other cocks slid down my fist, throat, cunt. I know it can’t be. I just wish I knew why I always liked your breaking breath so.

Sometimes when I want to cum, I can’t.

To O

2006-05-08T16:05:00.000-05:00

A pause, a breather, what am I saying, a PARTY now, because it is dear O's one-year blog anniversary.

Hurray!

I started reading O right around when I started my blog. I was too intimidated to leave a comment for quite a long while, even though she was the first person to go into my links. She was my instant must-read.

I really don't know where to start about her. Just so eloquent, erudite, sexy, intelligent. Hot. Watching the evolution of her blog over this year, witnessing her resilience, her openness, and her committed brainy passion for life- all of which shine through blindingly in her every lovely phrase-has been such an incredible inspiration.

(Gush, gush, and I could gush some more, no problem. Such reactions are involuntary when bombarded, yes? )

I would have been happy just reading her, but nooo, then she had to come and read here and leave fabulous comments, and then I got to come further into contact with her lately, and she is all sweet and warm and kind.

She and her blog are like, the coolest gifts. Ever!

Happy blog day again O, you know I wish you all of the very best. Thanks for a fabulous year! All I have to offer in return is this leetle present. A blurry off-centered slightly-parted kiss.

And a little (ok a long) silly something in response to your quiz, below. Enjoy.

I don’t know about doing this quiz of O’s. The only thing I know is that Sylvia is a goat. The theater critics grudgingly commend her story, for all the disturbing sodomy and bestiality. But even that one I’m not sure about. Because Sylvia is also a Crowe, a Raven. I want to go Down Under to see her parks’ landscapes. Or I can go to Sylvia Park, California. (Google is evil, as am I... Just in this case though, promise.) Whatever, Sylvia Park, I’m going to California, leave this all behind, no one can stop me now, not you, not even O. Actually, O probably could. If O asked me to stay I would, because today is her Blogday, and so today it is all about her.

Speaking of O: Holy, fair, and wise is she;/The heaven such grace did lend her,/That she might admirèd be. So you see, she cannot be even remotely compared to a goat. Ravens on the other hand have been occasionally compared to writing desks, though I’m not sure why. There is no point answering questions even Mad Genius Hatters could not answer. They’re the same guys who butter their pocketed times and dip them in their teas, stir it all up with life’s meager coffee spoons. What more can we ask of them? The coffee spoons had to be mentioned because it is in one of my favorite poems, and she is one of my favorite people. Also one of my favorite writers. O that is.

I had a mad, lucid dream once where I flew on the backbone of a raven, and she gave me one of her quills, and then I sat at my desk and wrote and wrote whatever I wanted, dipping into this and that, and I started to fly again on the backbones of words, on the loosened plumage of a raven. O dips into my mind sometimes when she writes, it is scary and oh so cool. O does more than that though, opens us to her luminous intellect, so we can see what we could not see. I’m glad that she writes. I am glad that we read what she writes. I am glad I am not a Dr. Seuss, though I can sound like one. But enough about me, this she I speak of is O. She is O, and today is her Blogday and I want it to be all about her.

But a segue: we don’t have writing desks any more, do we? If I did, mine would be made of oak, slanting, all solid and shiny. But impermanent, prone to rot eventually. Keyboards are less bio-degradable, but not much more permanent really. Laptops crash, memory freezes and slips away. It is the way of all fish and computer chips, it is the way of all pages, it is the way of all minds, and yes, it is the way of all flesh to disappear. Then again, the Logos never disappears. But oh dear, I have skipped ahead. You are ahead by a century, O, let me just squeeze that in.

This year has felt like a century sometimes, sometimes more, hasn’t it? It’s felt like the kind of centuries that go by fast, though. Like how, one minute we’re using pocket-watches, next minute we’ve gone digital. (Or we just check our unpaid-for cell-phones instead, if we didn't forget to charge them.) Or like how, one minute we’re all Victorian, all anti-sex, all anti-abortion, and then the next minute…errr. Never mind. Cause I just thought of that Victorian novel written by a goat- I-mean- sheep herder from Down Under. You know, the one where the guy tries to give that pregnant maid money and everyone’s like, shocked. And then he gets sent to jail for mistaking a proper-like lady for a hooker. And then he hooks up with the maid again when he gets out of jail, and he becomes like, totally an outcast. But that doesn’t sound too distant at all. Not in some places. Not even here. Is it just the way of some to fear, to imprison, to alienate, to reject? Why haven’t we changed yet? Why do we still nurture this? Is it in our nature? What is up with that? When will the time for that be up? I don’t know. There’s hope yet though, a plumply pumping don’t-ever -stop kiss in all our hearts.

Because O is beyond all that. It’s hard to believe Eros, Logos, is a year old, it seems so much wiser, kinder, more beautiful. Yes, how fast the year has gone by. It makes me nostalgic. Where are the snowdens of yesteryear? No wait, that question isn’t nostalgic, that question just disturbs me. Some questions should not be asked. It was the part of the book that disturbed me the most. I cried the first time I read of his death at the back of that flying plane. He should not have died like that. The snowdens of yesteryear are being sent elsewhere now, have moved further towards the middle of the east. But this is no soap-box, this is my tribute to O and her Blogday. My attempt to give her the answers she needs. I don't know, no answers, they died, just like we all do, it is the way – you know what’s coming- of all flesh. But it shouldn’t have been that way.

Still, we must not mourn too long, must move on, must change, must evolve. Thankfully, it is also the way of all flesh to rejoice, to pulse, to regenerate, to sing, to erect. (To make lists to try and make a point.) Where and when is up to us. Up is when your hand goes down under there, and then you feel the tug and the throb lifting both inside and out. That is Eros and in this O excels, ever day, I must commend her for that, though I am not a swain. I believe the word they use for me- not that it is about me- is a bisexual, but who needs the limits of words when we’ve got a flying spirit, no? All I know is that feeling when we read, when we touch, does not stay maybe, but lasts for as long as we are around, sustains us, and that is all that matters. And sometimes the Os we reach at the end, or the rewind and re-end, again and again, feel like a century, last longer, take us further, upwards, to infinity and beyond. (Hah.) Like the ancient books from the time of the invention of the amphitheatre resting still on our shelves, near our non-existent writing desks.

O says she steals from our shelves, our novels, ancient, Victorian, contemporary. (She also says she steals novels from bookstores, naughty naughty.) I say she lends her grace to them, breathes them anew. I say, no I echo, that they mirror her, the fairest of them all. I say too that books are meant to be lent anyways, and are very difficult to return, to which my shelves can attest. But then what do I know, I am another mere mortal on the wall, currently caught in the age of 22. No, 23, crap, forgot about that birthday, how the year has flown by. I have not forgotten O’s Blogday though. Far from it.

I am just tired today, have lost some steam. But O is always worth it. O is my voice, poet, scientist, reader, writer, friend and heroine alike.

O, O, O, I’m through. I made you read all this. I couldn’t answer the questions. I didn’t know. I didn’t get to the point.

I will try one last time. The point is, O, that it is your Blogday and I adore thee, I fly with thee, I cry with thee, perish with thee, am lifted up with thee, always, and the best part is there is no catch, there is no inescapable bind, you are it all, body and mind. You are just you. Hallelujah. To you let us sing. Forevermore.

Happy Blogday, you O you.

And many more.

wish

2006-05-05T15:41:00.000-05:00

I said I would go be sad now for a bit, but no one waits for you to do this, nothing gives you time.

My parents called right after I posted, which was minutes after my call with T. I had to talk to them so I had to pick up. And then while I was talking to them numbly, discussing insurance problems, the plumber arrived at my door finally. So I got off with them, and the plumber proceeded, after a quick examination, to tell me how the month-long spreading leaky ceiling in my house was my fault.

The showerhead was loose… The water was dripping back through the hole. You were making the water yourself, this whole time.

I laughed for lack of a better answer, feeling rather stupid. The plumber laughed back.

My voice felt distant. I felt cold, so I put on a sweater. The skin on my arms felt crawly.

It was not because of the plumber. No, he was fine, quite plump and chummy.

Better luck next time, he said, as he shut my house’s door.

T’s voice was shaky throughout, nervous and a bit sad. I knew what was coming but then of course, I held hope until the very last downward turn of his fumblingly fast declaration. And it was not a hope held on so I could have sex this weekend or the next. (Though that would have been nice.) It was a hope for a stage that had already passed away.

Not enough time. (People are knocking down my ceilings so they can let the woodwork dry as we speak.)

To not sit on his lap half-naked again, to not have that bright moment before the pushing in of his cock, to not even have hands pushed inside me with his voice and…

No point. Not right now.

I miss. Sitting here and typing. I’m not devastated, but I need to cry. Between the doorbells of the various workers who came to my house, I played piano of all things, and cried. It felt like nothing, not me crying, nor me playing.

I told my friend half-way across the world, but then she had to leave before we could fully talk.

That pig, she said. It’s what friends say. I’d said nothing to give her that impression.

No, not really, I said. It’s exactly what I would do soon enough.

Yeah but he probably met someone else, that’s why he’s decided now.

He’d given me his reasons. His pain, his life, wanting to devote himself more to someone. All made sense enough to me.

Maybe. I don’t think so. I don’t really care. The point is it’s done.

He told me that I don’t know.

….You don’t know, he said, I’m actually quite a… romantic.. I need…

I knew, I know. Takes one to know one. What are these parts we think we can show without showing all the other ones? We are whole. We are our root. We walk in and we are what we are, and with some, you can feel it, feel it more than any one extended tendril.

Delicate his hands were and he had many of them
Hidden almost shamefacedly behind his back

Maybe one day I’ll put up all the rest of that, though it was not written for him. It is too old for that. But he has read it already.

I don’t want to write much now about him. In terms of what meeting him and the experience has given me, I mean. I think there will be time in these coming months to evaluate all that.

It’s funny, I was telling a friend last night that it would feel more natural to celebrate a new year around this time, like some do. This is more a time when you get a sense of the wheel coming back round. I told her how I have been happier than I have been all of a sudden lately, how I’ve found myself appraising where I stood a year before this, and how I feel another big change coming up. This is spring, this is what it does, you can fight it, but you can’t.

And now my parents tell me that tomorrow is the day I am meant to celebrate this. I did not know. It’s the very day I’ve been thinking of, the day I’m supposed to hang my wishes from a tree or a rosebush.

I have no trees. I have no rosebush. I tie my wish here underneath this photo I took. I won’t write it or draw it, though I should. I think maybe that is the point. But I will just try to imagine it clearly for a moment instead.

My wish is for him. And my wish is for me. And it is not a wish for us.

The end

2006-05-05T11:26:00.000-05:00

He just called. Told me his decision.

No more sex with T for Learn.

The time was over. Yay intution.

Will go be sad now for a bit I think.

maybe?

2006-05-03T11:00:00.000-05:00

Do you think if I play loud rock music it'll detract my roomate from the loud noises that have just finished emanating from my closed door?

Maybe I can tell her Axl Rose just sounds like that sometimes?

Crap.

I'll just stay holed in until she leaves for class. Seeing my phased-out face right now will probably further her suspicions.

The question mark in her head should fade away after a little alternative information overload during lecture, no?

Well, I don't actually care so long as she continues to pretend to be clueless. And I try not to make a habit of it, promise.

But still. Damn premenstrual horniness. Damn T. Damn his dark foursome (!) fantasy.

The lunch I was supposed to cook lies trapped in my kitchen.

PS. Actually I think foursome could potentially be more equitable than threesome, maybe just me?

PPS. I'm the queen of typos, words transposed, extra words added these days, so if anyone catches them, do tell. They annoy me. Also, if you want to correct my grammar, I would love for you to, but are you sure you have that sort of time?

zig-zag

2006-05-02T10:54:00.000-05:00

Follow this long blithering trail of jagged thoughts at your own peril.

I wrote out the whole three-way phone call a while back, examining all the thoughts that had been racing through me throughout. I stared at it in ashamed dismay when I was done. How much of what should have been fun and exciting perished in a bumbling, tumbling sea of competition, control and pride?

So I don’t have the heart to put it up all here. Besides, it’s too long, even by my standards. But I will leave the three paragraphs that I do actually like so that they are not lost completely in my deluge of self-doubt.

This is forgotten quickly because he is talking and she is responding. From the first trembling of her oh-mmm-um, you are arrested. She cuffs you to the moment and you are sentenced to repeating her every sound. To do any less would be impossible. He is leading his hand down to her cunt you think, you are still losing track of words, not because of the volume, because of your reeling mind. But it is ok because she moans, you moan, she groans, you groan, she thrills, you thrill, it is all just fine.

You find your voice modulating to her timbre in a strange way over the course of the call. You are one to moan desperate and edgy, she seems to moan more delighted and free, but then this seems to change, you find that maybe you are beginning to unwittingly meet each other halfway. You are cooing sometimes, she is fighting sometimes, you do not know, you are not thinking.

And he tells you both to cum finally, and you forget all in the final moments, everything is forgotten in that cacophony of throaty noises. They course through you and rush you even faster than you thought possible. He is groaning, she is deliciously loud, screaming, incredible, and you are surprised that you are too, just as loud, echoing her unwittingly to the very end, absolutely bawling, fingers soakily pushed inside.

So let' s just leave it at that, parts of it were fun and bold and fantastic, parts of it were not.

But things become clearer.

One is that the phone is a poor, contrived medium for this, especially for me. Phone sex has its limits. It can turn suddenly very silly if your mind slips a little, even with two people, so you can imagine with three. I do not think I will become a master pro at talking on the phone any time soon. Even in the flesh, I am more inclined to move and moan and tense and grab, then actually talk. I’ve become better, but under the pressure of novelty, it can slip back easily.

Second of all, it is imperative that T be attracted to this woman. I have always felt this. Anything less is flattering, maybe even exhilarating, but not worth it. It’s a cheap thrill, and I don’t need it. It really killed the mood of the whole talk, that he was talking about someone he said he didn't want to fuck. The subterfuge doesn’t work for me. It doesn't seem to be in the right spirit. I suspect that if he does find the woman more attractive, he will still try to keep it partly back, but I want to keep any hiding to a minimum. I know it will probably make me jealous, but it's more inportant that I have comfort in that moment that he is saying what he means.

Finally I realized that I cannot help but battle to maintain a certain kind of unsexy, stiff pride in front of strangers. So this dispels any delusions I had about not needing to talk to the possible woman for very long beforehand. It seems fairly obvious, that I would need to talk and meet and form a connection with someone, before I could relax enough around them for me to enjoy having sex with them. Duh.

But I think it was just that my focus was always far too much on him, maybe since my experience has been with him. Hopefully if I shift more on to her, really try to savor my experience with her, it will ease the balance. It will let T feel more free to focus on her without worrying about me. No one will have to feel disconnected. And though he may feel a tad jealous at first, he must know by now my perchant for men and cock, especially him and his cock.

I think tripods are naturally unsteady, but then some of them seem to remain on their feet for so long. So I remain hopeful. (ed note: no, I'm not talking about two legs and a cock, hah, just caught that while reading. Maybe not the best place to put this thought then, but oh well.)

We talked on the phone only one more time after that call. It was the phone call that had me kind of anxious beforehand.

Incidentally, ‘I hate phones’ is a common theme, it seems, judging from the comments, the surge of people who got to my blog from a search to that effect, as well as all the other blogs that have an entry eerily exactly like mine. Quite funny.

The call went alright. He was convinced quickly enough that “girlfriend feeling” had not been the best way to describe my twinges of jealousy and absolute need in that moment. We discussed why he couldn’t cum, if doing this was going to feel like too much of a responsibility and struggle for him.

Though he gave me no clear answer, he sounded shaky overall about doing this threesome. He didn't throw it out the window, just said much of his earlier strident need for it had faded.

I think the reality of it is that he does want to move on, and I begin to really and truly see this for what it is, a dying gasp from something that needs to be let go. I’ve only typed it before, but it is starting to hit home. If he needs to go, if he feels like stepping up again and opening up to his need for a partner, I don’t want to be the smokescreen like this for much longer either.

Smokescreen. Well, that's what it feels like. A little bit on my side too.

It is difficult though, ending anything with anyone is difficult. We are going to stop having sex starting riiiiiight… now. It doesn’t work quite like that huh? It sounds like it should, but it doesn’t. There are always a few last coughs and hiccups, a lag between the realisation and the action. It's a bit sad, maybe, but it's beginning to feel normal.

He said that he hadn’t felt as much sexual interest from me in these past few months. Not quite as much energy. It’s true. I’ve been down on the whole, rare half-bursts of energy now and then. I haven’t been able to write too much. Also, the novelty is naturally wearing off, so I can’t exactly bounce off the walls the same way I did at the beginning. But I know it’s still all there inside, still lots to do. It may have ebbed but it’s not gone.

He needs to be around for it though, and he’s not. It is strange, for we are both coming into this from different ends of the same circular struggle. I have felt really very low at times, while he has been in a lot of debiliating physical pain, apparently the common bane of a working musician. I have felt physically tired as a result of my mood, losing appetite, losing sleep, my limbs and back always aching, whereas he has fought to not have his mood drop into depression while fighting and worrying about the pain.

We are both alone. We need comfort and we cannot quite give it to each other. What to do?

Still, he has been in my thoughts a lot more recently, because of his pain. Compassion clings like plastic wrap maybe, but I really need to extend it sometimes. I wish I could do more. I wish I could do something. I don’t know what it is.

I would like to lie him down sometimes and tell him to relax, to give up complete control of his pleasure to me.

It would also be completely fucking sexy. I have the whole scenario tingling in my head. Let’s see if I get the chance and courage. The time for that may be over.

He said maybe we had been analyzing too much with this threesome, needed to get back to the basic feeling of fucking. It was what had been in my thoughts already after writing down about the call. I had felt strongly that it shouldn’t be this difficult. It’s sex. It feels good. I’m not discounting all the analysis, but again, enough with that focus. We need to relax, honestly.

So I talked through this call, the same threesome scenario talked out over and over. I started it, and he ended it. This time it was easy and sweet, not dark and deep at all. I watched them, sliding a finger in the same time he slid into her. She lay beneath him, pleasant and and wet and quivering around him. I wanted him to enjoy her, wanted to hear her enjoy him. But I needed to be fucked so badly, and I said this, and we laughed easy laughs. I asked him to make her cum soon, quickly. She came around him finally, bursting wet and loud onto him, so that I had to groan. And then he moved to me. I felt bright and relaxed. I moaned frantically when he pushed inside. The need was surging, easiliy overwhelming, like simply closing your eyes while waiting for a wave of salt foam to crash over you. I had pushed in two fingers and found myself really pushing them in deep, really trying to hit hard inside me. I told him this. So he told me to fuck myself then, like he would, though I could never quite reach like him. And I did, pushing in fast rhythm, both of us grunting quietly with the exertion, and he felt me building, and we came together loudly, lovely, left me with a smile on my face.

We both had to run immediately afterwards. This is tradition, he has joked, it’s way beyond a habit at this point.

I have never been one for tradition. It only makes me want to at least question it, try it a different way. But I guess we are masters of last-minute timing.

I found the one-word message he left me on my screen later on, and it cracked me up in its brevity.

Pleasure!!!! :))

Pleasure indeed.

I know my focus was still nearly solely on him our last talk, like a one-last lingering kiss, if I can be allowed the romantic allusion. But it has left me strangely more inspired about this threesome than I have in a while. I’ve been writing out a whole new possibility. Hopefully I can post up soon. The ending is the tricky part always, how to wrap things up, leave everyone satisfied.

I will give this one last try, start the search anew, see if something comes up.

The truth is I just want to meet a woman I like.

Spring is here, what’s left to do? I feel a smilling calm that comes I think from knowing I can step outside, breathe in air from a warm breeze. Tomato and herb planting time again soon.

I used to wonder at the beginning what would happen to my blog once (if once) T moved out of it. I wondered what I would write about, if I would just close this place down.

But I feel ready now to start making the changes already. It seems easy again. There is much to explore. I’m feeling a bit lazy about it right now, but I expect it will be reflected here soon enough in the coming months. Blogging has been the most insiduous of any of my relationships, has always been about that corny inescapable relationship with myself.

I think it’s time for that to come through even more.

i hate phones

2006-04-26T12:53:00.000-05:00

I hate phones. Every time the phone rings I get a slight heebiedy-jeebiedy feel in my heart. If I don't know who it is, I find it especially hard to pick up. Calling people can take a few days to work up to unless I completely have to. How I've ever had any kind of phone sex is beyond me. People should either helicopter themselves to my vicinity, or mail me a letter, or start up a typing chat. I hate strangers on the phone, I hate friends on the phone. People who know me very well, especailly the talkative ones, and I tend to surround myself with them, will tell me: what are you talking about? you're a great phone-person. I just hide it well. If I'm feeling down or nervous, believe me, phone calls are the first thing to go. No visual cues. No time to form coherent sentences. No way to put a hand lightly on a shoulder. Forget it. I hate my phone. I use it, but I just had to confess.

This was brought on by the fact that T is going to call me soon and we are going to "discuss".

*Insert ominous music.*

well, there goes that thought

2006-04-26T00:41:00.000-05:00

I just wanted to leave a comment, because though I wrote it flippantly, on a whim, this is a story that is very close to me. The experience is very much real, the family is very much mine. The second part isn't real obviously, but isn't complete imagination either, not quite the black-and-white movie I try to make it out to be. It's a combination of whispered gossip always humming around these towns, real-life stories and comments about removed relatives, neighbours, friends. Foreign yet me, the influence is undeniable. (Update: OK I just realised that this was filled with typos, how embarrassing… Think I fixed them up now.)

Oh I don’t know. Bah. I want to leave all behind sometimes, move to a farm sometimes, a farm by the sea. I knew a place like that once, a place close to the one I’ve described before. But this is another town, my wandering uncle’s town for a short while, though he could never stray very far from this area, once he had had a taste.

The buxom guileless neighbour would bring the milk from her cow to drink after a boil. It tasted so damn heavy and cloying, you would skim off the skin of cream, the best part, everyone would admonish, and still that animal taste. And the breakfast butter always white as yogurt, tasted fermented like it too. But there would be the smell of salt in the rough cool walls of those stone houses, the uneven stairs, the shade of the gnarly olive trees outside where we tied the hammock and piled ourselves in as children, giggling, swinging too hard. There would be dinners of man-grilled fish and cheese and crusty bread. String beans soured and spiced with garlic and olive oil and the juice of completely unripe grapes. Acid pounded out from those tart crunchy berries in a brass mortar and pestle, garlic smashed into liquid in a rhythmic clang the same way. And then tomatoes, always tomatoes on the side, freshly- picked just-sliced (holding it in their hands with the knife curving round) bright-red fleshy-firm dripping-pink tomatoes, eaten outside on summer nights, and countless other side dishes in small plates to pass around and devour too. Don't start eating until eight, the sun still up. Don't stop eating until ten, when the stars come out, no light but for the light from your house and the guileless neighbour's. Don’t stop eating past eleven, which is when the watermelon would come out, cooled with a rinse of cold water if they forgot to put it in the fridge before cutting open to reveal its magenta chill. You liked the crispy yellower not-as-sweet part near the rind, after all the other parts had been eaten out, after everyone had reached from across the table for their own trapezoid chunk. It would be agreed that this had been a good watermelon, the one who had tapped and prodded and chosen it from the watermelon truck that came round would nod in smug satisfaction. But you liked to trace your spoon bluntly over the discarded part in strokes, until all the sugary pale pinkish water came out, and then you would slurp it up with that spoon, and then when the spoon got to be too much work, you would hold it up to your mouth and tongue, the whole half-boat of it. Do it, do it, they would urge, so you would, shyly, greedily, careful not to drip it down your shirt. Aunts and uncles and grandparents alike would be there with their cloudy licorice drinks poured out in tall narrow glasses. Pouring the clear pungent liquor carefully a quarter (or so) of the way, the schlieren threads wisping and smoking as soon as the ice-cold water was dumped in, turning the whole glass into milky frost, magic. Don't get up to clear the table past midnight, maybe a few dishes here and there ushered in by the women. Not usually your mom because she was too busy rambling a stern idea out to a rapt face or two over that long unsteady table, cigarette smoke never-ending, shoes resting and shifting dustily in dusty fertile ground. And then afterwards, boiling water for the dishes, you did not cook girls, so you must clean. You do not have any boy cousins, though you're sure they would not have to do this, your brother does not, they are shocked when he takes his plate and other plates to the kitchen, and your mom shushes them and tells him to. He would even wash too, even your dad would at home, gladly enough, but your mom knows when, in front of whom, to pick her battles. So you are filling the basin from a kettle, washing glasses first, then dishes, then cutlery, greasy platters and pots and pans last, handing to your cousin to rinse, singing a random song, some random gossip, always some random thing to have a hysterical laughing fit over, you are young and dumb after all, your back aching from standing over the sink for so long, until the other sitting cousin steps up and you sit for a bit, you were such a big crowd. Your skin smelling like soap as you sit and grin at them- the creamy white slab of soap- bigger than your hand- awkward with its sharp corners- basin after basin of lukewarm water sloshed over your head during that wash after your last swim, the beach rocky and deep so that you would have to throw yourself from a crooked splintering platform into the cold splashing water all at once, water that always quickly warmed of course, once you got in, and in those parts, the water was a heavy navy blue, and then turned crystal and buoyant around your always last-to-tan legs.

And maybe I could have me that quintessential Mediterranean lover with a careless callous tanned body. Simple-minded, the son of the guileless farmer’s widow, you understand. She could come round to my mom's only brother's house to ask for my hand, since there is no one else to ask, no man left in that farm's family to get permission from mine. There would be dissent of course, like in any good black-and-white movie. Education, what is education, useless ideas written on the paper that we put in our furnaces to heat the water for our sons' baths after their swims. (Our daughters do not know how to swim.) Me, I have no daughter, my only son, he is a good boy, he says he wants your daughter, you must understand. Maybe it is Willed. And though no one would understand, and no one would agree to it, we are too different after all, they would have to in the end, wouldn’t they, when they found us, we would have to be married, the ragged red ribbon of (already ripped) chastity still placed around my waist by my dad, the wet muddy henna still slapped and bound on my hands to dry and dye as they sobbed for the life I was leaving behind, and there is always a life you are leaving behind. I could scrub the stone floors of his house, make our always messy bed, would anyone recognize me after a while, in baggy rolled up clothes so I could go milk the cow, the guileless cow lady passed away, sometimes I'm pregnant again, sometimes the cow. I’d still go for dips in dark seawater though, half-naked, scandalous. Though not too much of anyone around to bother us maybe, they would accept me maybe, this town that's barely a town, and he'd turn out to be a good boy after all maybe, never raise a hand to me or the children, knowing little, except that I'd probably raise that hand right back. This is what happens when you take an educated girl, son, her guileless ghost would tell him in his dreams, she does not worship like us, son, what can you do? He could kiss and worship me, fuck me hard and soft at my will, on shaky tables, under gnarly olive trees, in freshly laundered bed, have him never understand any of this, any of me, just a need for soft buttery body, for my dripping-pink cunt wet so he could curve it in slices, swath it around his cock, pound me liquid and tart, the angles of my olive body massaged under his grimy hands, held firm in his dusty hands by the in-dip of my creamy waist, my soapy legs shaking. To be fucked out of pure love for my arched doorway hips, like X in a way, putting an earnest cock in me in a perpetual promise of swinging hammock pleasure, cumming into me with a tiny grunt, fermented and fertile, resting then, past midnight, until time to clean-up, looking into eyes like vapid stars, seeing me from head to toe as his, nothing more, his girl in the farm by the sea.

Yeah I know. I’d be miserable.

meaning?

2006-04-24T19:12:00.000-05:00

I just got accused by him of having worrisome "shades of girlfriend feeling" towards him. This can't bode well for the venture.

I'm not sure I totally understand even what that means as I look at it from different angles. He says it's not about control, but about the possibility of coming out of this with a deep psychological feeling of being hurt, used, jealous etc .

It's weird, for all my 'involvement' with him, I'm not sure if real hurt to myself will ever come into play. Maybe I'm delusional, maybe I'm boombastic. OK I just felt like saying boombastic.

My worries coming into this were about losing something I enjoyed. Then I realised I can't really control what I enjoy, so I let it go. If I lose it, I'll be dissapointed, but I'll move on. No promises were made really, which I appreciate. There is an unspoken promise to not mislead or deceive, but I think this is true of anyone. There will be a momentary gap in my life if he moves out of it, but there are a billion and one other things out there in the world that I could go and learn about. I guess it sounds callous. It's not that I wouldn't miss him at all. It's just a grim, hopeful, restless sense of continuing life.

Anything beyond that really is about self-security. How can I get used? How can I get downgraded, degraded by this? How can I judge myself through my worth in his eyes? I know it seems like it sometimes. And I can tell you there are instances when I struggle with that, want that more than anything, gold stars meted out to me, stamps of approval on my presented polished forehead: we think you're great, we want to fuck you, we want to talk to you. But also, I mean really, what good does it do me in the end?

Maybe being this self-absorbedly introspective kind of helps me in some ways. The world shovels in input sure, but it all has to be processed inside first too. I have to agree with it first. And if I agree with another's bullshit, then that's my problem, and if it is an actual shortcoming that I should take into account, then that's something I have to go deal with too.

So what does it have to do with him, with the possibility of feeling like his "girlfriend"? Because his opinion is worth more to me? Maybe it is, but that's because I think he's got a brain worth respecting. But even that I take with a grain of salt.

I've tried to enjoy this and live it out to its fullest. I've tried not to hold back. I've failed quite often. I've made a place for this in my life, I'll admit. Is that what he means? How could I have not? How do people do that? Oh I'm doing this, but it's nothing. Everything means something. Yeah, we just call and fuck once in a while. No, she's just someone I bump into once in a while. I forget about him right afterwards. It means too much? How much is too much? What pie-slice of my thoughts should I not be cutting out and plating? Maybe he's right? Maybe, as always, I think too much, am too intense?

But I've taken this all with my own grain of salt and my own squeeze of lime and my own head shot back for the gulp, from the very beginning.

I don't know what that means: "shades of girlfriend feelings." Shades of intensity? Shades of depth? Shades of love? Shades of lurrrrve? Shades of lust? Shades of giving a shit? Shades of appreciation? Shades of commitment? Shades of complexity? Shades of messiness? What have I asked for that's too much? What constraint on time and energy? A meet every three months, a call every two weeks, a second thought when we do something together? How much shade is too dark and heavy to deal with?

"Girlfriend feeling"?? What does that mean??? Nearly a year now and it still makes no sense. I still feel it's part of some bigger picture that I never got.

But ah well, like I told him, I'm not going to worry, if it needs bringing up, it should be, if it can be worked out, it will be.

Oh dear, who knew I'd become such an eastern mystic doctor phil-esque piece of work?

It's only cause I finished all my schoolwork and I'm relaxed. Off to dinner I go.

again

2006-04-23T22:28:00.000-05:00

The thought of the call has been growing on me day by day.

The bewilderment and trepidation and self-consciousness has worn off bit by bit. I'm still a little overwhelmed but still all there.

Actually I'm in a twist of arousal right now. I want to sit down and write more about the call, the parts that turned me on. But I start to write it in my head and then it just fires off inside me before I can put aything down. I'm thinking of hearing her like that, I'm thinking of how T led my hand onto her, I'm thinking of T fucking her, I'm thinking of waiting to be fucked by him, oh i don't know, it's all there. Even T's call afterwards was pretty fucking crazy. Hot and heavy.

No wonder it's all felt a bit like a question. Did that just happen? What just happened? Is this me?

(It's so weird too not to have anyone to share it with. Sometimes this blog is all that keeps me sane. I wish I knew more people I could pick up a phone and talk about this with.

Although sometimes I admit it amuses me, because I'm a bit of a smart-aleck smug secretive so-and-so that way. So what have you been up to lately? Oh I dunno, nothing much really. )

And now I'm sitting here, just really burning, really needing to pick up the phone and call him. Except he has a friend over and I have no clear idea of what I want to say.

In the true manner of someone who has stepped off a thrill ride and finds she has survived , all I can think is: again, again.

Adrenaline junkie?

I want to do it again. More.

I might even keep my eyes open next time.

threeway

2006-04-20T10:15:00.000-05:00

I couldn't stay away too long because I wanted to mark an occasion.

Yesterday I heard a girl cum on the phone. That's right, I had a three-way.

T orchestrated the whole thing, neither she or I had to do much talking. The girl B was apparently someone T had met up with, but was not someone he wants to fuck at all . But he said she had a very sexy voice.

Remember, he said, before she came on, remember I want you.

Her voice was indeed sexy, she cooed and squealed and trembled so delightfully. She had this breathy way of saying Yiiiieees to T's words.

It was cool. We came together hard. I have no idea what to make of it. It was a bit overwhelming. It was strange to hear him talk to another. And he was telling her all through, you're so sexy, look at the power you have now, look what you're doing to both of us. There was a lot to process, his words, her sounds, my arousal. I hadn't got much sleep.

She said, come time for her second cum, that she had to go to work soon. We shut the call altogether, since as T stated this was something special, for all three of us. You've inspired me so much, B, thank you.

L may not tell you, he said, but you've inspired her too. She probably has the dirtiest mind out of all three of us. She won't say it though... she'll.. write it. I laughed, blushing hard. I didn't like him talking for me much, even though it was true . Well, the writing part. The dirty part is anyone's guess really.

Bye B, I said tentatively as we left, the first time I actually directly acknowledged her, bye she said shyly. Awkward moment. She had a kind voice. I had felt her throughout trying for my sake to make sure he 'attend' to me too. I had felt T trying for her sake to downplay his attention towards me. I had felt myself trying for their sake to not be too demanding or controlling. Almost not be too turned on towards either??? It was fun. Bye.

He called me back two minutes later. Oh my god, I faked it, I didn't cum, he blurted immediately, not that I wasn't into it, but maybe I was tired, or nervous?...I had to fake it.

I thought he had cum. I felt sorry, and a bit betrayed.

He asked me if I had felt jealous at all. Yes, I said. I didn't really need to think about tha tanswer at all. Yeah? he said, a bit surprised, excited jealous, hurt jealous?

A little bit of both.

He sounded quite down. I don't want to hurt you, he said, if it's going to be something negative for you, we can scrap the threesome altogether.

Maybe hurt is too strong, I said, I don't know. It was confusing, it was new. I'd..I'd never heard you...

He agreed that to hear me talking to someone else would be weird too. Especially you, he said, talking. I was annoyed he should bring up my reticence again. But then I thought about it, me pouring into am eloquent heated stream of speech for another guy, while T listened with dropped jaw, and I had to laugh.

Yeah I know, I giggled, you'd be like: 'what the hell?!?'.

She called him while still on the phone with me. He was amused , said ok I have to take it, but don't leave. I need you.

He called back, said we would talk more about what she had said later. Then he fucked me hard and rough, there was ass involved, he claimed me as his, his claim felt like a question, but the words felt like actions, and I came again anyways, twice, hard, loud, messy, sticky.

As soon as he was done, he was immediately normal, all hello, how are you?. He does it on purpose, to be cruelly funny. I told him wearily and shortly to shut up.

How he laughed.

Did you cum?, I asked him. I've never asked him that before.

Yes, of course. No faking. I promise. I've never faked with you.

OK.

He told me again that he wants my full opinion on the call later on. Said it's easier to stop at this point. Reminded me he is going to want to settle down at some point though. We can't do this ... forever. My thoughts exactly. But that's not reason enough to do this either, so we should both decide..

Yeah, I don't know.

Yesterday, I heard a girl, aroused, on the phone.

breakout

2006-04-18T12:41:00.000-05:00

Thank you all for the kind comments, I'm always touched anyone should identify or find this interesting. And writing is a compulsion for me, so if it is appreciated in any way, all the better. It actually makes me quite happy. (And in leaving a comment I guess you are already a tiny little part of the adventure, this life-o-mine, no?)

The compulsion thing is a bit of a problem though. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm feeling too the disparity between what has been said here these past two months and what has actually made its way to T. It's all good and real in my mind, and the events accounted are real, but if it's not being at least partially communicated to him, if he does not have any idea of my impression of the events, actually it's not even that, he probably has some idea, but if I'm not even making a real effort to put my thoughts of him across to him, so that it can be shot down or supported, in the very least changed, then there is no point really. I might as well be making it up. I might as well be masturbating to his complete fantasy in a corner of my room...you know what I mean? This is the point where him and I begin to really break down, if I continue like this. The writing helps maybe, to solidify my thoughts, (which is scary enough as is), but it can turn into a bit of a cop-out if I don't watch out.

I've said this before, damn.

(But he calls me, and everything just leaves my head, I'm just asking him if he's tired, what he's been up to, how was his weekend.)

I'm also growing uncomfortable with the amount of time that has gone into this writing. It seems out of proportion with the amount of time that has actually been spent with him.

Most of all, with all this writing, I'm losing focus, from living my life. And it is not totally because of him. Probably when I get like this, I could write missives on my relationship with my refrigerator. No but seriously, it's just the same as the last time this happened, I have been writing so much, a lot more than is being posted. About my family. About past relationships. About where I grew up. About how I started having sex. I've been retreating, really totally retreating. I feel like I could fall through the cracks any second and never actually have to live.

I could become completely mortified, stagnant, comatose. I know the feeling now. I could be the one whose drool is being wiped off of her wheelchair in an institute somewhere. They never did find out what went wrong. It is not as far as I first thought, though I wish it were, I wish this were a complete, remote dramatization.

Nothing is getting done, and I have to break out.

It may be that I will post again in two days, it may be a month, I could never venture a never-again, I don't know. I just feel, and I think we all feel this a bit from time to time, that I have to re-state the boundary, re-gain control. Actually put it up here. Not just talk about how I need to focus, but actually focus. Start to involve myself where required, not just where desired. In writing this I've already failed, but I'm hopefully moving there slowly.

I feel sad now. :(

Damn.

What if I'll never be able to take these steps fully? What if I find myself here over and over again? How many times will I just pull through ?

I don't care if it's genetic. I don't care if it's experience. I don't care if it needs medication, if my hormones need to be engineered and tweaked. I don't care if I need to learn the right thought processes, need to be positive, am looking at this the wrong way, am just making mistakes, if my distorted perceptions need a new lens, whatever. I don't care if it's a natural stage, if its 'normal' or 'abnormal'. I don't care if I am just like any other, if I need to snap out of it, if I'm just feeling sorry, if I'm self-absorbed, if I'm spoilt, if I'm weak, if I'm a baby, if I'm confused, if I'm dumb, if I need a therapist, a parent, a sibling, a friend, a pill, a life.

I know too much of the lingo, I feel like the reproach and the advice have always been inside, before anyone could open their mouths, I don't care, whatever it is, I just don't want it to be, it's a pain.

My heart questions its own throb, tirelessly, tiresomely, time and time again.

I don't want to be at all. But then I do. I cannot choose.

(Cannot. It is always true, what they say. Don't ever think the girl who took one pill too many was the girl who was finally able to make that choice.)

I'm tired again. Damn.

Stepping back now....

Time goes by..

2006-04-15T15:31:00.000-05:00

so slowly.

I swear this template is turning my writing more and more emo.

But yes, time goes slowly when you're waiting.

He met with her as planned, and we chatted about it for all of five minutes. He says he has to decide, but she is up for a threesome next week. You could have peeled me off the floor. Actually, you couldn't have, I was that floored. I asked how it went and it was "ok", she is apparently not "overly attractive". He said she asked him to "pleasure her manually", that he did and was "a bit bored". And in reference to whether he would like to fuck her or not, his answer is "slightly". I am trying not to be cynical but it all sounds a bit clinical and wishy-washy and suspect to me. I can deal with whatever picture I'm given, but I do need it to be more clear. Anyways I am sure I'll get a better idea once we can talk more. I'm sure it is uncomfortable and awkward for him to talk about and I don't want to push. And also I have to question why I need to know what I'm asking about.

I asked him what she has asked of me, and apparently she would like to see me cum. It's weird that I don't particularly want to chat with her on the Internet beforehand. I know I should. If I am honest, I am not particularly attracted to her photo either, and I can't pin down what it is, because everything about her is fine, but the whole composition doesn't come through for me. But then I am very new at this, and I don't know exactly what I look for in a woman. I don't even know if I fully look for a woman. And this kind of thing can only be told in real life, a presence, a smile, a way of moving and relating.

We will talk more later, he said, and dissapeared off into T land. It is Easter though so I assume a bunny kidnapped him off to a family dinner.

I have been sleeping too much, very dense dreams surrounding him and this. Fantasies spitting out of my ears. It is always like this for me when I feel an upheaval coming. I dreamt that I dreamt he kissed me, and then I dreamt that I woke up from this dream and he kissed me and I was like, hey I dreamt this. You can imagine my confusion upon awakening. The kissing felt fantastic and surreal and like we were going to stop and give each other high-fives. Strange. I dreamt he was about to tell me more of this girl, and I said, wait, before you tell me, and sat on his cock, and he told me like that, and though I would never ask him in life for that amount of detail, I asked question after question, he gave me every last little bit until I came. And I was telling him, I know, I know what you were thinking, you were lost completely, you didn't think of me at all, and it's hot, because it's the truth. Strange. I dreamt it happened, and this time, we tagged up on the girl, and I was teasing her with him, as though I had any say, I want to be fucked now, Girl, she had a name in my dream and I kept using it though I can't remember what it is now, what do you think?, should he stop?, should he stop so he can fuck me?, she was so close to cumming when I asked this, it sounds cruel but it didn't feel like it, she and I were smiling, her smile was desperate, knowing, hoping it was a game, mine to show I'm only teasing, although I did desperately want to be fucked, and T was joining in, hmm maybe I should stop, she does look like she needs to be fucked, what do you think? should I?, and he and I both knew that there would be no stopping, he would make her cum competely, but she didn't know this completely, and the funny thing is it didn't feel like it was about him at all, I was loving it because of her face, it was a surge of need to hold her arousal in my hand, make her cum even harder.

I know in real life this would be a poor tack to take, both for T, and for her, especially for a first encounter. I also know that overall, it sounds like whoa, not dealing with it so well are we? But it's more just that my mind's spinning about everything and anything surrounding this, and I want to control this because it is out of my hands at this moment in time, and I need to anchor it down now by figuring this out and taking the next step.

What's that you say about over-analysing?

release

2006-04-13T13:49:00.000-05:00

She sits in my mailbox, this naked girl. A pocket-sized, café latte, angular woman, dark hair streaming down to her waist. She holds up her handcuffed hands to me. Her eyes are large, daring, consumed, almost freaky.

I know nothing about her.

You have found her.

She will come to your house, this naked girl, clothed. She has agreed to masturbate for you. In or out of her clothes, I do not know. You will watch. See how it goes. You will not let it go too far, you say. If it goes well, she says that she will be up for a threesome.

It is hot. The situation is hot. You are a hot man, especially when heated. A masturbating heating woman is hot. Watching one is hot. Being privy to this watching is hot. Sex is hot, when it’s real. Sex heats, burns, engulfs and enflames.

And who knows what will happen if we all end up doing this?

T, I let you go, you know, the same way I have had to let my life go. Let my life go to changes, to disruptions in equilibriums that can never be maintained. I have maybe been the first to break out, but I know we would have broken all the same. I know what I have always known, we could not stay in this place forever. And it is more than just a self-fulfilling prophecy.

You say to me once in the middle of another shared phone-call fantasy, and it’s funny, you say, I have no real interest in involving myself in another woman’s sexual life, in her every day thoughts and fantasies. And I think of how I understand this feeling. It was partly why I had no desire, in the end, to continue with N. I think of how this is just exactly what I would jealously guard from you. Just this desire to have you watch, you say, this desire to have you be there.

But T, you must know it is not fully true. You know you must, as I had to with him. You know you cannot sit back and watch a woman open her arousal to you, without being involved at some level. The second you respond, you have stepped in. You must have already if she has agreed to do this with you.

And it’s strange, I would be disappointed if you didn’t get involved in some way. I would hate for you to have posed completely, to have detached yourself like an artifical limb and enticed her there. I expect more from you. I cannot deny there is something lost, either way. It will be the final breaking of this delicate back that we have ridden together

I have nothing to tell you, really, there is no half-way. This we that we had, it broke upon his and her entry. That we was broken to begin with. What more could I ask you? Does she turn you on? Do you want to fuck her? Do you want to know her? How much? Wet-making and present-breaking questions. What more could I ask of you? To like her enough to fuck her, but not too much, not as much as you like me?? It is pointless. It is hypocritical.

The truth is you do not know how I will respond to her either if we do end up meeting. (Although I think the possibilities are more limited for me. You and she are fundamentally different for me, in a way that her and I can never be for you.) Still, you will have to know of her pleasure for me, just like you had to know of his.

I'm thinking too how you told me all you have given cannot help but make you protective of me. I picture you, looming over me like a benefactor who desires loyalty, dues paid, credit given. You have had to be patient, you have got to have me first, excited, nervous, fresh, at my most difficult and resistant and awkward. You have shown me this power, you have created this monster. Others will benefit. I will owe you always, but I will know too that this was all in me. And you know I cannot put yours or anyone's footnote at the bottom of my every page, again and again.

And maybe you don't know that in all you have given you have made me just as protective of you, though in a different way. Teacher's pet that I have become.

I let go of your exclusive sexual involvement with me now, your interest, your guidance, the zoning in for a moment of your cums and desires on me and into me. This same involvement that I admit I have hoarded so greedily and kept so close and secret to me. I let it go, maybe it will leave completely, maybe it will not. We will change, no doubt, we are changing. We will be just as good, worse, better, who knows?

T, this girl may blow your mind beyond your control, she may do nothing for you, she may end up being your girl, your love, she may start and run away. She will probably do something in between. These risks were always there, this I never had any control over. I never had you. I don’t know that I really want to have anyone that way. I cannot yearn for, I cannot fuck, puppets. You must do what you want. I want you to. I take comfort in what was had, this “good run”. This great cross-country sprint, in fact. I put faith into what might yet be had.

And I won’t even ask you much, you know, after that day. After any day really. I cannot hound you, because I cannot hound myself. I will hope that you will tell me to the best of your ability how you feel, towards her, towards me. I will wait, listen, see how I feel.

I will let go. I will in fact, play.

T, I’m nervous, I’m excited, I look backwards, I look forwards. And I kind of hope this works.

sigh

2006-04-10T13:49:00.000-05:00

Damn T. Finally coming online only to tell me he's going to cum. Me asking him to leave a message on my phone then, since I have no cell and am at school. I can't call from a payphone because he is in another city.

wish you could hear it in your ear now - teasing the shit outa you
maybe make you cum just listening

Then going offline.

oh this feels soooo good
bye

How predictable. How easily I fall. How I urge him.

I'm not even sure I enjoy this right now. Think I'm too tired from school. Think I'm blank inside.

No anger. No joy. Just this pain between my legs. I asked for this.

Well I'm going to a payphone to access my voice-mail right now, and then I'm going to the bathroom for some privacy...

Might cheer me up.

Update:

Mm I felt that.

Listening to him on a payphone was not smart. Not smart at all.

He took up two whole voice message slots, talking out his fantasy. So aroused. His arousal beckons insanely when I hear it. It wipes everything out I admit. Even this blankness.

I started off alright, not too many people around. Bit my lip and looked at the ground. Then as he got closer and closer, a few people started to pop out from the computer lab. Around me. Too far gone to fully care, too wrapped up, I gripped the metal edge of the booth whitely as he talked. I thought I would cry from the exertion.

He fucked her again with me watching, and then fucked me. This is an idea we cannot seem to leave.

We are awkward, he says. We are watching, he says. It is such a deep and dark want for him, he says. He describes it all. Down to her feel. Down to her orgasm. Down to the ridge in his cock I have felt that will grate upwards inside me. Down to the way we will cum. Down to the way he will hold me to him after our hard fuck.

I listen, feel the dampness begin. When he cums, all I can do is shut my eyes.

There is more. I will have to go home and listen to it just one more time, cum just one more time,and then delete, like he asked in the next message. He wants the voiced fantasy of the moment left in the moment. Mine, they are mostly preserved here. But it is his wish.

And that school bathroom, I got to it, it knows me well by now. I pulsed and pushed on my clit, rapidly bringing myself there, and then flushed the toilet right when I came, in case someone was around, so I could cry out. (Professional public bathroom cummer, I have become apparently.) The cum is not nearly enough, but enough for now.

Ah, life is so silly and random sometimes. It sticks its tongue out at me, and endears itself to me against my will.

Talk about your mood swing. An orgasm will do that for you.

Back to work. Sigh. And I wonder why my work doesn't get done.

Up-update: It just occured to me that I've partly preserved his fantasy here too. But he can't really stop that. Hmm. Will have to bring it up some time. I think he is just wary of the real live moment being physically captured. But I have not a mind for abstractions today. I am naught but a happy cummer. :)

body

2006-04-08T21:16:00.000-05:00

“OK those have to come off now,” you say, motioning to my panties. They are silly and satiny, with black bows on either side. “Mine too,” you say. “Because I’m already getting hard.” This makes me grin. I lean back and pull mine off quickly. I find myself helping you pull your grey cotton off too, unconsciously impatient, just want to get my hands, something, on. You smile a bit and thank me. And then pull me back on top. Before I can get a good look of your cock.

And then well, I don't know, I fight to grind against you, get to what I want. Can't quite hit it. Just spatters of your hardness as I fumble. Your shirt is off. I’m clinging frantic again now, my soft shirt smushed against the expanse of your bare chest.

“Actually, lay back,” you decide, pushing me backwards with one hand. Above me now, you poke unhurriedly between my legs with your cock. Just touching. I try to push you in. Then you are in, unexpectedly, in one go. I gasp at the burn and stretch of you inside me. Fuck. Then you pull me up to you.

Then you raise me completely up and I drop on to you, take you all the way in, reaching up inside me in one stroke as I push down. I gasp. Fuck.

It really has been a while.

Then I’m seeing you lie back, your naked bright male torso stretched out below me, for me, makes me happy. I start to reverse against you, keeping my hands on your stomach. But you don’t let me ride long, I don’t think, just get up and quickly flip me backwards, keeping you inside me. I fall hard on my back with my head at the foot of the bed, feel you swivel thrillingly that way inside too.

You’re holding my legs to you. You’re securing them close, you’re slingshotting them apart. We can’t seem to stay still. You are folding and forcing my cunt this way and that. I am straining and tensing away. Inside and out.

You’re holding me up like a bundle as you fuck, never the same. Every pivot from your hips, every sudden subtle shift has me gasping and moaning. I’m on my back, and I think we stay like this whole time. But the sensation keeps building and changing, cranking and rolling closer. Think I’m laughing or something at one point, think some kind of ahaha is coming out of my throat.

Your face is intent and impassive as you continue. Shallow and fast. Deep and slow. Up then down, always connected. Deep cunt, you say softly, slamming firmer and then angling deeper. Really quite deep. I yelp with every push into the depth of me, pain and pleasure holding happy swinging hands, so intense. I gasp when you stop and push my hands on my abdomen.

A cold quiet fury seems to have taken you over. I look away, lean my head back further towards the edge of your bed, as far as it can go, as far as I can see behind me.

You place one hand squarely centered on my exposed neck, thumb on one side, four fingers on the other. Thumb around my windpipe gently and closely. Then the other hand on top. I swallow and heartbeat faster as you push gingerly, still pushing inside me. I keep secure and calm. Must be nothing but defiance, because I can’t even bear the confines of a tight turtleneck usually. But you continue, you push slightly more, just enough for me to begin to slip away in panic, wondering how far you intend to go. I push my palms into the mattress for control. My cunt melts as you push inside at your own pace, my cries still come out but ever so slightly strangled from under your fingers.

Just this feeling of my throat vibrating against your two curved hands.

And then yes, we just keep moving. Still this serene controlled rage. Placing my hands here and there, above my head, to the side, careful and deliberate. Holding me down finally, right by my cunt. Hand weighing down on my pubic bone to keep me still. I push up to get away. Or just instinct. Or just to feel more of that steadfast warm pressure, focal on my hard bone. You’re telling me as always to go ahead and push. You’re still fucking me evenly. It galls me, even through my ecstatic fog. I think I’m scowling. I know I’m squirming. I buck away and you slip out- I want you back in- something like a rueful smile twitches through my frown. Violent, you observe calmly, raising an eyebrow. And then push right back inside me without another glance my way, go right back to it.

So much for a slow fuck, we just keep going. Stopping only to ask if I’ve missed you. Gnaahaayeees. So much. So long. You always ask, my answer never changes.

And I don’t know how many times I’ve cum, am cumming. However many times you tell me to. I remember one time your mouth seals my ear, vacuumed by your hot lips as you tell me. You bite hard and firm on my lobe as I cum. Gasping and shuddering happy every time. Remember my hips clear levitate off the bed one time, a slow motion arch that takes me by surprise. You hold me, you stay in, hard. And well, we just go on.

stay and talk

2006-04-06T00:09:00.000-05:00

I know blogworld has become a complete microcosm of my real world when I hit a certain mood, and I find myself lurking around nervously on other blogs reading, wanting to comment, wanting to say hello, but not wanting to ‘face’ anyone. Like how in the real world when the phone rings, I’ll want to pick up but can’t bring myself to. I stayed a couple of days at my sister’s after she called and called, and then finally knocked on my door and found me in my pyjamas at 3 pm. And I felt better during the stay, but it didn’t help much for when I got back home.

At least in blogland I can leave a quick comment and run. People don’t like that too much in reality-land. Hi-don’t look at me- bye. It’s weird, when I get like this, it’s not what I want to say, or saying it that matters, it’s just the contact, making that effort, being seen, that I do not feel up to. On the other hand if someone actually sat down and talked to me, I might just cry with a mixture of shame and relief. Weird.

Qu’est-ce qui se passe?!? Damned if I know. And I don’t ask that in French to be pretentious. I’m just remembering a certain French teacher who could ask/scream that with much conviction when she wanted to know what on earth was going on. That and ‘ca-sUF-FIT!’, a crescendo-ing arpeggio, at its wits end. That was for when she really didn’t care what was going on, just wanted it to end. Well I agree, ca su-reallyfuckin-fit!

I posted the last story, and it has two other parts, but I do not fully like it, it lacks oomph, it lacks sex. I feel out of touch, haven’t written an honest to goodness piece in so long.

I’ve mentioned my pet peeve for unfinished conversations. Some time last Wednesday, T left me a message. He apparently had something important he wanted to tell me.

We had an extraordinary talk a week before. I had all this work to do and had told him earlier that day that I might be on hiatus for a week or so. Of course, this restriction just left me horny and while taking a nap, I had a nice image of him, me and la troisieme. And so, miracle of miracles, I actually called him to tell him about it, the way he has, the way he would. This suprised and aroused him I think, and the miracle struck twice because, with a little bit of help, I talked my way through it and we came. We came with me talking you understand. My second time, and this one so strong and unexpected. I should write about it fully. I am surprised how vulnerable it left me. I wonder his courage at having done it all along. But I don't think he's ever taken it this far. I said some strange things, strange desires. It’s been coming to me in disordered fragments through the last two weeks.

(- ..I’m..I’m wondering how it would..feel for you.. to have me behind you like that.. and know.. the power you have over me right then.

- What power? What do I have?

His voice is thick. I can only whisper, slow and sad and resigned, almost to myself.

-You’ve fucked me before…. That’s your power… You don’t- need to do anything.

I hear him groan...

- What would you do?
- Uhuh. I’m not telling you what I would do,… I know exactly what I would do. But it’s your turn now, you tell me.

I laugh because I knew, was biding time.

-I don’t know where this story ends, T.
-Yes you do. Bring the thought to completion. Whatever you want me to be doing.. is what I’ll do.

-…I need you to fuck with me…
- Okay
-…I need you to come really really close, my fingers inside her, feeling you grow, wondering if you’re going to.. get to me………

-I need you to stop
- Okay
-I need you to pull out….. I need you to hold back a little bit when you start to fuck me........

-Yeah but you can make me cum very fast when you want.

He can. He knows.

-I know I can.

He knows he can.

-…So hold on just a little longer when you fuck me…..I’ll be the one in the end..begging you to cum.

And then I remember the unexpected break in my narrative, the loss, the complete desperate slipping away. It comes with no prompting from either of us, mid-sentence. It risks everything, and it could never take no for an answer. But I am not thinking or weighing it right then, I am just breathe whispering these words like a trance, and only after do I realize all that has passed. Something like this.

-Please cum please pleasse I’vebeenwai...ting.. I won’t cum without you… don’t hold back just cum so I can cum I need to please cum- my breath-please just cum- my breath- please - and then his frantic voice interrupting me, starling me, tight and rushed, barely forming the words, cumcunghmcum and I do.)

It does not seem like much, the conversation, but every sentence is larger than it first appears in the mirror. And it magnifies too when said out loud, no matter how quiet. And it is close to me, revealing, damning. I struggle with it, and now I have put him into it. Actually, it is all for him, and it is scary.

(And later on, apart from him, I struggle as always with the idea of this woman: have I made her a complete abstraction, a tool, a toy, a symbol to use? Will she be getting fully out of this if she were actually there?)

When we’re done, he has to leave immediately to clean up. I feel alone and steamrollered, my orgasm and my words sobbing and shivering through my body. He apologizes when he returns, says he had not expected or prepared to cum, had just been sitting there on his couch. He is uncharacteristically quiet, does not say a word, just his faint sighs and breathing and the odd barely audible God now and then. And for the first time, I do not want him at all to leave, and I don’t say anything. He gets ready to go, as he always would. Actually he has always joked how he feels like the ‘girl’, because he is the one who wants to stay and maybe talk, and he feels like I want him to go, when really I just feel too passed out to talk. But this time all I think is no, stay, and he asks me if I want him to go, and I say no, stay. I don’t want him to leave you see, don’t want this to drop away from under me, and he stays, still as silent as me, until I sigh and say ok, I should sleep. He says ok, says he can stay further, he wants to be sure, and I want him to stay, but my eyes are closing, I am beginning to fall asleep and I don’t want to ask him to be there, listening to me fall asleep. And he won't be there in the morning. And so we do our quick ok goodnight before the click.

I feel like he’s been acting a bit off ever since, but this is likely my paranoia.

And then he tells me of this, a week ago, this something important he needs to talk about. I don’t get the message until later, but as soon as I do, I tell him I’ll call if he wants. But by then he is sorry, he knows how busy I am with school, says he just kind of blurted it out, and it is not urgent, so we can talk about it later. Great. He says it’s nothing too long no, really not that urgent at all, nothing bad. Alright then, I say, cool, I’ll be pretty much done tomorrow night. OK we’ll talk then, he says, now I have to go.

Never happened. It’s been a week now and it’s never happened. I catch him online, we say a word or two. I mention again when I’m free so he can feel free to make the call, nothing more said. I know he’s busy. He’s said he had a stressful weekend. I think maybe he would like some time. I hope he is not avoiding. I was not made for this. Who is? But I’m sensitive to the power cubed I’m realizing, and I try to keep it down, rein it in. I am usually successful too, am this super chilling, relaxed , chillaxing girl. But then every once in a while, it just bursts out even worse.

Am I the only one who finds these starts and stops intensely annoying? It’s like me sitting you down and saying quietly ‘Listen, we need to talk’ and then you sitting down, ready to listen, all ears. And then me scooting off to get a cup of tea, and never coming back. Or coming back ten hours later and being like, sooo.. nice weather we’ve been lately huh? Nu-uh, no, not gonna work.

That little yellow Post-it note I left to myself in the back of my mind to not wonder what he wants to talk about was working fine, just flapping away until today when I realised how long it's been, and it turned into a neon flashing sign: DO NOT WONDER! Hello? I said, don't wond- stop that, you're wondering, don't speculate- I'm serious, stop it.

Rant over, I’m calm again. I bet you it won’t even end up have anything to do with above conversation. At any rate, I’ve waited a week, I will wait a few more days until this weekend, and then I will just have to ask for myself. Apparently Saturn went direct tonight and things are going to be a-moving. Snort.

For now I will worry about other things. My growing disconnect from the world. I know it's a bit creepy and suspect, I'm waiting for one particular phone call and yet I cannot pick up any others. Actually give me enough time and I won't be able to pick up his either. Gah but still, must be more obssessed with him than I think. (Whisper to self: err you created a blog revolving around him... ) Around the relationship. Not just him. It's true. Shut up.

Demons riding high tonight. I hope they go retrograde. Anything in there that mentions Satan going retrograde?

I'm not actually crazy, I just seem to want to write a lot when I have cramps. Yes, writing eases cramps, I thought everyone knew this. This kind of writing that is, not the ten page journal critique writing I should be doing .

Just to clarify.

introduction

2006-04-03T22:57:00.000-05:00

This is how we begin.

I sit on your bed in a thong, calm and alone, naked knees curled in front of me.

Sex. Very soon I will be having sex. With you. I look at your alarm clock. Fifteen minutes left?

We’ve reached your house, and we’ve haggled and weighed dispassionately whether we should fuck, like we’re discussing whether we’d like to go grab a cup of coffee.

Are you too tired? Will it be half-hearted because of this? Is there enough time? These are all questions that have been raised. All valid.

You fill the frame of your door, in your underwear too, all shoulders and legs and grey cotton briefs. You stand there, eclipsed, nothing but the damning maddening happening brute of a man I have fucked with once or twice or thrice. It’s been a while.

I smile mutely and ignore the sudden flattening wrench of excitement.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” I proclaim finally, turning towards your bedroom, as much not to look at you, as to get moving. Because I want it, I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t know how to say it any less casually.

“Okay…” you laugh, a bit unsure. “I can’t promise much, maybe just a slow fuck.”

Fine with me.

You’re questioning still, as you place one knee on the bed. “Are you sure you’re okay with the rushed time?” Then the next knee. “Do we even have enough time?” I ask, eyes reluctantly shifting to the clock. “Maybe we should just… relax together… or something…” I continue, looking over at you lamely.

Your body is upright, legs flat and bent in front of you, your suggestion is again that I just come and sit on your lap. “It may or may not lead to sex,” you say.

We may or may not be smiling just a tiny bit.

I start to lift myself, start to place my knees on either side of you. You start to pull me in close. “My alarm clock is fifteen minutes ahead, by the way,” you inform me, close to my ear.

I laugh and mumble some answer. Like I could stop at that point. With the plunge of my shirt poised fervent near your face. My dark hair thickly curtaining around. I can smell my own perfume- the salon scent in your ashy brown do- my limbs wrapped sudden and crooked around you, wide, like a cricket on a downward dragging leaf, hugging just as fierce. Your hands I find on my startled back, and it seems to me for a fleeting moment you’re clinging just as hard too. This need perches unsteady- sways wild- thumps agog- this blood reels in my ears. I feel like it must be splintering clear and pointy off my skin. I just push down further. You find the flesh of my bare cheeks spreading over your stripped legs. You reach down easy and quick, seat your firm hands underneath me- and –oh- you ply and work my ass- wind cooled from our walk, now fondled in your warm palms, so good. Your face turns a grimace. Mine must be almost plaintive. This is how. Moving and pushing against you, feeling you heat between my heating legs. Feeling your cotton-covered hardening cock pushing up, hands squeezing still. Moaning and bowing my neck down onto you for help, burying my face on the side of your neck. Parting my lips distractedly around the pale skin behind your ear, remembering to breathe. We begin.

freedom-bound

2006-04-03T14:02:00.000-05:00

Cannot seem to play along. Let this pass. The day and the next. But a year- another year- I’m 33 –I’m 43 –I’m 53. Already I’ve overextended my inelastic imagination. Do not think in these terms. Let this pass. Let these drop. Wipe them. Collect, crumple, fling behind my back. I can do this. There is nothing wrong with me. Nothing. Nothing to examine. No do-over. I can. I am living one second, I know it all, love like a tail-biting benzene snake wringing my waist, my thoughts, my world. Collapses in like dual light- body and mind- wave and particle. Satisfied. I will do this. Passes too though. Too quickly. So do not think at all. Just live it. Stop.

Want to be filthy and sweet and untrammelled. Fettered only to another’s desire. If I part my legs just right, you finger my lips and flare them just right, and then you place your pink tongue and lick just right, maybe I will feel this. But I refuse to turn to you or you or you for this. Not with this. I will come to you desperate and needing and overstrung, yes. But not with this. Not like this. Turn away.

sciencey poetry

2006-03-23T22:45:00.000-06:00

Yay, the sweet and great Orpheus helped me out, and my blog is back to normal.

I don't have time to say much, this next week is going to be brutal.

But we used these two words in my sciency lecture today, and they've been kinda rolling off my tongue the whole day:

deliquescence and
efflorescence

Aren't they lovely?

Deliquesce, to melt away until you dissapear, effloresce, to unfold and bloom to your highest point. Beautiful. Sexy. So fun to say too. I don't know what to say with them right now. But here you go, Orpheus, I'll dedicate the two to you. :))

Now back to work.

my precious

2006-03-22T02:18:00.000-06:00

Boohoohoo. Makes the nasty characters goes away, Learn hates them she does, boohoohohoo.

No, seriously, I've tried everything. I have this line in my template:

meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1

So I changed the character set encoding to iso-88589-1 from my settings as Blogger help suggested, but nothing. Not sure what else to try. And having posted this I notice that the new posts are fine- it's just the old posts I can't fix. Hmm.

Help, someone, anyone? Please? Have pity for the illiterate?

I don't even like this template too much. Much as I love the seaside, sandy beach, Jonathon Livingston scene, it's still waaay too mellow and serene to be me. But then I couldn't find much else, and I needed the change, so I figured I'd keep it for now. And then spent a couple of hours trying to fix it up anyways.

And I have yet to figure out expanded posts. Geez. Wait, no, I figured the expandable post thing.

Now I need to figure how to have every page link back to the main by clicking on something. I would say my title but I stuck it into the banner. hmm.

It never ends..

inso-mania

2006-03-21T18:21:00.001-06:00

Written last night..

My mood, after that last rampage (to delete or not to delete?) has just dropped scarily low.

Walking home from the bus stop late, I felt so morbid again. My own demise kept flashing coldly, at the intersection, "She crossed on a red light and-", at the corner of my street, "She slipped on a stone and –"

I made it home. No panic though, I know this will pass. It’s just a surprise when it comes into my mind like that. I am tired of this self-medication, this self-control.

I’m afraid you’ll call me now and I’ll start to cry. But then again, you won’t call. It sounds like an accusation, but it’s not.

I have protected myself from these downs for so long, and these downs have protected me so long too. An acoustic guitar and a smoky raspy voice fill this rest nicely, just don’t let it stop. I’ll put songs on a loop, put on my headphones so the neighbors don’t complain, and live this out until morning, no problem. Soon I’ll be sleepy and soon I’ll wake up, and half the day will be gone.

I am thinking how you’re the one who has finally taught me that I must keep rhythm, but it is the slightest of pauses between bars, my hesitation, and the rushing over notes, my abandon, that will make a piece of music mine. That you can be given dynamic directions, but that the way my fingers increase and decrease in pressure to achieve this are what open windows into the concentration, the emotion only I can bring to the song. But then, I am no maestro, and it’s actually very difficult, more than it sounds. I still work to just play with my fingers on the right keys.

It is weird that it is just your one short comment after hearing me play for the first time that has driven this home. My poor, tiny piano teacher with flashy lashy eyes and a surprisingly booming voice tried for years. But then, I was still in high school.

I remember her standing over me to the side, usually holding her one (then two then three) year old -who refused to nap - on one hip, slapping the beat out with her palm on her other hip. She had this way of singing along her directions in operatic, not to mention heavily accented, form.

“PAMpampamPAMpampamrrrrrampampamp, yes, yes, saaaaad, sad-Learn- sad. SHH, shh shh. Be like baaaaby, shh. You’re sleeping shh. Not like my daughter haha- shhh. Nonono don’t wake up yet, don’t, just fastfastfast, pampampamp, faaaster, starting to awaaaaaake- good, good, yes- ANgry, who woke me up? Why?’ Taking her grinning daughter’s fist and shaking it towards me, so that we’d both have to laugh . “..ahaha-now yes, NOW YOU’RE STRONG. Nono, STRONG, Learn, you know STRONG? You know, be like… WAAR, yes?”

She would grab my wrist suddenly sometimes too. She would have me continue to play, her finger loosely on my pulse. “You are not… relaxed. You must be relaxed, huh? Breathe.”

She had all these tricks for the difficult parts. To play staccato, practice it exaggeratingly legato. To play fast, practice it extremely slow. To play hands together, you must first practice separately. Break it down. “You see?” she would sing-song proudly, when it worked. “Vicey-versa alvays.. if you want one way, you must to do the vicey-versa first!”

I miss her. (Hence the tangent.)

But you know, it reminds me of your voice, you master its rises and drops much like that, like the thought has already been broken down fully to you. And you fuck like that too.

I wrote a silly poem about your voice once, very early on. I will get over my embarrassment and send it to you one day. You have always been kind for not taking anything I tell you about you the wrong way.

he speaks
in greedy gulps
holding heavy breath
releasing at
end of sentence
with a sigh
running out
ragged
on
edges
of
words
slight gasp to replace
comma or space
pangs of life
adorning phrases
latent need
expelling clauses
rapid-fire

you listen

his rise and
fall
his break and
start
you wonder

what
tension
what devil thought
what brain swirl
forcing taut
air of lungs and throat
and how it will be drawn
out

from him
to you

I do not know why I write this post to you, Friend. I want to write to anyone, Friend, I swear you’re just the first to cross my mind. I know I won’t send it. Maybe you are just abstract enough, don’t think I could chew this fat with a real, concrete friend today.

I came with you this morning. You had me touching her this time, wanted me to cum from that, knew it would make you struggle inside to watch me cum from her tight smooth body on me, not from you, as you fucked her. I was tired, and sick and getting ready to go to school. And you teased me after we were done, said I could have just listened to you. I didn’t have to join in. "But how could I not?", was my laughing question of an answer.

I’ve chosen to walk this plank with you. Truth is I am not feeling as adventurous today, but sometimes I must pretend because I know the courage will show up another day. And I did still cum, gently, almost dejectedly. But actually there was no dejection, it was just a small contained flicker of triumph, still whole and beautiful. It was a hot thought you shared, I took it and used it with none of my usual urgency. And I wanted to feel safe so I listened to your words yes, but I admit I listened closer for your by now familiar cum.

Right now, it would be nice to have a smile of love look down on me, just a second of it or two. A real one though, here in the room with me. I picture it, a gentle hand on my bowed neck, eyes that have seen me and want to see me again

It’s the first day of spring, I think of my lil tanka on O’s blog, the perpetuated pagan customs of regeneration.

Come spring we’d scribble
Wishes on paper and hang
Them from tree branches
Or sometimes just tie a cloth
And leave it to flap, silent

I wonder if I have so much as a rag or ribbon to tie now.

I’m listening to this song now, Hijikata Tatsumi, by Mia Doi Todd. She has such a haunting soulful voice, it is dangerous, as are the words.

He danced on his deathbed
And so performed his final dance
For friends, family and lovers
And all those who'd had the chance
To know him, to love him
To know him, to love him

My domesticated body
And my mind by moderation tamed
Seethe within my Xerox-copied skin
And I ask him
"Is all freedom dark ?"

He danced on his deathbed
And so performed his final dance
For friends, family and lovers
And all those who'd had the chance
To know him, to love him
To know him, to love him

One thousand and one birds
Take off in an instant
Flying feeling-filling through the air
And I ask them
"Is all freedom light ?"
He danced on his deathbed
And so performed his final dance
For friends, family and lovers
And all those who'd had the chance

I try not to confuse issues when I am like this. The problem is not you, or love, these I have the heart to deal with. I think you know I care about you, want you to be happy. I think/hope you feel this too. This caring is easy , doesn’t feel particularly deep or cutting, not this revelation it is supposed to come to be. It can be more profound, but it is not for us. We seem to graze close now and then, but then it just flits away, nothing really substantial to keep us here. Do you feel that too?

But you walk into my life, I will care for you, it has always been like that. You and me are where we should be, Friend, and will end up where we should too.

I just need to find what I need to do next. I need to really find something I want to do. I know this is why I panic every time I have work to do. It’s just not interesting enough to me anymore.

I need a place to place myself.

I do feel calmer for having written this. I’ll have a glass of cold, clean water on ice, and go to sleep.

not to read please

2006-03-20T17:17:00.000-06:00

Me go crazy-crazy. I am possibly whacked up on Coke and cinnamon gum. It’s the new …coke. Cocaine that is. Not carbon. Haha I make unfunny funny. Professor inflict, so I’d like to inflict back to the cummunity whilst I vegetate in the computer lab.

I have zeez moments yoo know, I am not sure how it managed not to come out more fully over these bery auspicious months, I vant to uhh how you say? I want to go coocoo yes, and I put on an accent and the accent it eez not my accent, I have none, les Canadiens me disent que je parles l’anglais exceptionellement. Anticonstitutionellement in fact. Ils voudraient savoir pouquoi je ne possedes pas d’un accent. Puck you and all you hockey-motherpuckers, je reponds. But I have dis fake, undeniably obnoxious accent, it is undefined cumulative, no wait, coomoolatif accent of mah exposure, I take on identity of others, I love it so, it make me laff-happy, I is even gangsta sometimes yo, left it, mad scenes going left right in my head, it’s the deelyo and completely okely dokely I tell you, old sport. Haloo, I speaka good English, I learn it from eh boook. I slave-drive my commas and make them do work they should not be doing on their minimum wage, I am perfectly aware. Comma chameleon karma will come to bite me in the ass. Stick a dash in my semicolon. I comma, they come, we cum, ah but the combers, they are the best. Here I comb. I’m combing, I’m combing, yes, uh, faster, harder. So smoos and untangled, yesyesyes. I’d like to secrete a secret, little known fact, ‘pro’-vitamins in your kondeesyoner are not professional vitamins at all. In fact, they vill not feed your hair, they feed you lies. Fuckin amateurs. No woman, no cry, its still very smoossifyng and will make you smoochable. Because rumor has it that frizzy-haired women don’t get kissy-kisses. Don’t look at me, I’m just reporting werd on the street, dawg, live, 24 hrs a day. I CaN eVeN talk like internet-brat: wat up? lol brb ttyl ^_% ow shampoo in my right eye, left, right. (leftrightleft) I poke no fun, I am it all, I do it all, I’d do you all if you gave me the right look with the corner of your left eye. Ya know what I mean bro? How’dya get tham gal?

How in the bloody hell- ah mean how- ah mean how in bloody carnations- am I going to recount my sex life here on end? My wish to is fading. I take huge pleasure out of small things in life. What will I do now that I’ve got to the huge things? Make em small and safe inside me? It is not even that, I’m just out of powerful phrases. We kicked it up a notch and I hate Emeril. I will not say bang. If I put on accent and make silly, maybe then you understand? If I tell you, le T, when he putta his melting popsicle in my poutine...cheesy curd reference not so smart perhaps. I apologise for imagery, oui, non, pas oui- nasal wanh? He tella me later I comb so different when he fucka me compared to when we uh talk- and I know this – we throb throb throb like my achy-breaky heart, I just don’t think you’d understand. Or even compared to when he only put his fingers on me. But he put his buzzer on me, not his buzzard, not his buzz-cut, he has neither, his whir-whir, you know, his *snap snap snap fingers* his vibrator ah that is ze word. His one has two heads, two headed-monster, one for me, one for him, but I get lucky, two for me, none for him, and la piece de resistance, le cock for me too. Poor asshole. Speaking of which, where do you think the second bzzzizzer went? In mine truly. I went bzzzerk. You know where the first one went, on my clittola, daaaamn straight. Made me hold it there, right until I wanted to cum. Then he brushed my hands off abruptly. But I want to comb I said, with my eyes of course, my mouth was busy moaning. Enough with the combing joke of a non-joke? Never, I refuse, no one asked you to read. Click that next blog button. I have other buttons to press. Ah but the second little metalhead, it feel like giant when he start to move it down into skin between, and then I realise where he going, and he push and oh feel so good and mghfhsfd. I will talk of this more seriously later, repeat after me: repetition, repetition, repetition. You were screaming, he tell me later. Every time he tell me ready, set, GO, I went, I mean I came. He no have to tell me, I know. You take it deep for such slight girl, he say. Actually he call me small and then opt for average-sized. I take out tape-measure next time. Not very fair to ask men about their penis dimensions, if we do not give our cunt dimensions, don't you think? I know one is a bit harder to measure than the other, but is that the guy's fault? I'ma design a cunt-measurer some day, can be my scientific contribution to society. It will turn the world topsy-turvy. We can also do a test-of-grip, a measurement of Newtonic elastic force in our walls. And if we gonna measure anything on a guy, we should do tests of turgidity. Not the amount of water displaced when the male component enters a bathtub, but the speed at which the water leaves. Ay? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Anyhoo, size is subjectif, even though so many are possesif about it. Personally I prefer you meet me in the place with no dimensions first. But I do admit, with him, a little cervix-pushing, not too much, not for too long, just the way he did it, do feel good, feel like me Jane, can make me feel like my eyes gonna do a boing out of my head. And then his Brownian motion much-vibing-head numero uno entered -stage left- back into my hand onto my miniature potent peenass hah ok even I don’t think that’s funny, not that there’s anything wrong with that, I had a dream I made out with a hermaphrodite, it was sublime, I was in tears, crying, so beautiful, so bootiful, sob, you canna ken it, but anyways, numero uno bullet touch base with my home-base, and I stroke it over his cock too as it enters me, still stuffed up my ass with jumping jiving numero dos, you understand. There we go, he murmurs, theeere we go. I like his there we gos. We do go there, it is such accurate sentimentation. (Cept his face stareth down with such casual delibrate intent throughout, and I doth be a tad scared, a ton wet and perchance a midge queasy?) And then in the end, after my many ends and beginnings, he make pool of come on my stomach hurt. Someone somewhere on the blog-o-ellipsical-sphere called it his pancake batter once, I forget where, I think he was serious, and I laughed till my Coke and cinnamon gum came out of my nose. I’m crude and rude today, oh dear. I apologize to the pancake batter-up-er. Deary deary me.

The above is why recreational drugs and me have chosen not to ever approach each other. Non-rec too if I can avoid it. Some would say I am perhaps better off not avoiding.

Screw this, it was the best of screws, and no other kind, but read the post below this instead yo, it’s got my soul in it and shit. This one does too, showtime half-time entertainment soul, but other one's got da blues too. Sing it.

r.i.p.

2006-03-17T20:59:00.001-06:00

I’m serial posting on top of posts like no tommorow. I don’t really care.

This going to be rough. I hope I can admit this. I hope this will be true. I copped out two posts ago. Didn't lie, but evaded.

Yesterday, T also explained fully to me why he’d like to do this threesome. It was strangely in keeping with my thoughts a couple of days ago, though I’ve never brought up any of this to him.

He said he’s at the point where he needs to make a decision. He needs to decide if he’d like to settle down. If he needs more companionship. Or if he should continue doing what he’s doing: ‘having fun’. And if he continues what he’s doing, then he needs to decide if he wants to continue it just with me, or explore more with others. Then again, he’s nearly 29, he says. Maybe it’s time to find someone, maybe even live with them, just stop and explore each other, fully.

Oh.

He said my sleeping with someone else reminded him in a way of the nature of casual sex. (Not ‘with limits’ this time, just ‘casual.’ Tiny flinch inside.) It reminded him that if we weren’t getting the support, the devotion, the attention of a relationship, then we should be doing the things we can. Milking the freedom basically.

Oh.

(Except N was me being rash and random, testing the freedom and then getting practically nothing out of it. But ah well. You do things, and they give messages. Was that the message I was going for? Did I steer us further this way? )

I do get what he means. What is the point, if he’s not enjoying this to its maximum? What is the point, if he’s giving up, but not getting?

I think too we’re at a good point at which to do this, and it is something we really want to try. And like he said, something that’s going to haunt us if we don’t. We have enough trust, enough freedom. This took a while to build. This may be his last chance. For me too in a way, when will I get the chance again? These things are riskier in the context of a full relationship, he’s right.

I say I don’t want a boyfriend right now. And I don’t. I don’t want to date. I don’t know if I can do it over and over, bond and break, bond and break. T has talked of this too, his stint of year-long serial monogamies bringing him to where he is now. Where are you left after that, how do you give for a different one after the other and keep yourself together? Is my hope strong enough for that?

I want a friend though for my life. A close, good, solid, stick-with-me friend. I want to be that for someone. I don’t want to be alone.

The last two paragraphs nullify each other, huh? I’ve known this. Known I will have to shake and loosen my shoulders, get ready to kick punch back in. I need this time though.

I can live alone, I can take care of myself. Well enough for me, and I’ll get better along the way. I enjoy my own company. For all my ups and downs, I’m ok with me, give or take. I learn.

But I just want someone. It’s a need. It’s hard to describe, yet totally obvious. We all have it to some extent. And it’s not a fairytale. It’s life. A passing on of life, I’ve said it before over and over, but it’s all I can come back to. I feel it really strongly. It’s not just about children, though that is the most blatant expression of it I guess.

A partner. I want a partner. I don’t know why. I think it’s more than just conditioning though. Or it’s a conditioning that goes deep, deep into who I am. And if it’s that deep, that fundamental and indomitable, then hell, it’s me.

But, back to my ‘oh’s. I’d love to ignore them. We could let them slip by, our little secret. I could bitch about the pressure of finding a girl, rave about the fabulous sex we had, and no one would ever have to know, not even me. I could almost make it dissapear. Should I?

It’s weird to really know that you’re not meant to be with a person, and then still feel down and disappointed about it. It’s weird to hope he finds it, then still be envious of it. It’s more than him not seeing me as that person. Though yes, there is always something difficult there. But try as I might, I can’t see him fully as that person either. I meant it when I said we were always a bit off. Even talking to each other about normal day-to-day has sometimes been difficult.

Why? What is it? Why is he not quite there? Then again, how’d he get so far in the first place? Predictable I suppose. Are you laughing? I would have supported him more though, I could have known him more, I don’t know how far, but much, much further than this. That was true from the first day, from my first hug and thank you. I could have been the girl in my ad easily for him.

Still not enough.

This girl that T will live with and explore is not me.

(What if? How could it have been? Maybe if we lived closer? If we had more time? If if if.. )

So close, and yet so far with him. Diverging always right when we’re about to meet. I expected this from the start, knew it, braved it, am glad for it still. But I want to put a hand on my heart for a moment, and give a moment of silence for this passing away.

Not yet, but soon. I have a feeling probably soon after this threesome, he will make his decision. I think inside his decision is already made. I still want to do this with him.

It’s time, anyways, that we both faced up.

I watch the door now, it’s getting ready, begins to close, closing, closing, once and for all.

He stops in the middle of what he’s saying, says ‘I don’t know, I do like this.. what we have.’

‘It’s been good,’ I reply simply and truly, smiling despite myself. I’m outside, pacing back and forth underneath bare maple trees, it’s a relatively warm day, people rushing by me to their lectures and labs and lunch.

‘And we do have a sexual chemistry that’s.. way above average. Hope you feel like that too’

‘I do..of course.’

I’ll put it on our headstone.

Here lies Learn and Teach. Theirs was a way above average sexual chemistry.

(Wonder if I will post this. I will have to admit some of this to him, but I don’t know how much. I hate that I’ve written this now, already. It’s premature to be writing him off like this. Maybe I shouldn’t post. Everything else I’ve wanted to write about suddenly seems pointless. I’m going to go on though. What’s happened was real, and what will still happen will be real too. I’ll ignore this shadow for now, sneak peeks at it to see if it’s growing. )

burn

2006-03-17T10:45:00.000-06:00

My bursting need to write whenever I have deadlines looming is really annoying. I can't seem to want to write under any other conditions though.

Just a little break now for this morning. I talked to my mom on the phone this morning, and she brought up a little children's ditty. I feel like translating it and putting it here.

March is here, we watch from the window.
Burn the wooden handles of our shovels for fire.

It's simple and trite, I like.

goodness gracious

2006-03-16T19:08:00.000-06:00

I’m trying goshnabit.

So T tells me today I should be the one to find this girl, as a gesture of return. To give back. Remember the time on the phone with me when you came hands-free?, he asks. Well it’s my turn now. I think I deserve it, he says.

Yes you do dear , I say, maybe I do too a little bit?
Yes- he answers- but today it's all about me. Me, me, me. He grins, spreads his teeth in a cyber colon : and D.

Have I not taken you everywhere?, he asks.
And back, I flip.

I appreciate all he’s done for me, shown me, helped me with, I do.

It makes me feel small though, like a kid on Santa Claus’s lap. (Um. Herm. Will ignore implications of that analogy, thank you very much.)

I give and I give, he's saying. He’s right. But what do I give, T? I spread my legs and cum. I’m good at that. Yay me.

My time, my travel, my submission, my struggle, my anticipation, my writing, my thought, my energy. Me. I’ve given fragments of me, for what it’s worth. If it’s worth a shit. You took control, and I know it takes a lot. But don’t bind me motionless to your bed and then accuse me of not moving. ? Sigh, I know that’s not fair. He didn't even accuse. I know that’s not what this is about. That’s my own kind of insecurity. I'm hating this paragraph at this point. Next!

I’m stressed out of my brains. I have seven - count em seven- major things due in the next two weeks. He’s got me thinking about a hundred and one other things, some emotional, some not, all consuming. All this stuff I want to write. I’ve got a fire in between my legs, and a flood in my mind. Or is it the other way around?

I’m just pumping a-weary.

I don’t even know why he feels the need to push this to me. I agreed to find her. I want this. I am more than happy to be the one putting in the time and energy to find her. Sure, it’s the least I can do, T, oh Teacher my Teacher. (That sarcasm too is totally undeserved, and completely ruins my point, but it's just my mood, I swear. )

But I need time goddamit. None of this demure goshnabit business, just fucking damn it all to hell. I don’t know how to hook in women and send them his way for the charming. It’s not something I do everyday. It's a tough skill. I try. I smile, I insinuate, I’m occasionally blunt, but always polite. I make chit-chat, I answer sexual questions honestly, with real enthusiasm. I ask questions back. I try not to pressure, try not to be vague. I’m me. I try to get to know these women, and all I get are walls and games.

We just want to meet and talk with people of the female persuasion face to face. They have ads up that sound like they wish to do the same. This shouldn’t be this hard. Then again I shouldn’t talk, T e-mailed me for all of 2 years. But this is a sex site, they say they want to meet couples, you’d think they’d be more forthcoming. I’m questioning if it’s me, but I’m not that scary, honestly, I'm not. (OR AM I?)

And I have things to do. And I can’t let this take over. I have parents calling me. Familial duties. Friends asking to come over. My house is a constant insurmountable mess. Professors asking for my brain in a pickle jar to keep, with a small salad, dressing on the side, please. I haven't cooked a full meal in weeks. My head is splitting and I'm coming down with a cold, again. I can’t even concentrate.

I know, I know, I know: patience. I just feel incredibly bitchy. T’s not helping, lord bless his little cock. Ok make that large cock. Gosh bless it in all its goodness glory.

I could use some chocolate.

No, it's not PMS. Fuck off.

No, not you, come back, I like you.

limits

2006-03-15T21:42:00.000-06:00

I can’t catch up anyways to all that has been going on.

With T always, I have a history. I try to pick him up, but he is like a paperclip connected to magnetized paperclips. He leaves me all a-bramble and a-ramble. I’ve decided to just blather it out disjointedly for as long as it takes.

We hold on to friends we have a history with, like they will help the next day become our past too. Maybe we just value the ones who stand the test of time in some way. A history is not a future though. I have no delusions that way.

Time has passed true, but time has not tested us too much. Like strobe lights we have only caught each other in a few different conformations. Tired. Horny. Quiet. Silly. Who knows what goes on in between?

I’ve written an email to T when I was at my lowest though, let strange thoughts out. I remember I asked him how he was once after a long sickness, and he blurted to me that he had spent the night crying in a ball, feeling empty. Odd confessions here and there, comfort offered but little said. Odd things shared too, goat cheese and bread and rotten mango lunches, watching movies that suck, sitting quietly together with his cat on my lap, him chasing his cat like a maniac, him beating the crap out of me on his racing console game because I am fizzy and fuzzy from fucking (that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it), the math riddles he poses in lieu of pillow talk, playing on his grand piano, listening to him play, listening to favorite songs in his basement, or on my bed with two headphones stuck into a CD player. These are my happy little things, being able to share silly little things I like with people I like always makes me happy.

T asks me on the phone after a cum how I am doing “emotionally”. He asks every month or so, more often at the beginning. I have not forgotten, he says, how are you doing with the relationship, our limits, with us?

‘Our limits’ is what he always calls it. The taste of ‘our limits’ is comfortably sweet but with a vague bitter aftertaste. I have never done well with limits, but I prefer it to the myth of ‘no-strings’. I guess what it comes down to is that I don’t believe in denying ourselves for the sake of any constructed definitions, friend, lover, fuck buddy, whatever. It would be very easy to do so though, I am a little hyper-aware of this sometimes.

He wants to makes sure that I’m not beating my head over him, secretly dreaming of our house and kids, agonizing over why he does not feel the same way. He doesn’t say this, of course, just my own conjecture. You’ve seen me rant about him here, but I think most of my obsession surrounding him has been around our sex. Is that how it begins?

I never ask him how he is doing with us. He has assumed from the beginning the position of control. Maybe the five year age gap thing. Five years isn’t that long a time though.

Still, I never feel quite on equal footing with him. Believe me, this student-mentor way of relating with him sometimes is not so easy to swallow. I mean come on, T as my “mentor”? It all sounds too much like we’re having cross-legged conferences, waxing in, waxing out. ‘You must learn, grasshoppa’. And all that jazz.

I’m as skeptical as the next. I question and doubt him all the time.

But it’s just something we fell naturally into I guess. I can’t help but have respect for him and his experience. He never fully acknowledged it until I did comfortably, I know he feels it’s patronizing. But he sees it too.

It’s a bit of a kink too as I’ve admitted, the dynamic has my cunt twitching even as I roll my eyes.

But I digress. When it comes to denying ourselves, I have only one kind of fuzzy regret about T. One thing I remember a little ruefully.

My first night at T’s house, he announced that he wanted to listen to classical music with me. His own composition. Apparently, he hadn’t listened to it in years. It was something he had never been able to finish. He said it had taken hold a bit, and he had to take a break.

I know of the flat, controlled way we talk about the things that make us lose control, break off, give up. I felt a dark shadow loom suddenly behind that one quiet sentence. I knew not to ask questions, just nodded.

But I feel like listening to it tonight, he told me. I felt strangely honored.

So we went down to his basement and he put it on. It’s a little experimental, he warned.

We sat across from each other. He looked straight ahead, I looked mostly at the ground. The piece was lovely, stirring, guitars and violins dancing, with the kind of romping percussion that makes T… T. My heart couldn’t help but drop and rise with its swell. When it was done, I smiled, happy he shared it with me. Very nice, I murmured. And as I looked up, I was startled to see the look on T’s face. He had the look of a crest-fallen little boy. Raw and vulnerable. The second I caught it, he tried to sloppily fold his expression inwards, looked embarrassed. Sorry, I’m just bummed, I couldn’t.., he trailed. I understand, I said. I got up, gave him a hug, and said thank you. I meant it. He looked uncomfortable still even as we hugged. I backed off.

And then we had sex the next morning, and so we had to discuss what direction this was going to go. He made it very clear he didn’t want a relationship-relationship. Which actually made sense to me. But then he said he had ways of ‘protecting’ me a bit, if we did this. Said that he would make sure not to show his so-called mushy side much. No more classical music, he said, laughing self-consciously.

Oh. That was all I could think in response. My dissapointment in that moment upon hearing that really defines the vague regret left inside me. That he would have to ever force himself to hide a part of him from me. It seemed so.. fake.

I begin to realize though that in T’s case, he hasn’t really been too fake. Nothing's been forced. We’ve both kind of chosen not to share too many of our problems with each other. For me, I just didn’t want him to be my whining board. I knew he could be, but I just didn’t want to set up our dynamic that way.

So I do understand. And I do feel like he’s showed what he felt like sharing, let me do the same. If emotional boundaries weren’t pushed it was because we didn’t feel the need, or didn’t have that level of comfort maybe.

While discussing a possible relationship with N, T confessed he’s never really felt like kissing me. He said he’s not saying that it wouldn’t have gone that way at some point. And maybe we hadn’t seen each other often enough for long enough to really tell. But then I realized that for all the hooplah of my ‘why the no kissing??’ post, I haven’t wanted to either in these past months. We have sex and I am not searching out his mouth. I’m not wanting him that near. I wanted at the beginning, that one time when he saw it on my face and did it quickly and brusquely. But there is something about us that’s never felt like it could be a romance, with everything it entails. We are always just a bit..off.

There is something sad there, some door closed. I will always have mixed feelings about this I think. But it is important to see things for what they are, no more, no less.

The problem will come when one of us wants to push more than the other. I’ve stopped worrying about this. I’m guessing even that it will be me. I feel it coming closer. I will want to grow and expand this. There is so much to know of him. I cannot stay in this spot forever. There is so little time. Life is short, he wrote to me once when he finally asked to meet , I know this is a cliché too. (It was in response to the aforementioned confessional email actually.)

I refused to meet then, but the second time around it was me who asked. Or who just said that I would really like to meet. And I’ll never forget , he asked, only half-jokingly, what made me think I’d be so lucky. I deserved it a bit after my history of running away. It was no game on my part, I had so much on my plate, or rather the act of living felt like a four-course meal in itself. But still, his question was to be expected.

I remember my response too though. Laughed and said, ‘well, I can only let my wishes be known.. how lucky I get is always up to you’.. And sent him a wink. Good answer, he said, like I had passed some test. I thought it was too, for once.

I can always only let my wishes be known. But then of course, this is the hardest part. Elucidating the wish not only to him but to myself.

I’m glad in this case that I asked, and we did meet. It was a time when I was trying to fight fight my phobophobia, my fear of fear, the only thing I have to fear, once and for all . It all goes back to that summer you see, this whole blog will go back to the summer where it began in the end. The summer I tried to shake it all off.

That was the same summer I went to an amusement park with my siblings and made a pact with myself to go on all the rides they did. It seems obvious now, an embarrassingly obvious metaphor. But I didn’t realize at the time what I was trying to fight in all areas of my life. Rollercoasters scared me pallid and I usually left all but the most kiddy ones to others, watched from the ground. That summer, for the first time, I went on THE rollercoaster, the terrifying one where you were strapped on your feet, standing, so your legs dangled and you went headfirst with absolutely nothing in front of you, nothing to hold on to, plummeting over every dip and curve. Waiting in line for that rollercoaster, my toes curled in fright around my sandals, and when the bell signaled our turn to get on, my whole right leg suddenly seized and cramped up. Hurry up, my family urged, thinking I was making excuses. Gnheah, I said. Look at her toes, my sister pointed out, laughing. I could not straighten them out. Starting from my toes up to my waist, I was literally paralyzed in stiff panicky pain. I shook it off, stomping my feet like a maniac to make it go away. Laughing my pain, I hobbled on, screamed my soul off through the whole ride. And it was a double-scream, both from the pain of my constantly cramping right leg and the utter terror of not wanting to die.

(It’s funny, that cramp is left with me still since then. When my legs are wrapped around T, tensing my whole body to cum, it’ll come back, starting with my right big toe, a little ghost remnant I could never shake off.)

I’ve learnt so much from him since then. And it hasn’t only been about helping me open my mind to sex, though that has been the most of it. His open pretenseless passion has been an inspiration for me always, has touched my life more than I can really put to words.

When we first started off, he asked me if I had any questions or concerns about doing this with him. I surprised him by making my first question be about how we would end. I couldn’t help it, I saw this all, that I would be capable of carrying it off, that it would be something that enriched my life . But the summary and conclusion, I could not see. I know we never can, but it just seemed like in this case, the only way such a comfortable arrangement would end is if either one of us broke out, or less probably, both of us broke out in the same direction. But it would have to end. There are limits to limits too. Life is short.

The simple answer to my question is it ends when it stops being satisfying. The amount of pain or joy in this ending is hard to see. For now, I am still happy with this. I have enough to explore. I will hit the walls one of these days though.

Much of this is zooming through my head when he asks me about how I’m doing with ‘our limits’. And then before I can really answer,

‘Mind you. .I say limits.. but we .. I mean we do have. .a bit of history.. the whole time leading up to when we met.... I mean we are kind of..special?.. I mean.. we are .I think ..a good sexual match’

I am glad he says this, because he doesn’t have to. It means we’re on the same page when it comes to not down-playing or exaggerating what is there. It means the interaction I’ve felt is not a fantasy flight on my part.

The rest remains to be seen.

Wow, still lots to catch up with, I didn’t expect to have that much to say, but some of this has been brewing for months and months. I guess I’m just trying once and for all to see if I can describe, in excruciatingly lazy, repetitious and tedious detail, the nature of this relationship. It’s still kind of interesting to me.

Soon, soon I will get to the sex. The much awaited last bout of it which was just…wow.

time after time

2006-03-12T22:39:00.000-06:00

What is it about us and time? , T asks, as we walk briskly back to his house. I’m taking wide steps to catch up with him, the heels of my boots clicking and clocking on pavement washed with rain the night before.

Twelve hours before, he called me at three o’clock in the morning to tell me that something had happened at work that had left him completely discouraged. He was not sure how he would feel after some sleep, but he said he might not be up for sex. In fact, he might just want to be alone. He said he just wanted to call, to make sure that whatever happens tomorrow, that I know it wasn’t anything against me.

Half-asleep, I mumbled some kind of platitude. He sounded bad, and my sympathy couldn't help but kick in. I tried to remain positive, suggested I just give him a call when I approach his house at the time we had agreed upon. And then if he wasn’t up for it, I could just hang at the nearby mall until the time when I was supposed to meet with my girl friend. But the truth is, he sounded like shit, and by the time I hung up the phone, I had resigned myself to not seeing him. The disappointment sank in.

I posted my ‘fuck’ post, anticipatory hyperness deflated, freshly shaved pussy lips sighing. I went back to bed. I couldn’t get back to sleep. But I’m bad with interrupted sleep that way.

Come morning, my alarm clock went off and I never heard. I could not bring myself to rush when I did finally rouse myself. I could not do it, keep the hope, hurry myself down there and have it end up being for nothing. Nothing held against him, but I just could not seem to push myself with that risk there.

Seeing him must be a bonus, nothing more.

I shaved my legs anyways before I left to house. I like to do it as close to last second as I can, so they are as smooth, as cloudy heavenly, as close to just-been-depilated as my legs can be.

I made myself leave the house finally. I forgot my contact lenses at home, and decided to take the bus back round to get them. I ignored the voice niggling that I was going to feel pretty idiotic if I was wasting time that could have been spent with T.

I did not call like I said I would. I was running two hours late and I didn’t see the point of waking him up to tell him he could sleep because I wasn’t going to be there on time.

As it turns out, when I finally gave him a call: he had been awake, thinking I would call. He had left a message on my home phone. He was ok, was up for seeing me. I felt pretty idiotic.

(‘You did not believe enough’, a nah-nah-nah-boo-boo part of me whispers, even now. I tell her to go watch West Side Story again or something, leave me alone.)

So we ended up meeting up in the same mall where I first met him nine months ago. Our safe place. The buffer zone between the Internet and our private real lives. The public venue where even mass murderers, and girls who pick their noses when no one’s looking are given their final chance to reassure that they’re not so bad. Where we are asked to prove we are exactly who we type-said we are, more or less.

I found him under the same overhead sunlight of the glass-domed food court, replete with the same palm trees and what looks like the same real live sparrows flitting about.

He stepped off the escalator and we were face to face, and it had been so long, three months nearly since we’d met. I squinted. I knew it was him, just forgot that that’s how he looked.

No lover’s reunion this. I waved casually to his suddenly larger than life self from across the lunching crowd. He smiled and signalled towards the nearest pita place. He wanted to pick up his lunch. I nodded and walked where he was walking.

It’s the same place we had eaten at that first time too. I remember because I had spilled half my pita wrap contents out of the bottom, had made lame jokes about my lame attempts to cover up the escaped lettuce and olives with a napkin.

Hey, I said, sidling up to him by the counter, giving him a quick sideways squeeze with my arm.
Hey, he answered back, cooly warm.

Smiles and it’s been a whiles were exchanged.

He was fresh out of his haircut appointment. Which he would have cancelled, he said, if he had been sure I was coming. Gelled newly cut hair, still looked mousy sandy soft. Eyes, still blue.

I complimented his haircut. He grinned and thanked me. He asked me if I’ve changed my hair. I thought about it and said nope. We agreed that it really had been a while.

He always leaves me so quiet and subdued. He doesn’t leave me with much to hide behind. Feel nervous and new and like I have no one to be.

He always feels too like someone I don’t know. Someone who I used to know a long, long, long, time ago. The truth is what I’ve ever known of him is close to nothing at all. A few random blurts and glimpses now and then our only giveaways.

I’ve never been able to show him really, not even here. I wonder how he comes across. Does he come across at all?

He’s different. Not I am special, therefore he must be different. Not I am secretly in love, so I think he’s different. He is just really and truly a strange one, the kind we’ll all meet now and then. The kind it feels good to meet now and then, especially when you feel your life blending and fading into suffocating shades of normalcy.

But anyways, we left the mall, strange him and possibly strange I, to cut our way back to his house. Our time left was hacked down to an hour by then.

It is windy and my hair flaps around my face. I joke about his hair not going anywhere any time soon. Slow conversation about running a salon and whether men or women get the shorter end of the financial stick in the world of coiffure maintenance. He’s talking mostly. I’m laughing mostly because I feel like laughing.

We bump into his neighbour, then a student. I fade back, and give them non-commital, friendly ‘don’t mind me’ smiles. It’s funny to actually see him with people, even briefly. It’s weird to have them see me. He’s never really seen me talk to anyone but him either.

And we’re rushing, to get back to his house, and I’m trying to catch up, but my boots will only let me go so far before I fall flat on my face.

What is it about me and him and time? I don’t know.

fuck

2006-03-10T02:23:00.000-06:00

He cancelled on me.

No fuck. Fuck.

I have nothing more to say.

2006-03-05T18:07:00.000-06:00

I can't reach him. My period's begun and the pain is worse than usual. I have no one to talk to about this because no one knows I have a blog. Deception breeds hurt all around I suppose.

I've been wanting to cry, haven't been able to. Now that I've started it's not coming out right. Not a proper cry at all.

What a long fucking day.

Guess I'll go watch the Oscars. Actually I don't particularly enjoy the Oscars.

I can't even go play piano. Reminds me of him. Bah. Now that is bad.

I have stuff to do but cant' focus. Kitchen's a mess.

I'll go watch a documentary on monkeys or something. Would do penguins but already watched that one.

What a useless post.

what now?

2006-03-05T10:06:00.000-06:00

I don’t know what to do. I’m so stunned.

Last night T happened upon my blog. I gave him the opportunity to do it, truth be told. I sent him the Fleshbot roundup link to my blog because he was curious to see it, ‘his name in lights’ as he called it. I trusted him not to read my blog, thought he just wanted to see it there between all the other blogs. Before I could tell him not to click on any of the links, he had already. He said he wanted to read the story, thought the bottom link was to my blog, the top title of the story just to the passage. That part, I don’t know, I still kind of believe.

Maybe you know what’s coming up.

As soon as I pointed out that the link to my story IS my blog, he stopped immediately. I was going to tell him that it was ok. To just finish reading and then x the window and forget it. I wasn’t comfortable with him being there with all my titles and post headings on the side, but I figured it was an honest mistake, no point of freaking out. I felt unpanicked, I did trust. But before I could say anything, he was telling me that it was definitely not cool for him to be there, that he would never want to intrude that way. He told me he deleted the link at once from his Internet history. I believed him. He’s always been so honest with me. And respected my privacy.

He asked me questions later that night. He said there were two things he would want to know if he were to look at my blog, so he preferred to ask me directly instead…one, was if he had ever hurt me in any way throughout, second, if I had really just had the one encounter with N.

I was a bit surprised at the pointedness of the questions, if you know what I mean. I tried to answer best I could. Told him no, he had never hurt me. I had been occasionally confused, overwhelmed, frustrated, but not hurt. I admitted there had been one brief sexual encounter with N beforehand, and that I had felt uncomfortable talking about it. I told him I felt bad that I let it happen the way it did, kind of springing it on T without any talk beforehand.

This morning, I logged into my ‘blog patrol’ site. My stats site basically. I was looking at my referrers and saw the Fleshbot roundup was there as a referral. I smiled, and thought, well, there’s T. Then I looked at my last 25 visitors. I noticed someone had logged in and looked at a whole bunch of posts on my blog. Seemed to have read them too because there were gaps of minutes in between. The person was on my site for a good hour. It was from T’s city. It was around the time when we were talking and when he happened on the blog. The entry time was the exact same time that the referral from Fleshbot was reported to have happened.. There was one more person who came upon my site during that 3 hour interval, but it was a company name, and not in Canada.

I even just looked up the IP now and it turned out to be in his area of the city. L I’m pretty sure it’s him.

I still want to believe. I’m staring at this goddam site praying the stats will just change. Praying there’s some other explanation. Praying I’m wrong. I don’t see how I can be. And believe me, I’m really trying to see.

I don’t know what to do. Well I do. I will have to give him a call soon or find him online and let him know what I found. I have to do it today, I will go crazy otherwise.

If he doesn’t admit to it, then what? Believe him? Always have that doubt in my mind? I’m still really really trying to think if there’s another explanation. Maybe the site just had a screw up. ? Is showing links that he didn’t click on? :( But the posts that showed up are the ones I can imagine him wanting to read kind of, from their titles And it would explain his questions more.

If he does admit to it, I don’t know either. I understand the temptation to look around I do. I understand even the impetus to lie about it out of shame. Still, I just.. I didn’t expect it of him. I feel like a fool. I don’t know. It’s deception, pure and simple. I mean he even told me last night that my privacy was sacred, that he would never go behind my back and try to find it and read. And more importantly than the cover-up afterwards, he betrayed a really direct request I made of him. To not read my blog.

And if he apologises, if he says he couldn’t help but look around, but that he really did delete after that hour, what do I do? Do I believe him? Do I trust him again?

I really just wish it never happened. And a sad part of me just wants to forgive and forget and move on because I don’t want to lose this. I liked this. I like him.

I want to pretend it never happened, it's almost tempting, he would never have to know I know. Just like I never had to know he looked. But how would I feel towards him if I carry on this charade?

I had such a great chat with him last night, came three times, discussed different aspects of our friendship and sex. He described a fuck that was so hot, I came so hard. Then hours later we started to talk again, this time about the threesome. When we came the second time, this time I was the one doing the talking. My first time. I was so excited to write about both events. I felt connected with him, like we understood each other, were going to continue to have fun together. I believed him.

I'm so upset. If it’s true, if he did do this, read my blog and lie about it, and like I said I can't figure out what else could be true, it hurts.

He hurt me.

Not confused or frustrated or overwhelmed this time.

Hurt.

(And who knows now what to do with this blog?)

...

2006-03-03T18:48:00.000-06:00

Ever since I've got back from the holidays, it has become increasingly difficult to be honest in this journal.

HNT’s been fun because I like photography, and I like exhibition to some extent, although not as much as I used to. But I feel like it’s started to detract from what I’ve really wanted to say. It is a past-time, which is not wrong in it self. But as I’ve said before, many many times, I too often latch on to whatever comes my way, just so long as it passes the time. Especially when I’m having trouble valuing times past and present.

This is OK, is actually required sometimes, but I tell myself again and again, these distractions should never grab hold.

(Balance Learn, balance.. You can tightrope the ever-present edge of your sanity. Lean this way. Stagger the other. Maybe you like it like that. Take the way you’re talking to yourself right now for instance. Ahem. )

Much has been happening, and I feel like I’m always waiting for dust to settle. Documenting my life as it happens, before I can come up with satisfcatory rationalizations, can be difficult, and dangerous. I put thoughts down here, and it can make my inconsistencies and possible hypocrisies start to feel more and more blatant.

The thing is, all the months before this clearly pointed to where I would find myself right now. I am here, right in the chewy meat of what choosing a relationship like mine can imply. Everything else before this was just warm-up.

It's sticky and shaky in a different way than one can imagine. I wonder again which way I will blindly pat and navigate through.

What I'm having trouble with writing about is my phone call with T. I still feel a bit ashamed.

I don’t know if I can mull over the lusty details of it, when I have that uneasiness in the background. I thought I could make a ‘story’ of it… but I can’t.

Maybe if I spit it out as briefly as I can, put down some recriminations and justifications, then I can go back to it.

…

I don’t know.

…

When I called T, he told me he had met with the girl that night. That was why he was so eager to talk to me.

She had come to his house that very night. He said it became very obvious that she was not interested in the two of us, more just in him, in having sex with a stranger. Said he tried to bring me up several times but she wasn’t having any of it.

He said he didn’t ‘give’ her a whole lot, but did do a little something. I don’t know what that means. Well, I mean, I have an idea.

That’s not the hard part.

He said he didn’t fuck her, and wouldn’t want to. He said she wasn’t very inspiring.

He said he knew it was wrong a bit, and that he really didn’t make a habit of thinking of someone else during, but that also it was a bit of a part of the fantasy…

Because apparently he started to think of me. He said it made him really hot, that if I had been there right then, he would have just…fucked..me.

That’s not the hardest part. That’s coming up.

I was so turned on to hear this.

We continued to talk and by the end of the conversation, I came, hard and sobbing, without so much as a finger on myself, my first time ever.

…

There, I said it.

I don’t know. Well, I say I don’t know but I do.

I’m wary of attacking or justifying this because I’m not sure which side I want to win.

Deep-down I feel again that it is what it is, not wrong, not right, and I shouldn’t be afraid. But what if that deep-down feeling just doesn’t fall through?

….

Next post maybe.

just

2006-03-01T22:33:00.000-06:00

It must be that time of blog again… And I don't mean HNT. This will probably be my last one, loved it in some ways, that people stopped by to comment, but not good with schedules. Anyways, nothing halfway or subtle or mysterious about this photo. Much like what follows I suppose.

It just won’t do, this waiting.

Blank emotion when I come alone these days. Mornings mostly, in my bed. Burst into dry giggles and sobs. Still not release enough.

Will you find me close, finger me deep, wriggling in, you know, when the slippery stringy beading and threading of my insides begin? When I release onto your searching fingers, and you want me to tell you how much I’m enjoying, and I can’t, because I am, too much?

No, even that won't do, feel more than this, feel this like violence. Push comes to shove. Scratch, bite, fuck against you.

Backed up, trapped in my dreams, pinned. Pushing walls, reaching, kicking. Crawling. Always. Derelict. Deprived. Depraved. Crave. Always. Hit with every stretch. Blind. Wake up horny. Wake up just-do-me.

Your cock is there. In every dark stretch. Smell taste you. Toxic. Cunt. Needs. Splitting. Walls wet, part, plush, tight. By the dip and tip of the head of your cock. So heady. So giddy. Long. Heated. Firm. So needy. Can’t form. No sentences. Inside please. Don’t. Wait there. Don’t. Linger there. Inside now. I’ll coat. Skin please. Scalp please Be strong. Always. Be bare. White and squeeze and supple. Be your shoulders. Broad. Be your knees. Rock. Hold me down. Always. Hold my hand against my abdomen, naked. Can feel your fuck there too. When you pound hard. Beat. Beaten. Cunt…mound.. inside.. my… thighs…knees…calves…back…shoulders…spreads. Wildfire. Fingers alight. All over. Parched. Quick. Ignite. Brush. Fire. Slap and slip and sweep. Sweet. Know how you tingle, know how you burn, know how you build. Sweet. You focus, zone in and find. You take me over. Wake up horny. Wake up just-do-me.

Want to say all. Want to hear what you have to say. Always have, always do. Ask it in my ear. Say what you already know. Could tell anyone. Could have you tell anyone. Don’t care. Those you know, those you don’t. The cat is out. (Climb curtains. Claw. Screech. Pounce.) Carnal. Wildfire. Exposed. Come to light. Come inside. Just. Come. I am weary and hot and wanting. Wake up horny. Wake up just-do-me.

Feel this like a lump in my throat and chest. Petulant. Whiny, I know, I’m sorry. But I won’t repent.

Come to the chorus again. Can't refrain. Just repeat. Wake up, horny, just do me.

It just won’t do.

tell me

2006-02-26T22:45:00.000-06:00

The morning of, mid-lazy-chat, he tells me.

-Man I want to fuck
-Me too
I want to fuck you :)
-GAME!

We laugh. Adult wants in juvenile words and smiles.

The afternoon of, he tells me.

- There might be a development.. Not sure, I’ll let you know

A development regarding our threesome venture that is. Interesting.

The night of, he tells me.

- I can’t wait to talk to you

I would call, but he says he has to make a really quick call first. And then right after, we start a three window chat again, with another possible girl. I am dizzy from possible girls, getting a bit weary, losing some steam. All beginning on the same hopeful note, all disappearing or screwing up in their own unique way.

My head is beginning to drop from sleepiness, it is late.

She has me on webcam and she’s telling me to smile. Says she likes my smile. She says she is turned on. She is after me, I realize. It is strange to feel a woman after me, hard to fully grasp and believe. And I admit it pleases me too, this whole new realm of possibility, it is difficult not to give into.

We flirt and banter. I am attracted to her, blonde with a sweet and naughty smile in her picture. But I find it hard to get truly excited about something that still feels kind of abstract.

She asks is sex with either of us seperately is an option. I think she asks me about with him, him about with me. We realise we've never fully discussed this. He wants to know what I think. He says he knows that I've had sex with someone else, but we've never really fully discussed my thoughts on him doing likewise.

I tell him that I do feel like if we set out to do this together then we should do it together, both ways. But that if afterwards it wants to move in another direction, then we can see.

-As long as I know really.. Know what I mean?

-Yes, absolutely

The conversation moves on.

T tells me that she isn’t talking to him at all, whereas she is chatting all the way with me. I know that this is not a good sign. It is getting awkward running the two conversations, trying to gauge the extent of her interest in T through my questions, trying to check in with T to see how it’s going.

She is asking of our sex lives, both of us now. T copypastes his answers to her. He tells her.

…she likes to be whispered in her ear…

..she likes to have me control her..

Me. That’s me. It makes me smile and tingle.

He tells her more.

-Too private babe?
-No .. I’m trying to tell her as much too
And.. mmm

Very mm. I’m shocked how arousing it is to have him tell another woman what he does to me. Especially because it really and truly is what he does. I love that he knows it. I love to have it exposed.

He tells me. Abruptly.

-I miss fucking you (L)
All these girls
Yes new
Yes exciting
But makes me want a deep one on one with you
Noone fucks the way we do

I smile, shamefully glad. I was feeling a bit like this too.

-Me too.. all this talk around and about, now it’s like, let’s fuck
And thanks (T).. you know I feel the same.. we’ll talk
-Soon?
-Yes
-Tonight?
-Definitely

He says she’s really not answering him at all. I’m trying to hold back on her advances without pushing her away. She’s asking me to flash her. Take off my top or something. I don’t really want to. Just too plain and random. I realize also that T is probably right, her sole focus is me. I do not have the energy to judge anymore. She’s apologizing because she can see my discomfort from my face. She seems nice enough still, so I tell her politely that I should go to bed, and we can talk later. He’s given up on getting an answer from her, tells me I can call, or if I want, to stay and webcam more with her. I tell him nah. She leaves, only saying bye to me. I shrug. So much for that.

I call.

He tells me.

(to be continued.. can’t seem to write short posts anymore..)

tense and turbid

2006-02-23T15:29:00.000-06:00

Has it already been a week?

This was a fun time. Managed not to drop the camera in the bath, was pretty proud. There were many more photos with many more naked parts showing. But in the end my love affair with water won out.

My hips
moving perturbing
the liquid the surface
breaking over
washing me softly the shadows
swirling and
for a moment only

My thighs
stilled

Has it really been a week already?

I think I must come full cycle ever week, because I am a bit down again. A little mellow melancholy.

There've been developments with T and girl. Made me hot to hear of it, made me cum without touching myself. Then next day made me a little thoughtful. Then I tried to express these thoughts to him in an uncharacteristic blurt. He told me that he didn't want to seem insensitive, but there seemed to be a double standard in what I had just said. I said yes I knew, kind of. I knew the most secure and noble and consistent of thoughts it was not. I didn't think it was a big deal though, just a feeling, not fully justified, but still there.

Are confusions and contradictions double standards?, I thought to myself. Hmm. Did he mean one standard for him, and another standard for me? Or both for me, just for different situations. And then I didn't know what more to say. Just when I thought of what more I could say, after a long silence, he left.

I shouldn't be so mysterious about it but I am too wary of it and to weary overall to give the whole picture, and without the whole picture it makes no sense.

It was such a hot orgasm though. I hope I sort this out in my mind, so I can savor it more.

I have a weakness for unfinished conversations with any hint of conflict in them. They prey on my mind, put my life on hold until I can go finish them, bring them to some kind of resolution.

I know it is because I place everything on edges still and I need to stop. My thoughts, on the tenterhooks of maybes and whatifs, do not take well to even the slightest of nudges. Every connection I feel, I am always afraid will flip over on me.

And moments, they scare me most of all. Will I kill a good moment with an after-thought? Will I ruin it in retrospect?

Swaying and rocking. I know I should let go.

Slowly. I'm calm, mostly.

The strangest part is I am still unbearably horny. My arousal on edge too. I could place a hand right now and cum in less than a minute.

I need my cunt split by his cock, but this want feels rocky when he is even a little upset with me in any way.

I went to bed naked last night, which isn't very common for me. I just needed to lie down and feel my skin on my cold paisley-flowered sheets. I wanted the satisfaction of my nipples puffed up hard between my fingers. I stroked at my breasts and hips and stomach in drowsy comfort. And fell asleep.

I hope we get to talk today.

Hmm. Funny, he just came online... Here it goes.

Happy HNT!

stun

2006-02-19T00:57:00.000-06:00

Quiet and content and resting.

Today I feel this burning need to write something achingly beautiful. Something just right, icy and glassed over and reflective. From the outside. Nothing necessarily really about myself. Just a striking turn of phrase, an image that hits a new spot.

It is hard to explain, this need. If I could just let it out.

Nothing comes out. I know it is because I am glad. Just dealing with life and glad. Bit of an overdose of reality for a girl who likes to occasionally get lost in her mind.

I did it better as a teenager, getting lost.

And as a child it was the norm, I never quite grasped that I was an actual participant in life. Sitting at the dinner table without venturing so much as a word. Content to just listen and process. Sometimes to stop listening. Deep waters run silently, my mom would say, to adults who complained that I was too quiet. I don’t know that I was deep really. Just loved to observe. I’m glad she understood it was part of my nature, didn’t push me too much to change. Maybe it would have helped me in my life, to come out of that shell, but maybe a little something was preserved inside that way too.

But I look at the words I used to put on pages.

(I used to put pencil to paper, rather than type. I miss that. )

I look at those old words. Beautiful, hopeful, meaningless.

Still that need. Reach inside, let it out, spin it and stun.

Still not quite there.

half nekkid, fully dissapointed...plus or minus one

2006-02-16T22:43:00.000-06:00

I’ve only got ten minutes or so left in my time zone to consummate sooo, without any further ado, here’s my first HNT. From my brand new digicam. It's a sucky shot in terms of lighting and angle, but I didn't have much time.

It's my favorite new sweater, that aqua color again, soft and thin and stretchy, warm though, and belted at my hips. And when worn with no bra and panties, it sits and hugs my skinjust right, stops just enough to cover me barely, like a dress, but one that was not made to be seen with in public.

Well, except for here.

I needed to do something to distract from my incredibly sore dissapointment. Yes, you guessed it, my possible third is already beginning to flake her flakes. And it looks like even if it will still happen with her, it won’t be this weekend.

Woe is me. I’m surprised by how disappointed I felt when T told me about it late last night. (I must have jinxed myself with that last post) . For about 5 minutes, this was all I could type in response:

Blah…..
Blech…..
Gah..
Boo..
K I’m done now...
Merde!

Sometimes only French will do.

They should have support groups for people whose threesome hopes get dashed. Oh wait, there is, it’s called a SEX BLOG. Love that. Send a lil support my way.

Anyways, they’re not completely dashed. The search goes on. And she might just pull through.

I was excited about her the first time we chatted. She was very direct, asked me a series of good questions and I gave her my answers, and then she stopped and said,

I think we should do this.

I had been staring bleary-eyed at the screen, nervous, four windows of women going all at once, which was actually more than the total I had managed to chat with directly in my two weeks of trying. One was asking me to take off my shirt and I was declining politely, the other was saying so, you want to share your man, though I had just finished explaining that we were more like friends, and the other had sent me a picture and wanted to know what I thought, and I wasn’t feeling her too much, sorry, but she looked kind of scary, so I didn’t know what to say.

I left the three on ok terms, saying we should talk later, knowing my juggling was doing noone good.

And then focused on her, quiet but down-to-earth, simple, direct, and then, let’s do this, she says.

Yes, let’s. Something about her hit the spot. I rolled up my dropped jaw and stammered some kind of positive response, and ran to contact T as quickly as I could so she could talk to him. And they talked, and he said she seemed like a definite possibility, attractive enough, near perfect personality. I thought cool, this might really work.

I talked to her that night after she got back from work. She said she’d been distracted from work thinking about it the whole day. Said she thought about it all the way home. Said she was really horny for it, wanted it to happen now. We were webcamming and her face was there, distracted and closed, eyes brewing arousal shyly. And I was there with sideways lashes and a smile that just could not be wiped. We had both admitted to not being totally sure about how much we’d like to do with each other. Just a little touch and play. I’m attracted to you, she said, I feel really comfortable, feel like we’re on the same page. With him too. Said she just felt like getting naked right then and there. I smiled. I braved it, and asked her what it was about it that was getting her excited at the moment. You, she said. Seeing you naked. I could only grin further. I’d like to see you fully aroused I admitted, looking away. Is that strange? No, she said, we should talk, it’ll help us be more comfortable. We were both beginning to feel it. She leaned back and I could see the slight rise and drop of her chest, more than before. I was holding back a bit of my breath too. I didn’t want to go too far, wanted this to be something we all shared, especially the first time around. Knew it was time to go to bed anyway. So I left, saying again how excited I was about the possibility of doing this. She corrected me, said it was going to happen, not just a possibility.

I had dealt with the realities inside somehow before I could even begin to let myself be truly excited about this. For her, I think that night is when reality actually began to hit.

Because the next day she was completely different. Excitement completely gone. Said she hadn’t slept well. She was talking to T at the same time. She’s nervous, T told me. Try to reassure her. I understood why she would be. I was a little too, but only a little. I did my best. Offered her thinly veiled advice in the form of how I had eased some of my own apprehensions. I was trying to get her to voice what it might be that was worrying her. She didn’t want to talk about it too much. I suggested she might feel better if she continued to talk to us both separately for a little longer, get to know us each, rather than as an impenetrable pair. She didn’t want any of it. Short answers. I don’t want to talk, let’s just do it, she said. We set a date. T and I felt a bit uneasy, but I figured, well, maybe she was just having a moment.

I could imagine her worries. I know that out of the three of us, she is the one in the most difficult position. She doesn’t know either of us. Him and I have already fucked. What if I don’t want her there? What if when faced with a real woman she doesn’t want anything to do with it at all? What if she doesn’t really like T? What if T isn’t attracted enough to her? What if my being there makes it worse? What if she becomes the outsider, rejected?

That she had these concerns I can understand. That she didn’t want to talk about them too much I can also understand. I mean, we all know about me and talking. But I feel like she could have gone about it a better way. We set the date on Monday, didn’t hear until yesterday that she couldn’t do Saturday like we had planned. Or Sunday. No explanation. No apology. No indication if she did actually want to set another date, or if she wanted out. What exactly were we supposed to do? We could reassure her only so much, she had to come into it positive and enthused and quite obviously with no pressure.

But we did talk today. Finally got her to say something about the things holding her back. They were pretty much the ones I had guessed. We were talking in three separate windows again, me and him, him and her, me and her. I was finding it awkward a bit, the balance, how much of each other’s conversation to report and all that. But it was ok all in all. T told me that he suggested that he meet with her first finally, and that she seemed a lot more open to that. I agreed, said it sounded like a good idea. I won’t fuck her, he joked. I know, I said. If it’s only me she’s after, I’ll quelch it, he said. Does quelch mean stop?, he asked as an afterthought. I laughed, because I got this image of him splashing her with a glass of water, the way you quelch a bubbling reaction in organic chemistry. No wait, I think that’s queNching. And yes I think quelch does mean stop. And in any case, yes, I knew that he had no hidden aim in wanting to meet her. Think it will help, he said, I can be pretty charming. I've noticed, I said.

I messaged her, told her that T had just told me, and said it sounded like a good way to make her feel comfortable. How do you feel about it?, she asked timidly. Told her I understood her point of view , and I did think it will help her. And if you guys are not a couple, she dot dotted. I reassured her we were not. Told her not to worry and that really it’s not going to work unless the two of them were attracted to each other. And if we are, she said, then we’ll do it. Definitely. I do want to do this, she affirmed.

Definitely, hmm, I’ve heard that one before. But I will give her benefit of doubt.

Secretly I feel like: yes, yes please, can you two please decide if you’re going to hit it off, quickly, so we can just get it on??? But I'll relax.

Wonder where this security and confidence regarding this venture is stemming from. I’m still afraid a little, I could never deny that. But I keep questioning it, poking at it, expecting it to crumble, and it just doesn’t. The only weird part of all this is that I don’t feel weird, really. Maybe my little adventure with N has given me this perspective. Maybe waxing on about my intense moments with T has given me that security. Because I guess I’ve started to see finally my sex with T as an objective reality, as something that actually exists and is good and that won’t be threatened easily. I’ve felt it. I’ve had it. Even if the sex ends for some reason, we’ve had a great run. And we’ve been mostly open and good to each other as friends, so I don’t see that changing overnight. Really, I can think of no better circumstance, no better person to try something like this with. More importantly, it’s corny, but things are finally starting to settle inside about myself.

I come into this sexy and horny, I get out this sexy and horny, no matter how it goes.

Amen.

And happy nearly belated HNT! Thanks Osbasso.

(ed. note: I'm amused that someone found this entry by asking 'what does quelch mean?' As it turns out, the word quelch does not exist. The word T was looking for was 'squelch', as in trample down and squish and supress. 'Quell 'and 'quench' are possible, but to me, slightly milder and friendlier synonyms, so we can see the confusion. I was right about 'quench' being the word used for adding cold water to reactions though. Sorry, I'm a word geek and dictionary.com makes for hours of amusement. And also, I'd hate to misinform.)

plus one

2006-02-15T10:52:00.000-06:00

And now for something completely different.

I can’t wait anymore. I’m so behind in what’s been going on. But I realized this morning that I can’t wait anymore to share my excitement here.

So put behind the angst with me for a second, put aside the confusions, know that despite a slight relapse yesterday, my head has been clearer than it has been in a long time.

So here it is, if all goes well, drum roll please…….. I will be having myself a threesome this weekend.

*sound of champagne popping* (for starters..)

Oh I do be excited. You know I’ve talked about it quite a number of times before. If I have time and I feel like it, I'll post more on how it came about. Just because I think it's interesting, not something you really hear about, those important little details on the mechanics of an operation of this sort.

I woke up one morning and all my doubts and apprehensions about it had just packed and moved away, without really bothering to tell me why. Or still there, but with a personality transplant, complacent and ineffectual and personable doubts. Doubts that say, hey we got you covered, you’ve done your part, you’ve thought it out, you know it’s fine, go, go have your fun now, you sexy, horny bitch. Cause my doubts got attitude.

So I put my heart and energy into my search, and found someone who’s willing and appropriate, and hopefully she won’t flake out and we’ll do it.

This very weekend, wow. Me. T. A woman we will have met an hour or so before.

So much to be excited about, so much that will be new. Intimacy with a near stranger. A woman. The thought of a naked, hopefully aroused woman in my proximity. Seeing T with another woman. Me, my hands on another woman, her back. I want my hands on her back most of all somehow, the heat from it. I want her doggy-style and close, I want to be crouching near her, touching, pulling her hair out of her face to see her clenched up and cumming. I’ve seen her face and it’s crazy but I like the heavy look of her eyelids, makes me want to see them get even heavier, watch her pupils start to lose focus. I want to see T’s face as he does it, embroiled in double want, tried and untried. I hope he does it, he’s not sure, says it depends on how she turns out, and I understand, but I hope he fucks her. Yes, that is the strangest part of all. Want to see him do it. Want an outside glimpse. No a study. Want to see his cock spreading a cunt other than my own.

Want to be fucked right after, want her to watch us, still gasping, want her to see how quickly he can make me cum when he wants to. I’ll be so far gone at that point anyways. Could explode upon his first entry anyways at that point probably.

And the looks, I keep trying to imagine the looks, insane. Furtive glances between each other? Or just staring at it all unabashedly, in challenge?

I want to do it all. I want her breasts dangling in my peripheral vision, I want her legs spread within touching distance, I want to reach out for his hard cock and find her hand there. I want my tongue in different places. Imagine placing your mouth in the spot where two bodies join. Between heaving torsos. Even just between an arm on an arm, delicious. Or imagine that mouth and you’re part of the two. Just as good.

I want to see her pleasured by him, want that envy and lust, want him to deny me it, torture me with it. I want to egg both of them along with nothing more than my moans, unable to keep my hands off of myself. Or maybe I’ll help a little more, maybe in that moment I’ll just have to reach over and place a tentative finger on her clit, looking at her face to see if she wants me there, and I can picture just flashing a questioning look at T too in the moment when I start to stroke at her a little bit, so new, so familiar. Or maybe a gentle hand on his balls, or a hand on the part of his cock that’s just outside her cunt, like I’ve done before with him and me. Do you think he could reach over and slide a finger inside my wet right then? I think I’ll never want his smooth, thrusting cock as much as in that moment.

I picture her under me when he fucks me finally, I picture me on all fours too because it matches my mood, supported on my palms, just in her reach. And my breasts tear-dropping near her breasts, every time my body starts to sag and sway with the force of his cock in me, grazing her soft, rounded body every time I dip a little, moaning, looking away from her face, turning my neck to the side, almost shy in my arousal at first, laughing, being held by my hair so I have to look straight, and she can't escape either, doesn't want to, caged in my pillars for arms, T is doing the stretch stretch stretch thing with his cock again, his extra little push and surge towards the end, me just giving way no problem, until I start to cum, loud, start to cum, and T is cumming too again with me, hard and loud with me, everything that’s built up right there inside me, more insane then I’ve ever seen or felt him, her eyes there, I hope her hands everywhere, on herself, on me, on him, aroused again, if not cumming too, me releasing so hard and intense I am dying, then sinking with gentle lost abandon on to her, wet on her, my face in the pillow near where her head is, T still groaning hovering above us.

And think of the beginning, before all that, just think of all that raw rough pure sex lust suddenly pervading a room, there on his bed. Think of that meet beforehand. Think of how we’re going to feel going back to his place, if it works out. Think of how it might start. Think of the clothes coming off, and just the absolute excitement of that pushing and echoing of everyone’s arousal in an exponential cresecendo.

Put aside your fears for me. I know this might not be how it turns out at all. I know of awkwardness, sore dissapointment, being left out, not cooperating, feeling insecure.

I know, but I can’t seem to feel any of that anymore. Sex and fear sometimes inside each other anyhow, in the kernel of the other, to enjoy as a whole once you let go.

I want so much that just a little taste of any of it would make me happy. So many other
scenarios to want. And still the things I’ll want that will catch me by surprise.

I want this. So badly. Can you believe that this is me too?

I want her there. I want him there.

I’ll be there.

Wish me luck and lust and orgasms and naked skin and wanton sounds a plenty.

truth- part II

2006-02-14T11:43:00.000-06:00

The truth is X kissed me first, though I didn’t stop him.

I was crying already between kisses for what I wasn’t stopping him from doing. I was sobbing, and we were clinging between kisses for comfort, except there was no comfort from each other, no escape, and oh but it was a drunken mess.

It’s ok.. it’s ok.. we’re always going to miss each other a little.. it’s ok to feel like this sometimes, I tried to whisper in his ear before we started.

He gulped and said, I’ve missed you more than just a little.

And planted a kiss on my lips.

I kissed back.

Don’t stop kissing me, I stuttered.

If we stopped kissing, then what? Stay together? Never see each other again? What would we do in the minutes after we stopped kissing?

Bite, pull, tug, lie down on top of each other, kiss.

I’m going to kiss you forever, he bumbled. I swear that’s what he said. I would have laughed if it hadn’t twisted so much.

Just kiss.

The truth is too, I tugged off his shirt first, and all I had thoughts for was to have his skin close to me, to just cozy into it again. The skin I used to joke should be patented. The skin I used to joke I wanted to keep in my pocket at all times. His golden velvet.

I had this half-formed idea that I could crawl into that again and forget.

The truth is my shirt came off too, and my one nipple had already escaped from my bra, and he placed his tongue on that one nipple. His tongue stickings sideways comically out of his mouth. And he licked. And it was familiar, and I remembered this familiarity and I felt.. strange.

And the ugliest truth is he started to take off my pants, and I started to feel… queasy. And it was separate from the alcohol that was making my stomach still churn. He tugged them down, and then my panties. His familiar fingers on my clit. There was some pleasure. But my heart was breaking for him, for us, and I knew I didn’t actually want him there. Not fully. And he buried his mouth inside me, his eyes lost inwards with concentration, and I felt a tingle, but not fully. And somewhere between one lick and the next, I felt myself start to grow silent, inside and out, and it hit me that I was just waiting, abandoned to him, resigned. Realised that I just wanted to cum, but only because at least then this would be over. And this made me sad.

And he came up after I finally gave some kind of moan, and he lay by my side.. And I said sorry, sorry I couldn’t feel that ..completely.. too much .. pain. And it was true, my whole left side was pounding with the nightmare of it.

And this time I was really bawling, really in earnest, really drunken, inebriated, snotty, gaspy, sobbing, and he was holding and saying shh don’t, don’t, don’t-don’t-don’t.

He’s seen me cry like this too many times. And it didn’t feel good anymore his comfort.

It’s what I don’t want to understand, that he could do nothing really wrong, and I could still sit there and feel like I could not take it.

I knew after all the crying was over, my responsibility in this. I knew the drink was no excuse. I knew this was the worst I could have let happen.

I would understand it all better afterwards, in a couple of days, as he would finally sit and confess. And he would tell me how he’d fallen apart after we ended, and how he still woke up in the mornings and wanted to cry because he couldn’t believe that we were really not together. This is what he actually said. And it was so hard to hear, so hard to know I hurt him. He’d never shown a thing, and I didn’t want to believe. And a stoic part of me thought, why why why do you tell me this now, when I’ve finally distanced myself from you?

The truth is I still don’t fully understand why X and I ended.

Things die, but never do, die enough to not stay, but not enough to not remember. Things start to hinge off, maybe even fall off, but always eternal crumbs on your fingers, always a little corner of your life’s desire owned by its fingers.

(I’m sorry, so sorry)

The only thing that I can really say wore me out about him were things like his ‘ummm ok’ and his ‘sure whatever you say’ and his ‘weirdo’. None of it said cruelly, maybe almost affectionately, but something in it there that was hard to hear day by day. Can I confess something too? He rarely said or showed me anything that made me too excited either.

I came out of my depression all funny anyways. All restless. All confined. I needed out, out from everything. So I did it. And I started to pull my life back together. And I started to go and do the things I’ve wanted to. I started to un-grey.

And the truth is I did not fall apart.

I’ve missed him. I’ve wanted his companionship. I’ve been unable to believe it myself sometimes. But I did it.

How did you deal with it?, he would ask me during that talk. I just did, I thought. I had it easier, it was my choice, it was my loss to swallow.. It was nothing I would allow myself to mourn. There are some things you can’t grasp enough to mourn enough anyways. Mourn enough for what, to do what to myself, to bring back what?

What a cold bitch I’ve become, I thought.

He tells me I'm his best friend, the only one who knew him the most, the only one he ever talked to , and I think, you just haven't learned to open up.

He tells me that his feelings will never ever change for me and I will always be his one. And I think, yes it will, and no I won’t. People change, pass through. The heart is big. I’m just a fading stretch mark. You love, you lose, you love again. Time heals all. And all that jazz.

He knows it too, deep down, that’s the thing. He’s just afraid.

Is this cynical? What if this marble feeling I wrote about really is me turning ugly, me turning away from life? Am I the cruel girl who’ll turn this sweet man bitter? Have I become bitter myself?

(There was a girl who met every boy like an ocean she could jump into.. )

It seems empty sometimes. My ‘victory’ these past 6 months. All my desires and hopes, my cock smells and cunt aches, my writing, my piano, everything I’ve learnt, everything I’ve wanted to know about, everything I’ve enjoyed. The strength, the pains that have begun to only go down to a certain point. That this part you can’t touch might actually exist. All these thoughts and ramblings. Not just the sex , but all of this I’ve lived, I’ve yearned for, so hard to define, this childhood dream everyone has that their life won’t just..be. What if I am putting myself out on a limb, branching off from my family, my friends, questioning and poking away at everything I’ve known, everything I’ve never dared to know… for nothing?

What if it’s time to grow up? What if I’m growing up all wrong?

What if this is all shallow and inconsequential? And I am actually getting further and further away, and this blog is just a testimony to this?

Sometimes I feel a fraud. Delusionary, not visionary. Cynic, not searcher. Greedy, not joyful. What if nothing will ever be enough for me?

(And how much of what I search for do I deserve anyways? Well-rounded, they say, really just not pointed enough, really just rolling down whatever hill comes my way. What have I got? No calling. No inspiration. Nothing. Just this scattered mind and the day after tomorrow. )

And I’m wondering if this was actually the best of what I was going to get. That I’d been given a real true-blue love, someone who would have stayed by my side. But I was just blind to it. Ungrateful.

Somewhere was a man crying because he thought he’d found the one. And then the one had just walked away.

He would have done it all for her. And she had thrown it all away.

For what?

What’s gone is gone, my X. I know my sorry is not enough. I know it hurts. Hurts me too but not enough to stay. I know I can’t help you with this. I know we’ll be ok. I know all the phrases for us.

And I know what we’ll call that night. I know how it goes.

Closure.

abridged

2006-02-14T08:08:00.000-06:00

So it turns out that I’m posting what I’m about to post (you'll see it above soon) on Valentine’s Day, though I wrote it 10 days ago or so. Only appropriate I suppose.

My last three years I spent my Valentine’s Day with X. It does not make me sad so much directly. It’s a day meant to remind lovers to stop and celebrate each other, and what they have together, if they don’t already. It does not follow that non-lovers should non-celebrate on that day. We got every day of the year to do that, if we really wanted to. :)

Still, it does bring back memories. Good ones, the 3-course dinner he cooked me, the cards, the long, endless kisses. Not all of them good, because a day like that’s bound to set you up for disappointment. Like when he wanted to watch hockey on TV our first Valentine’s. ‘What does it matter so long as we’re together?’ Then there was me, always secretly wanting to spend our Valentine’s having as much sex as we could. Or at least pushing our raunch envelope a little further. I think this embarrassed him sometimes… He told me once that though he enjoyed it, I was trying too hard. Sigh. He did have a point I suppose. Last year's Valentine’s was the hardest in a way, just four months or so before our end. He came over and I rented sappy movies and made chicken parmesan scallopini, and spaghetti with a fabulous tomato and fresh basil sauce, and salad, and breadsticks, all from scratch, with white wine. But I forgot I didn’t own a corkscrew so he spent half an hour trying to open it with a knife, as the food went cold. And not to be daunted, we poured through a sieve and clinked to us, ignoring the little cork pieces still floating inside my whiskey glasses, since I didn’t own any wine goblets either. And then we watched some MegRyan puke fest. Strangely he was always more into the chicky flickies than me. I wanted to go with the sinful and Jolie one. And halfway through, I could not bear it anymore and laid a blanket on the floor and had him sit next to me. And we made out. Haven't 'made out' in so long. And his eyes wandered to the TV screen between kisses and pieces of clothes. And when we were done, I’ll never forget, he joked in his own slangy way, ‘Unecessary, interrupting the movie like that.’

Yes, yes I suppose it was. I tried too hard, I really did. I knew it wasn’t about the sex and the lingerie and the declarations and the dinners and the wine. (Love and sex always blurring lines for me I guess.) Tried so hard to feel a depth I couldn’t feel. Covered it up. Whereas he felt secure and deep already in it, with barely any need to try at all. Except his cards, always heartfelt and simple in what he wrote. And then I stopped trying altogether. And yet still a certain sweetness to those days. And then my depression got so much worse in the following month, trying to figure us out, watching us die, watching me die. I never did return those movies, thought about it, but couldn’t get the energy to pull through. Stopping to remember to actually do it, to take the bus, to walk into the store, face a face, come back, so exhausting. And I would try to kill myself, only my third time in two years, wow typing that out not so fun, though X only knows of one and not this last one either, noone knows, a lonely ambulance ride, hey another bill I haven't paid come to think of it, a nightmare ten hour wait in an emergency room, because wanting to kill yourself is not as life-threatening as some ironically, I was fine, had puked most of it up anyways, the nausea unbearable, just didn't want to go back home, even the crisis team sounded better than home, and I would go home, and I would exist for a week, I would call my sister, I would take a break from X, a break from school, and my mom would come to live with me, to take care of me for three months, try this medication, try that medication, slowly coming alive, slowly feeling like actually doing something, anything, talking with T during this break, erotic stories and puns, finally meeting with him once at the mall, though X knew, and then meeting with T a second time in a lonely park in the middle of the night, because I was feeling so restless as to be insane, I blame it on la lune, head on T’s lap on a bench in a public park with winding creek, fully lit by a full moon, not dark at all, with his sheepskin jacket on me because it was cold, we played word games but nothing else, not jumping him though I wanted to, and then the sun came up and we parted, and it felt just right, sounds romantic but it wasn’t at all, because a backdrop does not a romance make, I was learning already, but just right, just friendly enough, and then my last meeting with my X before he became my X, how I just did not want him there anymore despite all our efforts, both of us, and he could sense it as much as me. And then our end. And then T, and then this blog. You may ask if T took me away from X. I think he was a catalyst in bringing the rolling, dying, sighing inertia of me and X to an end, yes. I left X behind when I finally felt better, yes. Were you going to ask that too? Funny that that’s my whole repetitious story really.. Pages and pages of it saved on my computer, unsifted, but now condensed into this paragraph.

Time compresses memories, easy, polished, bite-sized bytes for you and me.

And of course, I forgot about those rentals altogether, and just this last month, I had to pay their cost in full, plus late fees, plus a big black mark on my credit record. For a bunch of usesless Valentine’s Day DVDs, except for the Jolie one, but even that I can’t bring myself to watch. A little karmic payback from X.

Ah yes, memories. Don’t be fooled, it’s not the day that bothers me.

One last memory coming with him here: a celebration of a non-love, a non-celebration of a love.

(Because already in this posthumous dragging intro, I’ve contradicted myself. And will continue to throughout.)

truth - part I

2006-02-12T18:14:00.001-06:00

I've decided to put this up finally. It's about X. Something very exciting and out there could be coming up in my life with T, and I really feel like I need this up before I can talk about the new. The song verse here is not mine obviously, but I'm trying to avoid getting direct hits from direct searches for the song, so I won't reference it. I know X is thinking of this song. I'll probably put the whole post away soon...

You’re driving me home. It’s the kind of night where it is difficult to be anything more than the music you’re playing in your car.

When you try your best but you don’t succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep
Stuck in reverse

I’m sick with drink, and I’ve inclined my car seat all the way back. You drive upright while I glide along the black ground.

Streetlights roll around in orange fuzzy balls. Shiny whiskers of oncoming cars reach out, caress my face and scutter off.

I’m humming along. I could talk but I won’t.

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can’t replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

I could look at you but I don’t.

I start to sing along quietly but clearly. So dulled and still. I know this sweet sad cadence can’t be me. I echo off the car doors and meld in to the song, lost.

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

Your hand has been in my hands this whole time, on my lap. We could forget that it’s there, but we don’t.

And high up above or down below
When you’re too in love to let it go

I follow the edges of your smooth fingernails. We flex our fingers, and then you’re clasped between my webs. I’m fluttering with hints of squeezes. You flutter back.

We could shatter this, but we won’t.

But if you never try you’ll never know
Just what you’re worth

You’re feeling along my knuckles.

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

Your hand is hungry in my hands.

Tears stream down your face
When you lose something you cannot replace
Tears stream down your face
And I…

I don’t cry, though I will later, once we reach home and we start to kiss. And kiss and kiss and kiss.

Tears stream down your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Tears stream down your face
And I…

Yes, I suppose life is like this too, I suppose this too we will do.

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

(...to be continued)

snow

2006-02-10T00:13:00.000-06:00

I got out of class late tonight, 9 o’clock.

Bear with me here. I feel an incredibly sappy ramble coming on.

It’s easier to write about these things than the actual events that are writhing and breaking and splintering through in my life. Later, I tell myself. Later, after it’s all settled. Maybe forgotten so I won’t have to write at all. Some parts written but too damn messy and unresolved to want to see put here.

(Sometimes I imagine X will find this blog, and he will think, but wasn’t this the time when we, when I, and then she, so then we….didn’t she want to stop to write about that? Didn’t she feel that pain at all? He’d put his hand through this X-shaped hole here, puzzled.)

Later, later… after it’s all over. Let me have a moment.

So I got out of class late tonight, like I do every time this day of the week. Got out at 9 o’clock on the dot, so I knew I had just missed the bus.

So I was in no rush. A half hour to kill.

It had just begun to snow again.

It was the kind of snow that dawdled on its way down, so you knew you should too.

Like the same snow that had whipped and cut at your cheeks, the same snow that had crackled and rustled all nasty in your ear through the fake-fur lined hood of your polar-bear coat, had suddenly decided to stop and just…make friends. Let you watch.

Quiet, so you knew you should be too.

I put my hood back down around my neck, let the large, friendly crumbs settle on my hair.

Looked at the closest bus stop…decided to walk to the next one.

I watched my feet for a bit as I tread through the glistening ground. Just enough to give my boots the lightest crunch. None of this ugly slipping business.

I noticed these little dark grey dots flit and sway across the white sheet of the pavement, right where I was about to step. The next time the spots began to jump around again, I looked up. The splay of the streetlight held a crystal spray of white against black sky.

The shadows of snowflakes, I realized. Cool, I thought, looking back at the dancing black on white ground. It's like a negative.

I looked down at my shoulder where flakes rested politely, having meandered down from the sky, unbroken and sparse. Actually delicate and lacey and glassy,…cool. The way you thought snowflakes were supposed to be when you folded your construction paper turned square and started to snip snip little holes with your safety scissors. (Cept I was always a screw-up and would snip snip along the wrong fold. And end up with diamonds and triangles.. lotsa lotsa triangles.. Oh and that one blunt solid kinda.. polygonish.. thing. .)

I kept walking. All the trees were torn down the middle, like masked mimes, one face somber, the other cheeky with whipped cream. Bushes were dripping with thick swirls of it, just downs of it. Snow you think you can pick up and shake like woven fabric.

And everything just shining, twinkling, reflecting off the edges of cut faces, yellow and blue.

I was non-chalantly ‘cool’ing in my head all over, but really I wanted to be like: OHMAGOD LOOK EVERYBODY, EES A WINTA WONDALAND!! (And yes, I'd say it with exactly that accent too.)

I kept it to myself. Campus was so dead anyways. Only the few odd people who put up with late night classes like me. Or maybe there were more of us around, and I just couldn’t hear. Snow really does muffle all. And greys really are kinda muted on a night like this.

And then I started to hear this ding-ding-ding sound behind me, sweet and clear, even through the muffle. Ding-ding-ding. I’m thinking a truck or something. Ding-ding-ding. Car alarm? I turn around and.. it's a train.

A freakin honest to goodness train.

That forgotten steel railtrack running right at the edge of the campus actually had a train on it.

You see, I’ve seen that track every day for two years, and I have never, ever seen a train on it.

And not just any old train. Old, rickety, lots of bits and pieces cargo train. Choo-choo train. Clang-clang-clang train. You get the idea.

I stopped to watch. It cut through the mesh of drifting snow slowly, all exposed, all dingalinging still, shiny lights shining grandly all over its metal. And then it turned round the bend of the tracks and was gone. I’m thinking.. . hallucination?.

Just when I thought it could get no cornier, I came to this little shortcut I always walk though to cut round the corner of the big old engineering building. There’s this big old striking sprawling black maple tree behind that building there that never disappoints. Well only black now cos it’s winter.

I adopted the tree this past fall when, while cutting through in a rush to catch the bus, it made me stop dead in my tracks. It had shed nearly every leaf it had, leaving a golden dark brown net of crooked branches capturing blue sky. Every single leaf that had fallen was this bright bright yellow, and every square inch of the ground was covered with it, not a peek of soil coming through, and then the sun came though and they all just sunshined, amber and opal, and I was like… holy crap.

I had a holy crap moment again right there under my tree tonight. I stepped off the pavement, and stepped onto the path, sunk my feet into the freshly piled up snow. And it was up past the top of my boots, staining my jeans. And I swear to you it was what you always imagined snow to be like growing up in a country with no snow. Five years here now and I hadn’t felt snow quite like that. There were giddy mounds of it, completely light and feathery. It stroked and powdered with every glide of my leg. I floated through.

I got to the end of the path, to the very corner of the building. Trapped between a boulder at my feet and the outside wall off the building at my back. Light from the building on the boulder, thick spider web of my tree above. And what was only muffled before went completely silent. Completely, there’s not a soul here but you, silent. And I looked down at the boulder. These ridged cubes of sparkle dazzle snow had patterned across the rock, having woven though the arrangment of branches above. Water crystals had layered themselves on top of the stone in jagged little towers. And because I’m a geek, a part of me couldn't help but think of all the different phases of ice. And of hydrogen-bonded networks. Except like never seen before. Like brittle equations had suddenly unmasked a tender face. So I bent down to take a closer look. Camera, camera, camera, I was thinking. And though I didn’t want to ruin it, I just had to reach my ungloved hand out and stick my fingers in carefully. And it just collapsed again, like when I was walking, except this time onto my bare skin. And I know you don’t believe me. I know you’re rolling your eyes already because I’ve taken this so far. But it was perfect. Just so perfect . This cold, dusty, soft caress of perfection. Not wet. Not sticky. Perfect.

Looking into skies outside from plane windows, and clouds, really literally clouds, on the ground, all this time. Who knew?

I told you it was corny.

his smell, my dysfunction

2006-02-05T19:39:00.000-06:00

Have I told you he has the sweetest smell? Well he does. Or his cock does, to be precise.

It must be his diet. Health-conscious, all organic, fruits and nuts, careful him. I am more of an onion garlic chili spice kinda gal. I know how I smell, salt and sour and metal and bitter and ammonia and sweet and pungent all at once. I’m no walk in the garden. I change all the time. I smell and taste exactly like me.

I smell him all the time, like I’ve smelled no other. Those times I described sitting on top of him. Or I can think of one strident time when I was on my back and he was hovering over me. Right when he starts to get aroused, and his eyes shut a bit, or his head pushes forward a bit out of its skin, I start to sense it. I feel like a freak because I can smell it so stongly, yet I wonder if I am imagining it. But then I’ve always had a sensitive nose. I am hit with whiffs of it and I know it’s real, though impossible to describe...

(..make me faint
frankincense
with a butterscotch
drunken lick
twist,
chocolate it ain’t
but pheremone caramel
poison,
fill me myrrh,
musky fucky,
keep it coming,
sweet
and
never sour
you...)

I wonder how weird it would be if I gave in to my impulse to lean over, right in the middle of the action, and really take a deep breath of it in.

His redolence. His fragrance. His aroma. His essence.

Language fails me here, it really does. I think of the other language I know, and there is a word that is used for a smell that is pleasing. Except when you say it, it means delicious, mmm, ohhh ,oof, let me smell that again. No other word really comes as close in my mind.

I have not talked yet of the last time I was at his house and I finally tasted him in my mouth. It is a shame that I was distracted with the fact that I had my first date with N right afterwards. And that as per my usual when I visit him, I had just finished a paper the night before, was running on 5 hours of sleep, had all my Christmas shopping to do right afterwards, a lunch date with N, dinner with X and other friends, as well as my city to get back to, so I could pack my suitcases and clean the house, so I could then get back to his city and catch my flight the next day. (It never rains, but it pours, or rather clawing cats and barking dogs suddenly decide to make their debut from large gaping holes in the sky.)

Maybe as a result of this, it was the only visit where I felt a bit dysfunctional and lost with him.

He was still sleeping anyways when I arrived, it was so early. He had had a late night too. He’d got up earlier to leave the door unlocked for me. I felt shy and a stranger again at his bedroom door, unwilling to disrupt his sleep. I helloed at the threshold. Aren’t you going to come in?, he asked. Yes, oh, wasn’t sure if you wanted me to, I said. Well, yes, sorry, come in, he mumbled. I felt silly and walked in.

Did I take off my pants before I lay down on his bed? I forget. I remember he was cold from having just woken up. He drowsily told me he had a strange desire never there before, to have me licking and teasing all over his body, playing whichever way I wanted. Actually he'd told me this already once over the phone a long while back but I decided not to remind him of it. My mouth was dry. I’d always wanted to do this and now was the time. As I started, he reassured me that it was not about a performance on my part, that it was just to watch me enjoy myself.

He felt like this amazon valley of choice underneath me, and he was still cold so he was pulling the comforter over us, and over my lost head. I was so tentative you know. I was so awkward. Thick mats of my hair kept finding its way to my mouth, and I was getting annoyed, because I did not like the sensation. And it was annoying to hold it back with one hand and he wasn't holding it back for me. I was so distracted. And trapped under the sheets. It’s ok, have fun with it, he said, the feel of your hair and me in your mouth, it’s fun. I’m not sure why I could not fully. Just distracted I guess. I've been told I might have ADD. Do you think it's true maybe? It would certainly explain my writing. Maybe even parts of my life. Though not really my childhood. I thought we were all a bit like this.

But he had this very white clammy skin my teeth just slid off, I wanted to suck into it and pull up but it wouldn’t quite give way. It was smooth and clear like glass. Like butter you forgot to take out of the freezer. I don’t know what it was. I didn’t want to feel him fully I think. Maybe what it was? Or he didn’t want it? I was so very close. Tip of my tongue on his nipples, this I liked, little kisses I opted for finally which I liked, I liked it all, but why couldn’t I just give in?

Then he started to emanate his fabulous smell again. And I put my hand on the down of his stomach and groaned. Do I tell him now how good he smells? Shh. I started to move down bit by bit and stopped. Is there something else you want to do, he asked sleepily, heaving gently. Uhuh, I said. Say it out loud, he said. Feels good to say things out loud. He's right, but I didn’t feel like talking that day. His cock, his scent, thisclose to my lips. This, I said. And put my mouth around his cock for a brief moment. And took out and licked soft. My mouth was exploding with his flavor. And the thrill of having done it. He sighed and breathed.

I won’t get fully hard, he said. It’s ok, I said. No I mean, on purpose, for you, he answered. Oh, I said sheepishly. I realized I had no desire to give him a full-blown blowjob. I wanted to have him in my mouth, and I wanted to lick and hold wherever and whenever I felt. But no real desire to build and build him slowly, to ride him with my mouth and take him deep in as he lengthened. Not like with X, and afterwards with N. There was just this unusual fetish for his taste and I was unsure how to express it. I breathed all close around his head, nearly but never quite closing my mouth around him. I started to lick along his shaft, strings of yummy syrupy yes he was, smooth and satin. Wish my mouth hadn’t been so dry. My fingers were moving down to his ass where his balls started, stroking. This intimacy felt strange, you know, I’ve never fully touched him, only fucked. His head was poking out further and further and he was sharply sensitive to touch, and asked that I keep his skin pulled up and around his head to avoid pain as I sucked. Which was new. So I tried to do this, while still stroking at his base, and I was moving my head, and he was helping me, and oh I hate to say it but selfish me, really I just wanted to taste.

Not that I wasn’t turned on. I had unwittingly clamped my legs around his one thigh, his hairs tickling on me, as I started to grind against, and he groaned and pushed his thigh up to meet me, feeling a bit of my wet.

I realized what he meant about not becoming fully hard because the longer he got the more I felt like I was covering no ground. I used to love taking X into my throat past my gag so I was close to his balls. And I had no troubles with N. They were sizeable enough. But I was befuddled now as to how I would possibly get the right angle if I were to want to push down further with him. Dangled headfirst from a crane maybe? Was there enough neck for that? It made me want to laugh a bit.

Oh but I was distracted and silly and trying to adjust, and all I really wanted was him tasty in my mouth for a minute or two, so I stopped finally, tired, and sorried. And he pulled me up and said it was ok, and I kissed his torso for a minute or two longer, before he put his cock inside between my legs, my cunt finally filled and we fucked. And it was as good as ever.

And later on, after we had slept for a bit, he asked a bit about N, this mysterious date of mine. And I told him, but was kind of vague and curt because I didn't know what to say, and well, you know the rest.

We should try the first part again some better time I suppose, when I am more relaxed, if we feel like it. It’s a shame I couldn’t enjoy more thoroughly what I had been looking forward to so.

I wanted to write about it (even though there are much more important things to write about), because I realized I have made mention of our every single encounter here, phone, writing and real, if not fully, then at least in passing.

So here, for the record books, was that last one.

And I do so like and miss his smell.

clearly - silly and good (part IV)

2006-01-29T22:57:00.000-06:00

He was all hyper immediately afterwards. More than I’ve ever seen him. Phew, he kept saying. Trying to shake it off with a sigh. He put on a deep voice, joked about trying to ‘play it cool’ , said he was trying to be like, well that was fun, enjoy yourself now, bye, but that no, that was good. No that was really. quite. good, he kept saying. Maybe cos it was unexpected, he said. I don’t know. Wow…. Sweeeet... Duuude..You know what I’m saying? I was gasping with laughter after each mock adolescent exclamation, always easily amused when weak. I volunteered a Whoa and snorted. He was laughing, rambling like the kid he can sometimes suddenly be. I was grinning and giggling through my haze. Phews were still being passed all around. He kept jokingly apologizing for being so annoying.

I was quite enjoying it.

I’ll leave you to enjoy your bliss in peace soon, he said. Gimme a few more minutes.

Even if we don’t fuck again, at least now we have this thought, he said as we shut the phone.

I got up later and placed my hand between my legs from behind, and found watery cum had leaked out, slippery on my legs, still wet on my hand. (And I’m not usually much of a leaker.)

And I was naked in the mirror, and I felt fantastic, happy, energized, yes doesn’t matter what happens now, that was just so good

clearly- yes (part III)

2006-01-27T11:00:00.000-06:00

Then you’re telling me you’re stroking yourself, that you don’t usually like to stroke sitting down but that it feels soothing and good. I’m throbbing and quiet. You’re afraid you’ve said too much and I say no. Fuck, so horny, you’re typing. Fuck. Mmm.. is all I’m typing.

Then you want to hear more, want your ego stroked more as you stroke yourself, you want to be compared, and you know it’s bold and wrong, and I’m laughing cos I don’t care. I'm lightheaded and my legs are burning and I don’t care. And it’s subtle so I don’t know what to say but I want to tell you all… I don’t care, I’m shameless, I just want you to cum, cum from knowing what you do to me. I tell you how addictive and perfect and smooth and tight and warm you feel when you push inside me. I’m shameless. I tell you how it’s just a yes when you push inside me, and I laugh at my own silly lyricism. Fuck. I curse your pianist’s rhythm, laughing still, telling you how insanely good your rhythm is inside me, never mechanical, capturing me.. Fuck. You sound like you want to cum, I say. Are you trying to make me cum?, you ask at the same time. Always simultaneous, you joke.. We’re laughing. I was just saying what I felt, I say. K maybe I want to make you cum a little bit, I admit. We’re laughing. I’m wet. I hope you’re really hard.

Then you say watch this, you’re showing your cock on camera, we’ve only been talking like this for a minute, but you are longer and harder and thicker than even expected. You tease me with it in your hand. Mmmm. I’ve never seen you with it in your hands, alone, stroking like that. You shut the camera off, say it’s your first time on webcam. Tease. I’m asking if you liked it. You’re asking if I liked it, if it brought up any pleasant memories. Bastard. I just say yes. You type a moan, and you know it just won’t do. I have to hear you. I need to hear you. I tell you that. I say I’m gong to call.

Then we’re on the phone. So you need to hear me? I just say yes. Have you missed my cock? Yes. You ask if I have anything to show you. You say it’s only fair.

Then I’m on camera. The image is blurred, I’ m trying to fix it with shaking hands. My hands are inside my panties, I’m stroking my clit. I’m telling you about it because it’s hard to see. Show me your cunt. I’m standing. I’m pushing down my panties and lifting up my nightie so it’s hiked around my waist. Yes that’s it. I have the phone in one hand. You’re groaning. I’m standing, my cunt is there standing for you, my hand stroking it. You tell me yes, that’s the cunt I want to fuck. I can barely take it. I can barely take it now just typing it. Can you cum twice?, you’re asking. Yes, is all I can say. Yes? You tell me you want me to cum now like this, and then have me cum again with you later, enjoy it fully.

Then I start to really stroke, I start to gasp, my spine starts to collapse from the waist, my head lolling sideways down to my waist, phone tight in my ear, sobbing, yes, yes cum on your feet, you say, your knees weak, cum while you stand.. I’m moaning cos I’m going to fall, I’m going to cum, legs bending, cum leaning against the desk, I can’t scream, my roommate’s around, I collapse on to the side of the desk, my breath ,trying to catch, then you tell me to shut my webcam and lie down in bed and relax.

Then it’s just your voice, I’m in bed, I’m on my stomach, still panting, you’re telling me how you want to fuck me on my stomach, deep, you say you want to try and give me a different orgasm, make me squirt, put your cock deep and stroke my wall, find my spot, how I could let go to it, let it build, feel it strange, how I’d fight it, and you’d be able to hold me down, overpower me, how you’d love to see me fight it, moan, how you’d be fucking me, you’d see me, but I would just be there being fucked, and if I let go to it, I would just cum, feel it like a man does, ejaculate, maybe a little, maybe a lot, maybe a whole gush, but how gone I’d be right afterwards regardless, unable to cum again, completely emptied, just soaked onto your cock, would you like that you ask me, would you like for us to do that, I just say yes, dying, I’m going to cum, I tell you, don’t, don’t, sob, don’t cum babe, let me own your cunt, groan, move your hands in rhythm with my words, don’t cum, gentle and firm as always, let me own you, sob, you want me to own your cunt?, yes, you like when I own your cunt? yes, then don’t cum…moan.. you like when I control your cum?, yes, then don’t cum, I’m whimpering hard, trying to control my hands, zoning in on just you, whimpering, don’t cum, soon, soon you’ll cum, whimpering, tightening and tightening inside, feels so good to wait right at the brink, wait, hand slipping and sliding, thrusting onto my hand, listening to only you, faster, faster, fadingaway, cum, hard, you’re screaming it, hard, hard, hard, oh I wish I could scream, I hit hard against my hand, into my wet plush self, and I cry out, wish I could scream, cumming out of my lungs in a silent tortured aaaaaaa that I can’t sustain, breaking into a loud gasp, you’re groaning so loudly through it again because you're cumming too, groans I’ve missed, god that’s a drop, you’re mumbling between groans, god such a drop, I’m blanked out on my pillow listening and panting, barely there, you really focused on me there in that last bit, I could tell, thank you, thank you for that. you say all in one breath, I just say yes.

Then thank you.

..to be continued, last little bit.

clearly - i ache (part II)

2006-01-26T12:09:00.000-06:00

The next morning I woke up and I felt calm. I saw the fear that had been clouding everything up and making everything needlessly impossible. The same panicky fear every time there’s a change.

After writing down of the intensity with T the night before, I realized it isn’t something to fear. It’s just what it is, and I enjoy it thoroughly. It’s what I want. It’s what I crave. It satisfies me. That was it. Why run away?

When I caught T online this time, I was ready to talk. He said if I needed more space it was fine, but no I was ready. I wasn’t doing very well, I was still a little all over the place, but this time I was calm. I told him how it had been startling to be filled with a huge, strong craving for him, after having sex with someone else. This was tricky area, and even typing it now I cringe a little. I told him how it made me feel bad for N a bit. Still, the craving couldn’t be denied. I told him about talking with N, told him about what seemed to be lacking. I didn’t write N off completely because I wanted to be fair to him, and I really hadn’t known him long enough to tell.

Long silence. He had told me from the beginning, that I could take all the time I wanted, but that I had to give him input, because he couldn’t come to a decision about us without hearing from me.

I tried to think of what I wanted to say.

T: Anything you want to say regarding us?
L: Hmmm

Long silence.

T: You don’t have to.
L: I know.

Just tell him what you were thinking yesterday, I thought. You typed it out before here. Now type it to him.

Still silence. And then…

L: I was thinking of how much I really do like to hear of your want for me. Like if you tell me you want to hear me cum. It's very.. real. I really feel like I’m always completely there… and you are too.
L: I guess we’ve mentioned it before kinda…
L: But it really does leave my cunt instantly aching when I hear that, every time.. It's powerful

Pause. I felt nervous. I was tingling though just from talking about it.

T: That’s hot
T: That made me hard at once, out of control

Oh. Unexpected. Yes, I was definitely aching again. And it was good.

Blurry and good.

to be continued

clearly - it doesn't matter (part I)

2006-01-26T00:29:00.000-06:00

Things started to fall into place bit by bit suddenly today.

Last night I finally chatted with N. I told him vaguely of my strange, confusing talk with T.

I was in the middle of trying to remind N in my own hum-haw-errr kind of way that him and I had agreed that if this goes just the sexual way, then I would reconsider my current stance on not seeing T. Ugh.

He cut me short, praise the boy-

N: So basically you’re saying that rather than have two fuck buddies you would choose T.

I was a little askance at the titles, but relieved, yes this was the kind of choice I was attempting to talk about.

L: Well, I’m saying it would be a difficult choice. :S

N is fun, cute, lots of energy, super kinky, yet cuddly and tender at times. Incredible eyes, ever changing blue-gray with a fleck of hazel in the center. He DID make me eggs that morning, and he did fuck me hard and dirty, ramming his cock in my mouth, cramming his finger into my ass with lube, strapping me to my couch. It was quite good. It was new and exciting. I’m still very attracted. Maybe something light and nice like that would be good to have. Maybe it would be easier than what I have with T. (I suppose I have a strange idea of what constitutes easy and light and nice) But still, something missing, something that made him impossible to write about without just feeling like I’m just prattling off sex acts, impossible to really fully want.

N: Don’t sweat it babe. I’m just buggin ya.. I’m cool either way. You sort out what you have with T. If you wanna fuck, you tell me. You don’t, you can tell me that too.

I felt so relieved to hear him say that all of a sudden. It cinched it for me in a way. He really and truly didn’t care either way. He never did. I hadn’t expected a fight or a plea. But hearing it put like this, I realized fully what had been niggling at me the whole time. His general indifference. It’s what made some things feel like a pantomime. And I realized suddenly that it didn’t seem to matter a whole lot to me either. All our encounters had been fun. They had been impulsive. That was it.

We could do it again, or we couldn’t. It didn’t matter.

It was so obvious. I felt strangely like hugging him. The conversation ended pleasantly on that note, with no undercurrents of tension.

N: Rest easy pooks..concentrate on the important stuff.

Yes, yes I would. (Pooks?..Well, guess it’s cute.)

to be continued

inhuman

2006-01-24T21:03:00.001-06:00

T,

Why can’t I talk about this with you?

I told you yesterday about the sex I’ve had with N. You were surprised. You thought I was going to be taking it slow. You thought I was after a relationship.

No, here we are T, here are the facts. I fucked N. No more, no less.

You were surprised. Not angry, not sad… surprised.

You wanted to know about it. Wanted to know my reasons why. I tried to talk, pedaling and backpedaling, nothing like the full truth seemed to ever come out of my mouth.

You were bruised. Your ego. You said you had thought our sex was inspiration and satisfaction enough for me.

It hurt to have you question that. After all this. Everything in this blog. But I didn’t blame you.

What could I tell you? That nothing but your cock in my cunt will do? Where does that leave me if it’s true?

This is not why N happened, is happening. What if it is? I know how wrong that is.

I couldn’t help but tell you I already missed your intensity.

As the conversation ended, you said abruptly, wow- it really is weird to think of you with someone so recently. Said you guess you’re only human.

I said, Better than being inhuman.

(But fuck it T, be inhuman, don’t let it affect you at all. Or be inhuman, be irrational and angry, cast me off. Own me, T, for just this second, for just this moment, I want this. When you respond to me right now, be inhuman, be fully mine, or be nothing.)

The feeling passed. We were us again, we were nearly theres, little grey bits of this and that. We were friends, fuckers, incompatible and intertwined. You said not to worry, that it is just that this is new for us. We just need to figure out how this will affect us.

You asked if I didn’t feel weird too. Our story goes a long way back, you said.

And I thought of ‘my story’ here that I could never finish telling. And I thought, yes it does, but what way does it go forward?

Weird is an understatement, was my only response.

I spent all night thinking it out in circles. There may be more to N or there may be nothing to N at all. Same goes for you, really.

I must have slept.

I woke up this morning and I still wanted to be in this closed empty ball of thought, under my sheets. My heart felt heavy. I put on your music for no smart reason, and crawled back in to bed. The phone rang a minute later, it was you. My heart felt heavy. I shut off your music, and picked up, throwing myself back into bed. You’d just got up too.

You asked me how I was doing, said that you wanted to check that I was alright. I chirped that I was ok, just a bit confused. The strangled cheerfulness was not me, but it was all I had.

You said you’d warned me about taking things too fast with N, that you knew a little bit of how emotional I was. Yes, I knew.

Not that I’m sayin- I’m not-you know, trying to... Yes, I knew.

It was not only N I was worried about though.

You really are quiet, you said. Yes.

Strangest thing, you said, after all that talk yesterday, I had a really erotic dream about you last night.

From our very beginning, I've felt nothing more seductive than hearing of your want for me. In all your different ‘I want you’s, I’ve felt so strongly the me in your you, the you in your I. It is not just general want for cunt. That kind of want, maybe the way it is with N, is fine, is fun, is free. But you want my cunt. Consuming. You want to feel your cock sliding between my walls. You want to hear my cries. Consuming. You want to fuck me, hear me, feel me build and cum, like you have before. So consuming. Why? Why is that so powerful? Why does it make my cunt ache, ready to be your want? You know I’ve wanted you the same way too. Can I ever admit this fully to you, how terrifying and wonderful this is, how much this blows my mind?

I wanted to moan all of sudden, but I held back. The dream is just the ego trying to reassert, I tried to tell myself. I fucked with other than it, and now it wants to fuck me more.

It is just like you though, the way you admitted this, in this darned if this isn’t the way it happened kind of way. You step over taboos with such gentle reassured ease.

I thought I might have just made it up at first. But then I thought wait a minute, I wake up, hard, pounding with this thought, that’s a dream. I ‘made it up’?? that’s what a dream IS..

I laughed, because I’ve struggled with this some mornings too. Even if it is a dream, how much of it is being remolded by our conscious self, as we try to recapture and retell it inside our mind?

It was practically a wet dream, you continued. I woke up ready to cum. I had to calm down a bit before I called you. But yeah, for a second there… I wanted to - rape you.

Your voice went quiet and breathy, a tinge of laughing shame, a tinge of laughing heat, saying that last part.

Ache. Throb. Ache.

Hmm, I said with a strained laugh, trying not to sigh. Quiet. Trying not to picture it. You didn’t tell me more about it thankfully. But I wanted you to.

You could tell I didn’t want to talk about it. You could tell actually that I didn’t want to talk much about anything. I knew I was just making this more difficult. I wanted to talk more about how I’m feeling. I wanted to answer your questions, because they do help, but everything that slipped out was just not what I was thinking at all. Or just a part of it. Short, staccato sentences with huge silences in between. I contradicted myself almost immediately, felt a panic building up, and you stopped, uncomfortable, and said, OK this really feels like you are not enjoying this at all.

I admitted that I really didn’t want to talk about this today. I didn’t want to talk with anyone about anything today.

I’m sorry, I told you, I'm just.. my head, it's not.. straight. I can't.. I'm sorry..we will talk.

You said it’s ok, though it did make it more difficult, for both of us. I knew.

Hey, on a lighter note, you said, your voice perking up, I had a really great dream!!'

That’s good, I said, smiling despite myself.

Damn good dream..

That’s good...

We laughed. Funny because I was glad for it, still am, ache or no ache.

I was still apologizing as we said our goodbyes, and you were telling me it’s ok and telling me to take care. We shut the phone.

I lay around all day… thinking… not thinking…

a billion and one ways to say 'we'll see'

2006-01-20T00:08:00.000-06:00

Tommorow night N comes to my house.

Herpes issues have been pretty much resolved. Another doctor I trust told me the symptoms didn’t sound like it at all, and also I did turn out to have a vaginosis that might have lead to a blockage of glands. I’m going to stop talking about it now cos I didn’t want this to be some gross look into the things that reside in my vagina. I just wanted to clear it here, though of course you never can completely after a scare. All I can say is condom use prevails regardless, I’ve definitely learnt that much.

I also got to talk to T a bit more, as I’ve tried to mention here and failed. Mixed feelings would be an understatement. He seems to think that I am a bit more serious in what I want from N, or this is how he rationalises my reasons for wanting to do this. But in the very least, he knows that N is coming to my house, and it’s very likely that we’ll have sex, and well, we’ll just see how it goes from there.

I’m not sure what I want from N. Our talk has always revolved around sex, and if I look at him from a distance, I just see a 21 yr old boy who wants sex and who’s found a girl he can have it with easily. There’s nothing hugely wrong with that. I don’t need to have every part of me to be valued at all times. I think if this is all it is though, then he should value my sex, just as I would his. I don’t want to be a generic cunt for his anonymous cock. Yes, let sex be all we’re having, but I’d hate for it to be about how many girls he’s chalked up, and what kind of prestige his experiences with me are going to give him. He hasn’t given me cause to quite believe it’s like that, but I kind of worry all the same. I want real sex.

I don’t know if it’s worth giving up the more intense kind of experience I’ve had with T. I may be runining away from complications that intensity brings me sometimes.

I think N is confused about what more he wants from me anyways. We don’t put a name on it for now, friends with benefits, dating with a kink, what is it? We’ll need to soon. I’ve never dated you know. I’ve never understood it. I’ve had one two-year boyfriend and T. Deep down I don’t think anything that starts off this hugely sex-based can lead to anything more substantial. Maybe just an old wives tales?

Whatever it is, we’ll just be people and try to be careful and hopefully all will turn out fine.

The nice thing about N is I don’t feel like he’s a creep. Isn’t that a roundabout kind of nice thing? He was quite charming on our first luncheon date. I catch him online every day and he talks about his parents and his friends and his schoolwork. We talk about our exes. We talk movies and music and politics. He is overly smooth perhaps, but not malicious I don’t think.

And I will say this for N, his enthusiasm IS a lot of fun. He has a lot of things he wants to try, and though his motivations for wanting to try them are a bit suspect, he does really really want to try. He has this evil gleam in his eye that he knows he has, and loves to play up. And he is a bit superior about it in his ‘watch out for me’ kinda way, and I shouldn’t fall for these kinda games, but I want to. I want to be this little kink of a girl who he can try things on. It’s hot for me. What can I say?

His conduct when he came to my house was quite impeccable. We had sex because we wanted it. I would talk about it more because it was interesting at times, though not as consistently smoothly rich and sexy as it has been with T. It was a mixture of uneasy kissing, shy laughter and surprise, and raw, brutal, just doing this sex. I remember one particular instance where he whispered in my ear ‘I’m going to fuck you’ and proceeded to do just that, pushing me backwards onto the bed, while I laughed, partly from nervous excitement, partly cos I was brattily thinking, ‘Oh, you can do better than that’

I think I don’t feel like talking about it much cos of my guilt for not telling of it to T when he asked on the phone. I want to act like it didn’t happen. Maybe, maybe though, it was because it was nothing that inspired me to write about. We’ll see what happens this time.

I was chatting with him just now and he’s told me that I’m kind of 'innocent in a very corruptible way’.. It makes me laugh. I wonder if I’ve played at being that way. I don't think so. Something about being seen as something to be corrupted gets under my skin in a queasy way. It turns me on, and then pisses me off at the same time because things like corruption and seduction imply no choice and control. Well it is the dilemma of anyone who likes to submit some control during sex, I’ll deal with it. As I’ve told him, I have no hold over him, just whether I choose to stick around for it or not. That goes for anyone really. That is always my choice.

We should have fun. I’m writing this all so I can put it aside and just enjoy myself for once. Stop buying into every worry in the world and just do what I feel.

We said our goodnights a bit ago, and we both proclaimed that we were psyched, and we were both grinning in anticipation of what might come.

He’s going to come to my house late because he’s catching the bus after class. I’m going to be waiting for him. I’m going to be tidying the house and remembering to put water in the jug in the fridge and looking for extra sheets.

It’s going to feel sneaky and dangerous again, this tall boy with grayish blue wolf eyes ringing my door bell around midnight, me letting him in. Will we start right off the bat, or will we be shy and awkward and crack weird jokes?

I think we’ll have some drinks and unwind in my living room, find ourselves relaxed and sprawled in it, him sneaking off clothes from me like I didn’t want them off anyways.

Will he grab me like he wants to, will he hear me screaming again, will he really, really grab me, really just take and fuck me the way I know he wants to? I want to see him do it, really let loose and do it. I want to challenge him and fight it, I want to laugh at him, tease and goad him if he doesn’t give it his all. I want to feel a fury and see it be held down by him and squelched in his moment’s fuck.

Plus, he said he’ll make me eggs for breakfast.

(There's room to be cynical even there, but what am I coming to, if I can't just simply enjoy a man making me breakfast?)

what to write?

2006-01-18T22:33:00.000-06:00

I want to write about what's actually going on in my life.

But the thought of sitting down and detangling this mess of fuck and feeling and putting it into words is so exhausting.

I want to write, but I don't want to know.

I want to write. About my immature N and doing this with him cos I can. About T finally talking of the lack of kissing between us, when I had already fully understood why 2 months beforehand, also roughly 2 months after whining about it here I guess. And being ok with it. And then a part not ok with it. About the heart in our mind that only wants to know 'what if?' About kissing N and feeling not quite right. But feeling excited still. Yes, 'what if?' About this thing we call a heart, just our hope in disguise, bloody organic sticky, merge my life, my thoughts, my codons with you disguise, keep knocking, keep living, the divine, the eternity in a lifetime disguise. About cumming loudly for T right after telling him it's time to hold off for a bit . About being glad for T and sad for T. About boundaries and whether we open them for love or love opens them for us. About the advice T gave me in this. About people who’ll tell you to unbunch your underwear whenever you show any alarming signs of giving a shit. (Hah. Even our idiom for caring is ugly.) About N possibly being one of those people, and still wanting to fuck him. About passion and earnest truth and lack thereof in me, N, and others.

Today, no learning. Just going.

(But then, this already has me thinking, so this is why they hide, we hide, I hide.)

forget

2006-01-17T11:20:00.000-06:00

He’d wake up in her bed with the sun in his eyes. He’d complain that she had left the blinds half open again, and she’d giggle.

She was always laughing at the strangest times, and then forgetting the joke.

He’d part her grey and white striped legs from behind. He’d grimace half-blind as he slid himself in. She’d titter as he plunged his hardness into her. He’d feel kind of annoyed.

He’d roll her over onto her stomach, grab her by the roots of her hair, furling it into an angry French twist.

She’d arch her amused back, her ass sticking comically up. He’d be curled around her ridiculous curves, his teeth laid close, ready for her back.

He’d bite malicious marks all down her back. Punch purple brackets into her heaving back.

His annoyance would slip away, he’d be still inside her, a fact hard to forget, as she’d start to drip, patters of drips onto his cock with each bite and tug.

They would stay long like this, in this push or pull, this hard or soft, this moan or laugh, this bright or shade. Her cunt the shining wet on his teeth, his hard cock the cut in her back.

Until he could finally be still, leave the fist of hair threaded between his fingers, comforted on her head. Until he could leave his teeth resting in the place he was last, flesh caught gentle in between. Until he could finally move inside her, finally just –I’m here- thrust.

Forget her until the next sunny morning.

breathe

2006-01-11T19:58:00.000-06:00

I’ve come closer in this past year to peace. It may not seem like it from my posts, but I feel it nearer every day, tantalizingly close. I feel a surrender to events that doesn’t have to mean giving up. I feel a smile that is neither happy nor sad. I flow, all I know is I go, one way or the other.

Sweet Anna tells me to breathe, to think back to a time when I was happy and breathe. It inspires me, and I thank her for it. And I think on my happy times, and on my bad times as well, and I breathe.

The good, the bad, the panic, the calm, the cum, the laugh, the cry, they’ve all taken my breath away, they’ve all held my life in their hands for a moment, and given it back. My heart’s pumped another day.

Time smooths you down, so my mother says, you stop feeling as much.

Age is a distance.

And I learn again and again that all the clichés are true, and every cliché can still be mine and mine alone. I learn to choose sappiness over indifference. Sincerity over uniqueness. I trip, but I fall forward.

This smooth marble feeling creeps up on me, begins to gloss over me, not in my grasp, but nearly there. I start to pearl over. I begin to realize this might not be a catastrophe. That there is a balance. A reserve. My center remains molten.

Day and night start to fall into place. My wants multiply until I want it all, and then needs start to feel irrelevant. Some things I will strive for and never get, some things will fall in my lap undeservedly. It feels so good to just desire.

So much more to go, and yet I’ve come so far. The realization that my life didn’t have to feel common, wasn’t, has wrought such a change over me. I’ve found the people with words and actions and faces that can touch right underneath my nose, me and you.

I start to love without trepidation.

I hope to come to the point where I can string love in garlands everywhere defiantly, and see the love that has already been strewn here and there on my path, in my every interaction with the world. I hope for no shame and no fear in this. I know I will feel those too.

I hope for courage.

I find myself in everything. I find everything in myself. There is so much hope for me. I pile dirty thing on top of dirty thing till I am overwhelmed, and then hope crashes them down, pushes me to move on.

Someone saw me over the holidays after a 15 month absence and told me I’d changed.

“Your face, something, you look different.. better.. your eyes or something “

“I grow old, I grow old”, I quoted with a laugh.

I have. I shed innocence in exchange for awareness every day.

lost

2006-01-11T09:02:00.000-06:00

I’m in a whirlwind. I have herpes. I don’t. I’m irresponsible. I’m a slut. T’s words are in my ear fucking me. N is nibbling on my throat. N’s lips meet mine. X is hugging me tight. I need you. I don’t. I don’t need anyone. I’m telling lies. I want the truth. Did I trick N? Did I trick you? There are no words. I try to speak. N maybe we should. X you shouldn’t have. T I don’t think I should. I don’t need your intoxication. I want it. I crave it. I crave you too. Do I need him to hold you away? Why did I start this? Why are you you? No courage in these thoughts. I can’t walk away from you with your cock still in my cunt. And they all think something that’s not, and it’s all my fault. I don’t even like N that much. Why am I doing this? Well I like him. But still no trust. Too volatile. Too reckless. Too immature. Like me. No love. No need. Just a vague interest. Feels like a pantomime. Could be real. I’ve missed kisses. I’d forgotten how. His face is vulnerable. Yours never is. Not with me. Which do I prefer? Which is scarier? What am I doing? Lost. Why have I been doing this? Why do I let things move so fast? And still be so cautious? Because I can. I can’t admit all even here. I don’t want to, I was doing so good. You all are reading, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. I just get off being someone’s hot fantasy. That’s all N is? T T T T you’re worth more than an initial. I am so overwhelmed by you sometimes. I want to run so far. I should. I think that’s what I wanted. A distance. Hah. So glad you called me back two times. I missed that voice telling me when to cum. You floor me. I flirt with N. I’ve already fucked once with N. I haven’t told you. You floor me. I haven’t told you. Everything you are. My fucker. Not mine. I talk to you on the phone and you make my cunt hurt with a sentence or two. None of this N like easy generic teasing with you. All my yous here are Ts and that is scary. I tell you I think we might have to hold off the sex for a while if I am to date N and I think, what the hell have I just said.?? I haven’t even thought about this. I’ve thought of it too much. You understand. What you can give, what you cannot. You miss hearing me cum. You’ll say no more. We wish each other a nice day. I sit there wanting to fuck you. You call back, because you know, when have you not? I tell you we can play but I don’t want to have sex with you. Don’t misquote yourself, yes you do, is your answer. I stutter. Let me rephrase that for you, you say, you want to fuck me… Well I want but I don’t want to because. I want but I can’t. There are things holding me back. These are my answers. I fucked up. I shouldn’t have said anything to you from the very beginning. I shoot the gun and I make things difficult. I owned up too late and not fully enough. You call back again. We cum. I’m loud and you want me to be. You are always so good. You always bowl me over. I miss the effect your words have on me. I'm afraid I'll be 50 with a husband and I'll still have thoughts of you. Intensity leaves marks. Maybe not so bad. Maybe it won't detract. Just chalk up. Chalk up another good experience. Chalk up another mistake. I can date N you know. He’ll take me on a date. Dinner and a movie and a hotel. I like N. He's younger than me. You're older. I'm stuck in the middle. I fucked with N. I haven’t told you. I just told you I might soon. N laughed at how loud I was during sex. It surprised and amused him. He knew about the possible herpes scare and didn’t care. Said we’d be careful. We used a condom and no oral and he washed up afterwards. Why the pointless lies? Stupid near truths and missing information. Stupid when the truth isn’t much worse. Shame. And I know you, I know I could have told you all. You deserve it. I try, I’m not proud, I try and I’m nowhere near what I want to be.. Happening fast, didn’t know what to say. I fucked up, I didn’t want it like this. It was good. He has potential. You are already there. I like his enthusiasm. The evil glint of oh the things we could do. You have it too. Deeper. And I want to say it’s not that you’re better than N. Cept you probably are. In many ways. Where’s the dilemma then? I hoard people. I want it easy. I like N. I want to know him. I want to be the girl who shows him. I want to be free. This is all so predictable. All so whiny. What will I tell everyone? What will I tell you? Him? What will I tell myself?

I keep wanting to cry all day and it’s back to wintertime here again. Wanting to get back to another time again.

Breathe.