away

I'm off on a two week vacation.... wohoo.

Enjoy your holidays !!

Stay hot,
Learn

yay

T messaged me just now and he's feeling better and we made plans for this week.

LOL. Life is funny.

(chain posting today I know)

random

I remember suddenly how he grabbed me behind my knees that first time, and he pulled me up to his face, and he looked like a boy digging into a dripping watermelon slice on a sticky summer day.

gah

hallo? poke, poke.. sex? ..err.. are you there?

T is down a bit and I am sad for him. Think he may feel like wanting to avoid me a bit these days. I could be wrong, I can't tell. He's beginning to feel like a distant memory I can't recreate. I must see him before he dissapears. I think I'm writing this out of a superstitious hope, because every time I've complained here about not seeing him, I've ended up meeting him within a couple of days. Now that I've cracked the system it'll stop working, I know. :)

There is a new boy in the horizon. I don't know if he is initial worthy yet hehe. I don't trust him. I have this insatiable urge to turn him on though.

A chat with him made me realise the main reason why I don't want to date in the more conventional sense. I don't feel like having anyone put up with my lows again. I hate the reponsbility people I'm close to take for the way I can act.

I want to be able to dissapear when I want to.

dead time

she’s paused
with her mouth slack
she’s waiting
on her still ringing
phone call

watching across from her
i feel a sudden fear
i've failed to see the hand
held up to her ear

her bronze hair
a wiry shock
her gray eyes
frozen blank
her blanched skin
folded gaunt
motionless
i can't look

has she stopped
and we have gone on?

she suffuses back
all at once
flashing eyes
‘yes five more
minutes now-’
raising brows
‘yes make sure
you keep- ’
smiling

she’s not so ugly
after all

we rattle and shake
we lurch
no one moves
we’re bus people
we’re already home

i’ve got a mind for
dinner menus
and dry socks
no time for talk
shh
much awaits
shh
how much time
has passed?
shh

is it time to pull?
did i stay too long?
has it passed already?

whipping winds
waited for
maybe behind her talking head
maybe behind this black sheet
i can’t feel

i can’t hear
you anymore

are we here yet?

scalp.

neck.

shoulders.

back.

lower.

ass.

thighs.

ankles.

toes.

i need kneading.

needling

i seem to have lost a friend. or the beginnings of a friend.. i can't think of any reason why. .. i'm not even sure why i'm posting about it except it seems to be on my mind.

so easy to turn someone invisible on the internet. i've done it before. to a couple of people. for many different reasons.

shame.

retribution.

i don't mind that she did, or how she did it, i just can't figure out why. i make too much. sigh.

well then.. a smile and goodbye.

I will get this ball rolling.

I will not be passive.

I will not be shy.

I will talk.

I will take command if I must.

I will get this ball rolling.



Wish I knew how.

why me?

I don’t know why that last post came at a time like this.

I am in dire need of T right now. There’s no way around it, I’m consumed with the thought of him. It’s kind of terrifying.

Amidst all this deep down dark craving, my thought unexpectedly turned to X and I wrote. And maybe in some strange way, it was almost a comfort, this missing, this gentle tenderness. This I am used to by now. I miss him every day and you know, it barely hurts. It can’t. It was my own choice.

Maybe nothing more than one last attempt to hold on to my old safe life?

But this need for T right now it is just enough to bother me hard. It sits like a lead lump in the very center of my chest.

I wonder if this is what T meant by feeling something and needing it so bad it hurts. I wonder if I am as suggestible as all that.

It is more than that though. It’s my life right now that makes me want him. It’s being polite day in day out with my mom these last three weeks. It’s going to school, studying day to night. Sedated, calm, studious Learn.

I want to masturbate at night without having to quiet myself. I want to stick the first thing I find and ram it inside me. I want to feel plush and soaked. It bubbles up, I’m seething and this is what it is: anger, almost in tears from it. I toss and turn at night with thoughts of waking up and knocking everything in my room down, smashing the doors, screaming, and yes this too: being fucked hard, and cumming harder. I want to be me in all its intensity.

Threesome talk again with T. He wants it. I do too. I want it badly but I have the attention span of a monkey, and events in my life keep distracting me. I know he thinks I’m putting off because I don’t want it. I just want to feel ready. It’s a big thing, I want it to be good. There are lots of details to work out, and many things I probably won’t be able to decide about until I actually try. I wonder why I’ve been so shy to talk about it.

He tells me he needs it very strongly right now. Very strongly. He's not pressuring, just telling me. I tell him what I’ve been meaning to tell him, that the fact that I am not around or that I’m delaying should not stop him from carrying his want out. I’m not quite that selfish yet. Besides, doesn’t really stop us from doing it later if we both still want it. Obviously I’d be disappointed, especially since the idea of doing this when he is in such need for it is very hot. But I’m not here to play that kind of limiting role in his life.

He says he knows, but that I am his first choice. I tell him ‘thanks, that means something’.

Truth is I’m not too sure what it means. I’m not sure why I would be his first choice in this particular fantasy. He’s said he wants to watch me break a boundary. Virginal moi. And yes I’ve always been a leetle crazy when it comes to breaking boundaries. I never feel so alive, never get so excited, as when I’m doing something new. Aren’t we all like that?

This ‘why me?’ feeling is irrelevant I know, and it’s nothing I have control over. It’s something that’s already been floating around though, before all this talk. I had to ask him finally if he felt it’d been worthwhile meeting me. I’m not THAT insecure, but I feel like I need to know for sure before I can proceed any further. Like I’ve said before, I need to be where I’m wanted. I refuse to stick around where I’m being settled for, or worse yet, put up with.

It’s been a while, 6 months I think since I first met him in person. Another two years before that. We’ve grabbed moments here and there between ups and downs in our lives. Maybe I’m surprised we’re both still around. Then again, why should we not be?

He said ‘yes of course, it's been great...what a circle from where we began.’

All the answer I needed, I won't ask him again. At least, not for another six months hehe.

Argh so much to sort out, so little time. To be continued later I suppose.

one of many

I found a silver hair
In my mind today
I swear
I have a slowing
tower heart
Beats in shivers
I swear
This must’ve been
One of many

Times I’ve craved
a shower
for a lonely trance
a tiled dance
with myself
I’d disappear
out in a storm
with this
if I believed
I wouldn’t be seen

I found a torn page
In my thoughts today
I swear
You have a dying
lightbulb face
Beats in flashes
I swear
This will not be
One of many

Times I’ve craved
No one other
to feel lightning clean
No I’ll turn
into myself
I’ll disappear
into a mist
with this
I’ll make sure
You won’t be seen

No more
pacing the floor
where you first
kissed me
on my stomach
bare
I swear
My hair near the bottom
Of the stairs
Beam from the balcony
On our pair
of bodies
I swear

I took a dreamless nap
I took an empty shower
I found a silver hair
In my mind today

It must be
One of many

higher

Sitting in a moving bus, your hand above one of my knees, I whisper to you, ‘Could you move that hand a little higher please?’

(25 words)



My first official '25 words or less', a la Figleaf. So much end of term work, I don't have time to write much longer. (There is much to say...)

asking

god i'm horny. i'm sitting in a computer lab, everyone around, and i'm positively squirming in my chair. squeezing my thighs together. so much work to do. maybe i'll go to the bathroom. same bathroom i called T from. giggling silently with my finger on my clit and another's girl's shoes in the stall next door. he's not online. wish he was though i'm not sure what i would tell him. i had a nice fantasy about him last night. not a dream a fantasy. simple common one. hot one. he denied me again. why do i like to be denied? he denied me in the best way possible. i was on my hands and knees again looking behind my shoulder. i was begging and begging with my face and he was laughing and asking what's wrong. asking me what i want. he was moving the vibrator all around my clit but never on. the dildo was being pushed in and i was sucking it in and i was stretched and wet. but not the same. and he even stopped and said it was my turn. so i had to take it and do the pushing myself as he watched. and it felt so good but not the same. and i kept stopping and he would ask what's wrong. asking me what i want. and i was cumming all over the dildo despite myself. asking me what i want. dildo gone and now his gentle searching fingers. slick with thin cum. smooth slender fingers all over inside me but not the same. cumming all the same. asking me what i want. asking me what i want. pushing pushing. asking me what i want. cumming. asking me what i want. just please. just please coming out. asking me what i want. flat on my stomach. please. his hardness on my back. please. stroking without hands soft gently hard on my back. please. thin skin on my back. thick trace on my back. please please please. asking me what i want. your cock.

painted

We lost layers, you and I, first you then me, as I sat straddled on top of you. I forgot that we had been chatting casually. I forgot to reopen my eyes, until you asked me if I was getting wet in my panties, still teasing your bare cock upwards so it rubbed against me, me still pushing back onto you. And I managed to open my eyes a crack and say mmhmm.

Soon after the panties had to come off, damp, so that final layer was lost too, though my bright pink sweater remained. And I wouldn’t remember it until quite a while later, when it started to cling to me and trap the sweat and heat springing from my body that held your cock inside, and I had to throw it off.

You had placed your hands on to that sweater before our layers were lost, like I had placed my hands on your shirt and then under it, so I could feel the sexy down on your stomach. And I had wanted to feel further down, but I hadn’t, not just yet I had told myself. You had placed your hands on my sweater where my breasts were and you had tugged and grabbed, and jerked and controlled my bra, so my nipples were flicked up and down like switches. I must have looked almost in collapse from this exquisite torture, who can explain that kind of mmphh satisfaction from that kind of squeeze and touch, I had looked almost in pain, groaning, and you had asked me if I was ok and I had smiled and taken your hands in each one of my hands, and said lighter than I felt mm yes, very much so.

You had asked me if I was ok even before that, even before we had walked into your bedroom. Yes, I had said, I’m just tired. I was tired, tired from a week of incessant work with little sleep, tired and scooped out, feeling like I had come close to some edge again and pulled back, tired but trying to stay in the moment. Just happy to be there, still, not able to think about much more. Tiredness wouldn’t stop me, couldn’t, and I wouldn’t watch and let the gulf between me and my life needlessly widen again. So I didn’t lie by your side, like I asked to, for long. It wasn’t long before I climbed on top of you in bed.

But when my panties came off with your help, pushing myself up onto my arms, my legs a pyramid for you to slide them down, I paused like that. I delayed a little bit before I sunk back onto you. Though not much, because I can’t ever wait much for you, not when I am like that. But I stopped to remember how it would feel, for cock to meet cunt, yours and mine. And when I settled down finally we sighed, louder than the sigh when I had first sat on top of you, and it was in fact better than I remembered. My moist lips propped slightly open and on top of stiff you.

Of course I had to take your cock in slowly very soon after that. I took you in clumsily, haunching myself up on my ankles and then back down, dying at the feeling of that first stretch. You asked me if I had missed this and I said yes, and how could I not, sitting on your cock, filled up, and after such a long time too.

After that I started to ride you, first working forwards, then leaning backwards on to your legs so my head could loll back, my hair falling away from my face. You told me I was getting good at this I remember and I laughed because I was tired and wanted to do better. And I went on and forgot myself and grasped onto your legs so hard it hurt you, and then I righted myself back up and you guided me straight up and down your cock. Your cock just kept growing, I could feel it, and your face began to wash with lust. I was trying to move up as close to the very tip of your cock as I could before pushing back down, but I was impatient, and then you guided my hand down to my cunt, and pushed it inside to join where your cock was, and I remember you were telling me the whole time that this is what I would do, like this, this is how I would ride, if I wanted to take and use you for my pleasure. Which I did.

You slid my fingers in and all there was was my cunt and your cock, and what I wonder at always is how you render my cunt the way you do, because I have not learned yet how to leave myself like that. When I push my fingers in myself at home in my bed, I am never like that, I am wet, but never like that. With you right then, my fingers slid in, and I was open and gliding and soaked, and your cock was this slippery ridged skin on one side, coated from being inside me, and the source of the wetness, my cunt’s folds, were melting onto the other side.

Later there would be time for us to flip so you stayed inside me, and I would lie where you had lain, and we would be washed in each other’s sweat. And there would be time for a wet deep orgasm on hands and knees, time for a hard straight fuck like you already knew I wanted, time to see ourselves in mirrors, time to look away and just take, time to manoeuvre my slow mind and body so you remained squeezed between my legs, and I would just lie there and think of how lazy I could be because this seemed in that moment like the best kind of fuck of all, to lie still and flat on my stomach and just cum from your motion. And when you came later like that inside me, there would be time to feel you dripping out, to feel you kiss soft at my shaking back all over in the immediate wake of your release. And my hand would be shimmied backwards touching at your cock again the whole time as it moved in and out of me, you would put my hand there too, and even after you stopped moving, I would stroke slowly at your cum-covered base and I would feel like I wanted to purr, dazed and pleased.

But in that moment, before all that, it was just my fingers between your cock and my cunt, it dizzied me, till I couldn’t tell what was what, just these differing grains of skin, soaking up my liquid at different rates, the pleasure from the touch of my finger and your cock merging. And when I thought of it later, when I think of it now, I feel like I want to paint it, paint those different textures in dripping red and pink on a white canvas, paint a picture that could describe how this tiny moment felt, though I never could, just like I can’t describe it in words now. In that moment, all I could mumble with my head tilted back from you was that feels so good and you said only yes..I know, I know it does…

watching

Now get on your hands and knees, he says.

I look at his face, smiling, and then I turn and comply without a word, sinking my palms into his bed as he positions himself behind me.

He pulls me up from the waist and pushes down on my back suddenly. My naked ass gets thrust up and my head bows down like a human seesaw. Moaning, I stay as I am.

He disappears behind me, and I don’t look to see where he’s gone. I just wait, head still down, ass in air, breath shortening in anticipation, feeling deliciously exposed.

Do you see? he says when he returns. I lift my head up and look to where he’s looking.

We are in the mirror on his side wall.

Can you see? he says.

Yes.

All I can really see is my ass, an unfamiliar pear of an ass, gripped by his hands on either side. All I can see is him, straight and tall over me, the muscles of his body a wall to fall backwards into. And I watch him begin to fall over and over into me instead, anchored by his arms and knees, the beginnings of my back tensing with pleasure at one edge of the mirror.

All I can see is this pushing and pushing again, this taking and taking again. This is all I can see, and I wonder if I should ask for us to move down so I can see more, see my face.

Look, he says.

I stare, transfixed, my neck twisted towards the mirror. He’s watching together with me. I realize this is all I want to see. I want to watch myself like I’m not there, see the part of my body getting fucked with no other part of me present. So it could be any woman he's hammering away hard into in recurring slaps. It could be anyone, except the burning satisfying heat I feel from this action that I’m watching is in my cunt, is mine.

Do you see?, he asks again.

Yes.

And I don’t stop seeing, even after he pushes my head gently back into the bed.

thanks

Thank you all so much for the support.. *BIG HUG*.. It means a lot.. a surprising amount actually.

Just wanted to check in to say that I'm feeling much better. There is much catching up to do in the wake of all this though.. so I've been working hard at it..

I'll be back with a vengeance soon..

Love and kisses,

Learn

what to hold, what to let go

I’ve been hanging by a thread for a while now. It’s been difficult to tell that this is how I’ve been feeling, even to myself. The thread thins at night, reveals itself for what it is. I am too close for comfort to say that I’m fully ok.

This is how it starts. An edge of panic that paralyses your actions. An uneasy, obsessive immersion in distractions. A seductive voice whispering at the back of your head… give up, give up, give up…

I try to surround myself with people. I am ok when around people.

But I want to be left alone.

It begins selfish like this, when people start to feel like complications.

A close friend begs you to come over on the weekend. You’ve been putting her off for a month, for valid reasons. Assignments, marking, calling parents, bills, laundry, cleaning, buying food, classes. You’ve been trying to figure these simple things out through your fog . Now she’s in the equation.

Accept, refuse, make time for, or not. A hope that she’ll understand if you can't make it, that it won’t be held against you. The thread sags, smallest of sags, but you can’t help but resent a little how she’s shaken up your balancing act.

Go away, you want to say. Go away. I’m trying to be.

I have to be, before I can do all the rest.

Hoping for a message from T yesterday after messaging him, watching him go offline without a word, I realise this. I don’t have the energy to maintain this, whatever friendship, relationship, whatever we have. I hate to take leave when he’s down too, but a little part of me says goodbye, or at least au revoir. See you when I see you, I’ve got to stop looking and waiting.

We used to play a game when we were children at the beach. We would build sandcastles right at the edge of shore, close enough for white waves to crash on top. The challenge was to dig a moat deep enough, to keep the smaller waves off for long enough to build something worthwhile in the meantime. At least before that larger wave that no moat could capture finally came. Digging and building and rebuilding, a race against waves.

Life keeps crashing on T and me. We’ve been like this from the beginning. We’ve done well with what we could get, but little complications are always holding us back.

I don’t feel like digging right now. Maybe I shouldn’t have seen us as something to build in the first place.

It’s not that I’ve given up on him, or that I plan to cut myself off. I just feel myself utterly distanced all of a sudden. He’s ceased to matter. Again, I know he shouldn’t have anyways, not so much.

I figure we’ll stumble back into each other again some time if we need to.

I’m hanging on though. I’m ok. I focus on the thread. To keep it there.

I’m trying to take steps. I’ve made an appointment, hopefully I can get a doctor’s note for my missed assignments and classes. Maybe I’ll be getting back on meds. I’ve asked my sister for help with my work. I’ve talked to friends who do matter.

If I don’t post for a while, it’s because I’m picking up the pieces. Wish me luck.

distraction

Masturbating my slick clit with the swollen tip of your cock...

nightmare

One of the posts I didn't have the courage to put up.


'I wanted only to try and live in accord with the promptings which came from my true self. Why was that so very difficult?' (Herman Hesse, Demian)


Less than a month left until my mom moves in with me. And so my nightmares begin.

I have this guilt.

I am still financially dependent on my parents. The money I make from TA'ing is not enough for me to live on. I am having all this sex, and enjoying myself immensely. T has come to this house that they own. I have spent many a bus ticket to visit him. They have not a clue of the goings-on going on at their expense.

This makes me guilty.

I am the youngest of three. And I have always been ‘the innocent one’ of the two sisters. My sister is married now though, so she is saved. And forever safe.

From my mom’s point of view, she was saved from that hushed, evil disaster that we had grown up hearing about, but that was always left unnamed. My mom was so mysterious about this, it took me years before it clicked that this foggy catastrophe she tiptoed around was an ‘illegitimate’ pregnancy. Or maybe just being lost to a life of sin.

I believe that my sister is forever safe too. Safe from the intense gnawing worry of my mom. And now, all the focus is on me.

I should have dropped the pretense of innocence a long time ago. But it’s worked for me in the past. And I’ve been doing it for so long that now, I am not quite sure how to begin to end this act.

My parents still have, anyways, not just a financial, but also an emotional hold on me.

I really do feel sometimes like I have failed them. Not just in this, in the secrets that lie here in this blog, but in many other areas of my life.

I worry that I depend on them too much. And that it is out of pure laziness, because it is just easier for me that way, the way it’s always been done for me. So that I want to beg them sometimes to stop, to do this one last thing for me. It would be the biggest, greatest thing they could do for me, to help me out of my lethargy.

Just stopping. So I can feel myself, so my actions, my thoughts, can belong to myself.

But then, even in this, especially in this, it is not up to them to stop, but up to me to withdraw.

I am being tested. And I am failing. This feeling always that I am failing myself.

I tell my mom I want to make enough money so I can move to Japan, teach there for a year or two. It is a bit random. It is not the most brilliant or even most original of ideas, but I have the need for it. I need to get out of Canada, as much as I love this country, my country of birth. I am stuck, smothered, stagnant. I need to do this, something different, my idea, on my own.

My mom is an intelligent, articulate, educated woman. A scientist, a teacher, but well-read on a huge range of other topics too. People tell her this, often. I respect her, and it is very hard to argue with her.

She scoffs at these attempts of mine to break free. Like when I tell her that whenever she persists and nags to tell me what next step it is best for me to take in my life, it only serves to make me want to do anything but that.

Because even the best of her ideas are not my own. And now that she has owned it by putting her stamp on it again and again, even if I were to find this idea myself later on, it would still be forever hers, and not mine.

It is strange to be aware of this, to realize that maybe it is a trick of the mind, that maybe there is no real reason to feel like this. But it cannot be helped.

She gets offended and deems this nothing more than a foolish sentiment.

‘Independence is highly over-rated. Don’t tie yourself to trivial Western concepts. We are not like that.’

How do I argue with that? How do I deal with my wants being slung into over-simplified categories of East and West? These are two flat characters of a play, characters whose lines I’ve memorized and understood too well. They are not my lines and I am, quite simply, neither.

How can I explain that her words are a dismissal of my own inner stirrings? And these are stirrings I’ve tried to stem from my own self. Whatever that may mean, whatever that self is which I somehow deep down believe in. Whatever readings, thoughts, exposure has led me to my beliefs, Western or Eastern, as ultimately arbitrary as her own.

She tells me, ‘There is no shame in making use of my life, of what I know.’ And I do want to trust her life experience, except, it is not mine.

She says, ‘You listen to career counselors and the like. Why not me? I may not have all their training, but I have traveled, and taught many, and seen my share of this world. And you’re my child, I’ve known you since birth, I know you. Not just as a parent, but as an educator. I’ve watched you and I know you. Better than anyone.’

Her every word binds her to me.

She is right, I would prefer a trained stranger’s advice to her own. Partly because her advice from her times past may not work on my times to come. But mostly, because I am her child.

She does not know me fully anyways, no matter how impartial she says she is. She does not necessarily know who I’ll be from who I was. She’s seen me but she does not see me. She does not know who I’ve come to be right now.

No one does, everyone knows only a part of me. And she has too long been a part of me, from the womb, feeling never apart from me. But we are apart, and I have lived apart from her and I have grown apart from her.

As it should be. We will be torn apart from each other one day anyways.

It is not to be far from her that I want, but to be our fully realized separate selves. Is it strange to know this, to feel this so clearly?

If my mom should ever find out about my shameless involvement in premarital sex, with no intention of commitment either, she would, to put it in teenage terms, ‘flip’. I would lose her trust forever. I would lose her esteemed approval of my moral character, the one she has judged impeccable. I don’t know how we would deal with it. I don’t know really if I am ready to deal with it at all. To really fully admit who I am. Separate.

Weak.

I’ve seen it happen to my sister. I was young. It was scary to watch their fights. To see my sister cry day after day. To hear my mom tell my sister in anger one particularly bad time that she wished my sister had never been her daughter at all. I’m sure she regrets saying it. I don’t know if my sister will forget hearing it. I don’t.

I’ve heard her say many times, ‘But you, you are different, I know. You would never think of doing such things.’

I almost believed what she believed of me. Or what she wanted to believe. Or what she wanted me to believe.

I remember I wanted to believe too once anyways. To be that angel. No risks taken, heaven guaranteed.

But a curiosity and joy for life won over, and it did not push me to be more outspoken, like I wish now that it did. It backfired. I hid. I did not do a lot, but the things I chose to do, I became sneaky about. And the thing about sneakiness is, so long as you’re not caught, you only know of its reward.

Except for this guilt. And these nightmares.

My nightmare last night was gross, and I’ll be graphic about it, so you’ve been pre-warned. Walk away, while you still can, it really is gruesome. But this is all the therapy I have right now.

It started off innocently enough, with my mom asking me if I had been taking my vitamins. She asks me this often.

I said no, that I had forgotten to again. This is my usual answer.

She started to get incredibly angry at this. She started to rant. A painful, cutting rant, of the kind I’ve never heard come out of her before, especially not towards me.

We are, on the whole, a quiet, reserved family. My mom the most expressive one out of us all, the least afraid of confrontation. This must be hard for her sometimes, must make her feel pitted against her own family. When she is the one angry, and we are the ones always seemingly calm, always just running away.

But in this dream, she was harsher even than her usual.

I’ve had it up to here with you. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of taking care of you. I am just sick. Absolutely sick of you, everything about you, everything you do. It’s all wrong. Always wrong. Everything you do is wrong. Everything you do is a mess I have to take care of. I’ve had enough. Completely enough.

She went on and on. And here’s the thing, I wasn’t trying to appease her, like I would be in real life. I wasn’t hurt or scared or reduced to tears like I would instantly be in that situation. Like I always am if she so much as slightly attacks me. Though she would never attack me this way. And she would never complain about having to care.

I did not step down. I kept screaming back, first with words: ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?’ And then just the scream, all words dropping away. Just this roaring, screeching scream that wouldn’t stop. Trying to block her out, trying to shut her up. She kept complaining bitterly about me, and I just kept howling back, as hard as I could.

I felt like I was possessed. And the way dreams are, with this thought, it turned into exactly that. It turned suddenly into a scene exactly like from The Exorcist.

My screaming turned into puking, my mouth just opened wide, and it all rushed out, this disgustingly brownish steady waterfall, pink with blood, and I was surprised but I couldn’t stop. I was evil, looking my mom straight in the eyes and I couldn’t stop. And my sister was there somewhere, sympathetic, in the background, pleading silently with sad eyes for me to not do this. To not do this to myself.

But I had to, and I wanted to, to shock everyone, to do the worst I can. And it just went on, and it wasn’t just bile forced up, it was solid and chunky, it was everything inside, all my organs mashed up, all that I had ever chewed, swallowed, tried to digest, just everything, it just kept pouring out.

My mom didn’t even flinch, didn’t even stop from her grumbling, she just looked down at the growing pool of filth at my feet and said with disgust:

See? I’m probably going to have to clean up that too.

I just threw up some more. I was throwing up still when my feet slipped in my own mess, and I lay there, alone, in my own puke, afraid of what I’d done, heaving, finally done, crying in sobs of exhausted abandon.

And my mom just looked down at me, this look of utter revulsion on her face. So I felt like I was lower than nothing.

Then she shook her head and walked away.

I was left right there, right in my pile of blood and guts and filth and bile and pain.

By myself.

Waking up from that vivid dream, shaking with fear, revolted, my mouth sour, was not a good start to my day.

Some dreams are too obvious not to decipher. And my mom’s dream accusations sound too much like my own ones towards myself.

Is 23 too old to be having scary growing pains?

missing mojo

What do you do when the friend you’re fucking feels like he's lost his mojo?

I am quite at loss. I’m slipping and sliding and bumbling. It’s delicate. I want to help as a friend, because he seems quite bummed about it. I also cannot deny wanting to help for my own ulterior motives. I’m trying. I don’t want to try too hard.

I woke up late this morning, groggy, saw him online, sent a hello.

T: I want my sexy confidence back. :(

A quick pause.

L: Maybe I can help. :)

It was that same silly thought lingering from the post before. It’s the first thing that popped into my head really. I’m a bit of a ditz that way sometimes.

Did I have this idea that I could follow with this incredible, absolutely sexy declaration that would just make him go ‘sproing’? If this was possible, I sure couldn’t think of anything to say that would have that effect.

I hadn’t thought it out. The second I pressed enter was when I started to.

I suppose I was thinking that maybe it would help to just jump right back into the swing of things, hope for the best.

Come to my lair baby, I’ll show you a good time ??? As much as I’d love to believe that I have this sexual energy that’s utterly contagious, that there’s something in me that might help, I have to be realistic. An overzealous female in heat might just send his cowering libido further into its corner.

No, there should be no pressure from me.

And I suppose it's not really up to me either. I think that’s why I’m so nervous. If this was with someone I had commited to for the long haul, we could just take responsibility for it together, sit down, plug at it, try to figure something out. But as is, it’s not really my problem. My loss definitely, but not my problem.

I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, take on the role of his ‘caring girlfriend’. But fuck it, I do care, I do want him happy. I’m like this with everyone I know, never mind the guy I’m having sex with who I’ve exchanged emails with for two years.

But too much concern and it is just another weight on him.

I want to tell him too that he has so much going for him, he should never feel any thing less than confident sexually. He has a splendid imagination, he has rhythm and pacing, he has strength and stamina, he has excitement and passion, he has a sensitive eye for a woman’s cues. (Well at least my cues.) And the package that all this comes in sure helps too. Not to mention the yummy package he's been endowed with. :)

It doesn’t feel natural saying all this to him like that, as though he’d been trying to fish for a compliment to boost his ego. And he’s worried about how he’s feeling now anyways, not how he’s been before.

I have this sudden urge to ask: Isn’t there anyone else around who lives closer by who you can call for a little bit of play?

Strange thought. Strange suggestion, like I'm his play coordinator or something?? I sense in it a bit of just me wanting to run away from what I just said about helping him, rather than just looking out for his welfare. But some sincererity in it too I think.

Again though, I’m not even sure taking the plunge, despite not feeling it 100% ready, is a good idea in the first place.

Maybe he should just take it slow. Maybe I should just leave him be.

Maybe I should try to help him figure out what it is about the accident that is deep-down bothering him so much….

What am I, an analyst?

An over-analyzer maybe.

Please don’t ask me how I might help. Please don’t ask me how.

T: how?

Crap. A long panicky silence.

L: See (L) says these things, but she doesn’t actually think about how.
L: Um.. I’ll think of something though.

Crap.

T: lol

Ugh. Escaped to take a shower, hoping for increased blood flow. Came back to ask him a question about thoughts on his accident, watched it belly flop with a magnificent splash.

Finally I settled on admitting that saying ‘I can help’ earlier had been a little presumptuous of me. But that if he could think of anything I could do to help, I was around. That if he thought a visit together with no expectations, or just light play, or anything else might help, I was all for it.

I think that’s good enough. What would you have said?

pushing back

Just found out, no T for me tommorow. :(

He’s said that he is still feeling really un-sexy from the accident. That he feels a little antsy, anxious about a ‘for-sex’ visit. He’s assured me it has nothing to do with me. The fact that I have to travel to see him, and that it would have been a shorter visit also does not help.

I understand. I’ll be a little worried for him though, if it goes on for much longer. I believe him for now that it’s nothing serious. I understand that it’s the smallest of feelings. I just think even the littlest trace of worry that niggles at you underneath can start to do some damage after a while.

I want to tell him, maybe I could help you, maybe I could fuck you, maybe I could help you feel a little more alive.

How presumptuous would that be?

He is so cool in my books, I feel the drips of passion and energy and thought he has put into his life. I hate to see him at anything less. I’m not saying he can’t or shouldn’t be any less. We all are from time to time. I just mean that the smallest of losses is more marked because of who I believe him to be.

It is too bad we can’t pluck friends out of their clouds. We can encourage. We can distract a bit. We can even offer advice. But really the most of what we can do is stick around and hope.

I’m pretty disappointed though I must say. I was quite frankly rearing to go. I was even going to refrain from touching myself today to build up some tension, but luckily I decided against it last second. :)

I was also ready to kick up some kink. Try something new. I won’t say more, let’s see if it happens, and then I can spring it on here as a surprise.

I have to admit too that it bugs me a little that he said he’s been trying to push this feeling back. We’ve had a couple of sexy talks since then, I’d hate to feel like any of them were forced, or him going along for my sake. That has to be my biggest pet-peeve. To feel like you’re bouncing off someone’s energy. And then to be told later, yeah actually, I wasn’t that into it at all. Maybe it’s my pride, and also partly a bad experience I had, but I never, ever want to be around someone, unless I can know and trust that I’m completely wanted there. With no fronts.

This fear of mine makes me overly shy and sensitive and unwilling to make a move sometimes.

So it makes me happy that he told me this now, instead of discovering when I got there, or afterwards, or never at all. Like he said, it really could have made things weird between us if it persisted and he kept pushing back.

God knows I’ve had to push back a lot of stuff too these past two weeks. Sometimes you’re able to break through, sometimes you’re not. Sometimes we force ourselves, for personal reasons we can’t avoid. Not to accommodate another, but to feel like things are still going on as always. We play along with whatever’s in our lives, hoping life will play back, and it helps sometimes, when it turns out to be more real than we expected. When we can still get something out of it.

I tell myself it doesn’t diminish the past few encounters we had.

Do you know, it’s funny, or maybe it’s not, I’ve been doing something similar in this blog a bit these past two weeks?

I have a confession. My flu only lasted a week. I stayed at home during that whole time. The week after that I was better. I just didn’t go to school.

I sat here and wrote. I still have all the stuff due from two weeks ago. And now the stuff due for a week from now. I’m still sitting here and writing.

There are a couple of things I wrote I couldn’t even post. I’m thinking I should just put them up here though. For me. Because somehow posting it up is a lot different than having it stew as a word document on my hard drive.

I’m avoiding. I feel completely setback. I don’t know how to dig myself out of this hole of schoolwork. I’m not sure I want to. No motivation again. I feel little licks of depression at my toes, days are so short, it’s so cold outside, I haven’t been out in so long. I try to ignore it.

My assignment is just an assignment. But it looms like a noose ready to wrap around my neck. I step up to it, and I want to run away.

I look like I’m having fun in the meantime. I’ve in fact sometimes been overly jovial.

These are great distractions. And then these are great guilts, for all I’m not doing. For all the screw-ups.

I’ve started lying again. Avoiding phone calls.

I don’t know what it is, if I just feel like I’m in this constant struggle to prove myself, because I have this burning desire to be a fucking hero(ine) in everything I do. And every setback I encounter is an excuse for relief from that fight. Yes, you’ve failed, at least now you know it. No more questioning and doubts.

Sigh.

If I can know all this, if I can see how negative and damaging and irrational this is, and I do, then I should be able to walk away.

I can do this. I don’t have to do that to myself again. I can step out of this trap. I don’t have to go there again. I don’t.

I can push myself.

I can.

correction

When I send T my 'inevitable' fantasy, he says it’s hot, but then he reminds me that he doesn’t usually touch himself when he masturbates. That he just lies back in bed with his thoughts, and maybe the occasional friction from the sheets.

He has told me this before. So I hadn't included any descriptions of ‘pounding’ or ‘milking’ and such in the piece. Still, I had thought that at least some stroking, some handling, just now and then, was involved.

I stand corrected.

My response was to crack some silly joke about having to stick my head under his sheets then. With a flashlight, now that I think of it.

I joked, because I was in that kind of mood.

But really the thought of it drives me absolutely insane. I don’t know about you, but I find that pretty fucking HOT.

To think yourself into ejaculation. To lie back and just CUM.

Who does that? What goes on in there?

I mean I can get pretty close that way. But never all the way. Never without at least a little flurry of fingers pushing on my clit, especially towards the end.

I am so awesomely arrested by this image of him cumming like that.

Does this make me a ‘mind snob’? I mean, I do love the touch, the feel, the grab, the squeeze. But still, this fact about him makes me so damn horny for him.

If I said anything more to him, who knows what overblown thing I’d be gushing in the rush of that moment?

I am in sexual worship of your intellect.

I genuflect in the giant shadow of your mind’s eye.

Wet me with your appetite. Fuck me with your psyche. Trap me inside your head. Pin me to your dreamscape.

I want to jump your imagination.

I want to grind vivid thought to thought.

I want to have your mind’s babies.

LOL. OK, scratch that last one.

inevitable

To watch you masturbate. To see it close up. To have you lie down flat. To let me watch. To have my head between your legs. To be right there. Right there. My head sideways, our bodies a loose L. To see what I’ve only heard. To witness the hand that moves with your sound. To see you stiffen. Under your own touch. Under your own thought. Close enough to reach out. To touch. To smell. To taste. To refrain. To just take in. To take in as you feel your head begin to swell. To watch your shaft lengthen. To see your tip engorged. Ready. To see you ready to lose control. To lose my own. To cry out with you. To press my hand, sudden, gentle, on your balls. To feel. As you cum. As you surge. To see you spill out over yourself. Your cum. Drops of it. Right there.

My cum. Right after. Inevitable.

stilled

T has been understandably shaken from his accident. It is difficult to know what to tell him. I have always been a good empathizer, but a very poor comforter. I just tell him that it’s normal to feel shaken, and that it can take a while sometimes, but that he will feel better eventually. This from my experience, albeit a less significant one. But I don’t go into my experience with him at all, the last thing he needs is more talk of accidents.

Between his accident and me being sick, our sexual energy hasn't exactly been off the charts. Or even on the bottom of the charts. At least not until our 'devious' incident.

But the morning of that day, he said there was one nice thing to do when we felt this way. To push inside me just barely hard and just rest there. Inside my warmth and wet. Just stay there. And that it wouldn’t matter if he went soft after a while. That I would just be there surrounding him, and that there would be a comfort in that.

Mmm this kind of comfort, I would have no problems providing.

I remember asking this sometimes of X. He would push in eager, immediately beginning to thrust. I would hold him down selfishly with my arms, stilling him. Just stay, don’t move, just stay inside me. He would look a bit confused, but he would always comply. Only for a second though, he would always start moving again too soon, afraid of losing his erection.

I remember he stayed once like that long enough for me to be satisfied. I had him trapped in my arms, and he was finally relaxed and still. There was this silence, the silence of suspended animation. You could hear only our breathing, our chests pushing against each other. My eyes were closed and I sighed slowly. I was fully taking in for the first time the feel of him inside me.

He admitted later that he was surprised at how long we had stayed like that without him going soft. And of course, I had been more than willing for some fast motion right afterwards.

But actually it wouldn’t have mattered if we hadn’t gone on to that. It might have even felt good, at least for me. To have him surrendered inside me, soft, gentle, sleeping. Just for me.

of strength and riding

When I tell T of how utterly exhausted my flu has left me in this past week, he says, ‘Yeah, but you’re strong...’

I like the matter of fact way he says this. Not dismissively, but with a quiet confidence.

Any good teacher knows of the power that lies in positive suggestion. I know, because I was raised by two teachers. And I think, if I’m not mistaken, he told me way back at the beginning that he was too. I know for sure that at least one of his parents was. (There are many details of our lives that we do not discuss with each other. Mostly because it doesn’t come up.)

The trick to this tactic is that you must first believe in your own suggestion. Or believe at least that it has potential to be true. It will not work otherwise. To teach is to reveal; it is based on the ability to make constructive perceptions about another to his/herself.

If that's not sexy, I don't know what is.

I smile at his response because it makes me think of the other time that he said this to me.

It was recently, the last time I was at his house. We were on his bed, and I was straddled on his resting body, his cock comfortably inside me. I was naked but for a dark chocolate brown tube top that had slipped down just enough to expose my nipples. I was riding him.

This is something I’ve never really gotten down. I’d like to be able to, because mentally, I love this idea of taking control of what I want. In practice, it is more difficult. I’m not quite sure how to move. It is hard to keep at a rhythm. My leg muscles start to shake and strain very quickly. Most of all, as I get increasingly aroused, I get overwhelmed. I stop to feel my pleasure, but then it ebbs back, and I have to remind myself to go on, to keep moving, keep ‘working’ at it. My loss of focus only gets worse as I go on. He is well aware of this.

(I send a little corny thankful prayer out always as I do this, appreciation to all the men who have true ability to fuck.)

I rode him like this for a while, my torso tilted towards him, still keeping pretty vertical.

But too soon, I felt myself losing the battle, collapsing closer and closer down, until my face hovered close to his left ear, barely able to move, moaning for control.

It was then that he said it. He pushed me gently back up, and murmured, almost hypnotically:

You’re not weak…You’re strong

I answered back quietly between gritted teeth, starting to move again, saying only:

I know.

Still it was good to hear. It sounds a bit strange described here, but it actually fit the moment quite perfectly.

It is good that maybe he has enough experience to know that this is good to hear. To know maybe a little bit of what every woman wants, or at least what I want, to be strong even at my most vulnerable.

And it was good to hear his tiniest of moans, and to see his tiniest flutter of eyes closing, when I proceeded to mesh my fingers into his hands resting by his sides, flip them upwards and level with his head, and press hard against his palms as I went on.

your eyes are green

Your eyes are green.

Green is for tender and young and moist. Green is for envy of what we have yet to live. Green is for grow and glow. You are a delicate leaf in the light. You are a firefly dance in the dark.

There is nothing else I can picture of you. You are the anyone to my noone. You look like no other. I could not begin to see you.

I clutch this crayon anyways. All I have is this green. All I’ve pictured since I was just barely no longer a child was this.

But do you remember? Do you remember what has yet to happen for you and me?

Do you remember my Mediterranean town where I used to look for you?

Were you there in the seaweed that I used to run though?

My summer cousins and I, we would sink beach-burned heels into the relief of wet sand, seawater lapping at our ankles. There was always that spot we could not avoid as we walked deeper in. They would wince at its touch; they felt only its trap, sticking to their feet. They would shudder; they would run to get free, run away to diamond blue depths of salt and ice. I ran with them too.

I should have lingered, as I wanted to. Those dirty green licks at my feet, soft and gentle. Those beating caresses in the waves. Rooted in one spot, always in motion. If you were there, I did not want to know it, I did not stay.

Do you remember how we could have chased and circled and tangled and fell into each other like vines? Plucking pleasure from my pussy with nimble fingers. Turgid, rooting and surging inside of me. Thrusting at me in strokes as I caved in like mossy earth to you.

Growing and pruning together. Touching, always touching. You were no choke, you were no competition. Would I have known this, that you could never have stolen anything from me? That there was room for each other? That you took my air and water and light, and that you were my air and water and light alike?

If I found you, would I have known this? Would I have stayed?

This is always how I pictured you, reaching to both sky and earth, steady and swaying, changing with the elements, dying many deaths and never giving up, deep-seated by my side.

Did I find you, and forget? Forget this early dream?

We had a flat roofed limestone house with bougainvillea creeping up one of its outside walls. We spent summers fanning each other to keep us cool, winters fanning our fires to keep us warm. We talked and shared and kissed and embraced under the shade of grapevine pergolas. We shopped at the local market, fresh fruit lined up on white sheets under muddy tents. Crouching villagers their vendors, shouting for us to buy. We taught grubby, grinning children at the peach colored primary school nearby. We walked to the tiny tobacco-scented town library. We jangled at our mandolin in our olive tree orchard. We created and birthed children, tangy, emerald, difficult children. We were farmers, we were builders. We were singers and seers and composers.

We were this. We could have been this. We were never this. We were never found. Could you hold on to that memory of us until ever and never?

I should have known to separate these deja vu salad dreams from you. But I couldn’t. I looked for you, and I saw all this.

But I tell myself this is all dead bark, gone and past. I tell myself I could not have born to be caught like that at all.

I look to open seas. I look again to float and drift free, untouched, away from it all.

I think now that I was wrong about you. You were everywhere. You were embedded and liberated at the same time. You were living firm in the sea bed, you were diffusing free in the sea. You were there, even as I ran away from you, I ran towards you. You were that hint of green warmth in the Aegean aquamarine.

I did not want to see. I needed to be blind, to separate. This you without limit scared me, so terrified always that you will be found and I will be lost, that you will never be found and we will be lost. That you exist, that you don’t exist: I don’t know what frightens me more.

Will you show yourself? Have you already been shown? Have I missed you? Do I miss you now?

I stroke like a wheel in and out of water, asking countless questions, I suffer to keep kicking, never wanting answers, so long as I am here, alive and afraid, moving always in a boiling sea.

If you are there no matter where I swim, if there is nowhere to swim to but you, should I swim faster, or tread in my spot?

Find me. Quench me. Swim by my side in this tempting turmoil. Tell me we can live happy in the eye of this storm. Tell me we need not travel, we need not run, we need not feel too grounded, we need not feel too high. We need not feel stuck or swept away.

That it is not us who has to move, but the world that will shift, whirlpool swirling oceans around steadfast us. Tell me this.

My green.

Note: Just a rough draft. Indulgently sappy. For the record, I really have been to that town, or a town just like it, many times, both as a child and not.

devious

Oh I was so bad. Oh he was so bad. Oh but it was harmless and oh I’m so glad.

I wish I could say more here, wish I could lay it all down, but I can’t. His secret, not mine.

L: tell me again that my words gave you an erection
L: tell me again
L: or just say yes

T: your words made me hard - the blood is flowing out of control to my tip - the head needs to burst

L: mmmmmmmm
L: good
L: that's all i'll need before your call

T: my call will need to find you ready to boil

L: it will

It did. We had hardly any time and still I came too soon.

T. Hot T. Hottie. Sorry, sorry my first cum was not together with yours.

I lost my head. Your devious timing. That whisper. That whimper. That cock. Those two fingers inside me like you asked. Spread wide like you asked. Finger on clit like you asked. I lost my head.

I told you like you asked. Once, twice, thrice. Broken, frantic, changing every time.

I- need- to- cum

And I did not lie, I did. The more I told you, the more I did.

It took me before I knew it. It grabbed me by surprise.

My body came before my mind knew it. I felt it like a rush that did not wait for yes or no. I was squishy and wet and wonderful on my fingers. I was this wide range of gasps and cries as it let itself out. You heard me.

And though I was too soon, you were there through it all, I heard you through it all. These are all I heard, or maybe this is all you said.

Cum- orgasm- cum

My orgasm came and my body was in that second satisfied. Yet in that second, my mind was rearing for more. Turned on by my speedy cum, turned on by your cum waiting, turned on by it all still. Greed, a woman’s blessed greed: if only I were not so full, if only I could feel that again, feel that filling again.

A greed blessed, because I could. In that heart-pounding second, I could be wiped clean. Praise. I could put my hand back on that clit. Praise. I could start again. Get there even faster this time. Starting to gasp and gasp again.

You told me,

Yes- cum – unh- cum – cum so I can cum

You told me that you were cumming, you told me you were spurting. I was there, I was there with you this time. I was cumming too. I was sighing and shaking too.

I was so wired, so on, it had been so long, this was all so exciting, I think I would have cum again on top of that if we had time. And again. A loop with no beginning or end.

You were rushing words so fast, so quiet so as not be heard, so breathy from your cum, so hot. I tried to catch them but I was still sighing, still living my cum.

I have to go – You’re going to get me in trouble- I don’t know if that thought of getting me in trouble turns you on- but I have to go

My low throaty laugh was your only answer before you shut the phone.

Later, when I crawled out of my bed, smiling, I found your message on my screen:

T: thanks babe
T: you are soooo sexy

L: mmmmm as are you

That smile stayed on my face for hours.

struggle

In some strange way, this loosely argued ramble here is what directly led me to writing my last post.

Act 2 was an easy write because it was about conflict.

A struggle that ended happily. A struggle that made my cum all the more worthwhile. But still a struggle.

(I laugh to call it a wrestle. I get images of T lifting me above his head and doing a Double-Spin WhamBammer or something. Insert some trademarked name for a professional wrestling move there. I don’t actually know any…Promise. )

The clash of our sex in that particular moment was sandwiched between two other completely different episodes. During those two times, it was the harmony, the ease, the lack of conflict that overwhelmed. The just-happy-doing , no-matter-where-they-lead, no-matter-how-they-go, Sex Acts 1 and 3.

Precious times. I felt through them both pervaded with a sense of thankful life-joy. I wanted to sing praises to the Deity who sent such easy little wonders in such unique, unexpected packages my way. Blasphemous girl that I am.

I felt fully aware, actually savoring time as it unfolded. With no real rush, with no real regrets for its ending. How often does that happen?

T got into a bad car accident a couple of days afterwards. He got out unhurt. My gratefulness in my moments with him took on whole meaning when I heard of his scrape with death. Became less of an abstraction and more of a tangible reality.

Still, they are so difficult to write about, this 1 and 3.

I pick at healing scabs constantly, but when my trembling hands are faced with seemingly flawless, inviting warm skin, I balk. If I touch, will it disappear?

And this thought digresses me off into another. That it so much easier to be sad and conflicted, then it is to be happy and at peace.

That we are naturally inclined towards suffering should come as no surprise to me. Then again, maybe I should not generalize, maybe it is just me.

My light, I have tended to, I have pruned and directed and watched warily its growth. My dark, it has never needed any feeding.

You turn off the light to get to dark. You cannot turn off the dark.

And it is that way with everything anyways. Everything must fall. Potential must be lost. Order to disorder, high to low. We may seem to skip and jump back and forth. But eventually we all go from life to death. At least in the confines of this world.

The direction of the waterfall stays the same. Some of us are better at clinging on as compared to others. Some are lucky, born with enough anima to not even feel like they’re clinging. They are not aware, right until the moment when they are swept away. Some culminate energy, gathering strength as they go along. They will leave too, but strong, and knowingly.

Our ability to see the coming of this fall, to see too how deep our darkness goes differs from one to another. We can prefer to be blissfully ignorant. We can play at its edges, daring ourselves close. It may not actually be a choice sometimes.

Me, I stumbled upon it, or maybe it stumbled upon me. IT. In all its dizzying entirety. I was drawn in. It was vertigo.

When I surrendered fully into depression, I felt only an utter weariness of the soul. I had no real reasons. I led a sheltered easy life. I had people who loved me. I was just tired, tired of where I had found myself. Tired of searching for a source to go on. Quite simply, and quite horribly, it was easier to die. This is always the case perhaps. But it becomes a temptation, the only temptation, for the one who cannot look away.

I looked down. It was a mistake. Inevitable or not. Ingrain or not.

I fell in. Like I have been tricked into falling in again as my mind takes this path to write these words down. But nowhere even remotely close to how far I fell then.

Does this all sound morbid?

I love life for its tragicomedy. (As least it is not a commie tragedy hehe. ) I love life for its flip sides that fit, its duality that is not a duality at all.

There is something to what they say. A triumph is only a triumph in the wake of a struggle. And we would not struggle if we did not want to triumph.

And that is why Act 2 was hot, for me at least.

Still my other fight. To find unafraid, living words for the barely veiled joys of my 1s and 3s.

everything in between

silhouettes
cracks

secrets whispered
to break silences

in writing this
sudden

lies an urge
sodden

to make out
a bare body
in dim flame

and fuck
between shadows

like a discovery

welcome

I stared at my screen for a long time. I really did.

When my stats showed 600-something people had visited my page in the past two days, I figured someone somewhere must have miscounted. By a LOT.

But a thump at the back of the monitor, a pressing and repressing of the 'refresh' button, and nope, it was still there.

Turns out I've been mentioned in the Sex Blog RoundUp on Fleshbot. For my 'crazy intense wrestling sex' in Act 2. Wow. And woohoo! Thanks Bacchus.

I have to admit, seeing my blog nestled amongst the luscious likes of FigLeaf and Red and PussyTalk and DesireX gave me quite a pussy tingle.

(Funnily enough, I had already read most of the entries in the list. I really do have to get around to linking to all the places I read)

Thanks for coming around all. And do say hello if you feel like it.

I bite, but only in the heat of the moment.

Act Two

We are supposed to be taking a nap.

I am trying to fall asleep when T sidles up behind me. His one arm hooks me in towards him, his fingers pushing a little at my mound. He slams into my ass, slowly, with increasing force. No penetration. Just mock fucking.

And I do feel mocked, mocked for my surprised flaring want, a want he purposefully falls short of satisfying. I wonder how far he intends to take this. I mask my moans, mixing light laughs into my sighs.

But when he continues, I push back against him, pushing back defenses. I trust and give in. Just as I start to moan in earnest, he stops, rolls back away from me. I hear him say, devilishly casual, his back already to me:

‘Alright well… have a nice nap’

I am livid and laughing. I kick and swat at his back. I swear at him freely and loosely. But of course I don’t ask for him to come back and continue.

‘You bastard!’

He laughs, delighted.

‘You complete bastard!’

‘Oh..’ he chuckles. ‘It is so fun to be a man sometimes’

I am smiling, and I am thinking that being a man has nothing to do with it. That there is a woman who can tease him as mercilessly as he does me. Who sneaks up to him as he is trying to sleep. Who takes his cock in one hand, and pushes her cunt against the skin above his ass so he feels it, ever so wet and warm. Who breathes words into his ear telling him just how good she will feel pulsating around his cock. Who forces him to tell her just how much he wants her to fuck his cock with her cunt. And who can then hold that pleasure in her palm, refusing it and dispensing it at her will.

I am not that woman yet. But maybe I can be. Given a little more confidence, a little more experience, a little more control, maybe some day, if I feel like it, I will be.

But for now, I calm myself down, trying to dim the tingle he’s awoken in my ever-ready cunt.

I satisfy myself with one last pinch at his leg and a mutter of ‘Fucker…’, settling my back down into the mattress, and re-closing my eyes.

Even as the word leaves my mouth, he is upon me. He is trying to flip me on my stomach and I am resisting.

No no no, not again, not at his whim again.

But my resistance is doomed from the start, it loses heart even as it begins.

I am flipped easily, bounced onto my stomach with the extra force, and when I try to flip back I am kept most easily there, and though I cross my ankles to entangle them at first, my panties are most easily and quickly and thrillingly yanked off. And when he forces my ass up in the air, when he pauses to pull out his cock, when he holds me by the hip to keep me still, when he begins to push in at my entrance, I squirm both away from him and towards him, torn and panicked.

And his voice taunts me from above, infuriatingly calm and soothing:

‘It’s ok…Go ahead..You can resist if you want…You can resist… if you don’t want this’

You know I do, goddamit. Though I won’t say it. I may tell you all the time. But not now. Not this way.

Oh but I am already incredibly wet from it all when he pushes his hard cock roughly inside.

Silly girl. Fooling no one. Struggling against yourself.

I allow myself finally to grudgingly scissor my legs closed when he tells me to, so that I am lying completely flat under him, part of my face muffled in the pillow.

And he fucks me like I need right then, hard and deep and slamming.

My cries lose protest and gain pleasure with every thrust.

I cannot believe how insanely wet I am becoming. I actually feel it welling up from a spot inside my cunt, more distinctly than I’ve felt before. It is divine, this surging leaking feeling. Even in the animal moment, I want to tell him about it, I struggle to tell him about how wet this is making me.

It is not long before I start to get really frantic, and he is again telling me to cum.

I am not ready quite yet when he commands it, I need just a second more or so. So I take it. He gets louder and more enraged above me during this delay, still ramming hard into me:

‘..Cum. CUM. You better fucking CUM for me….’

Yes, it is his rage, the rage in his cock that gets me there, hitting against my shivering insides, bringing me to a deep and flattening orgasm, my expanding ribs feeling almost about to break from the collapse, leaving me happily gasping into my pillow.

He stays resting on top of me for a minute, and then throws himself on his back next to me, saying he will save his cum for later.

Peace and calm and clear is suddenly in the air between us as I lie there breathe breathing away. We are quiet but I cannot tell for how long.

I battle the sleep that my bliss always attempts to immediately tide me over to.

It is an attempt to preserve, a fear of spoiling a moment, because I feel that what I want is to fuck like this and then just drift into sleep side by side, without a word exchanged.

But we do end up talking for a bit, and although I am mostly incoherent, and not very enlightening, as it turns out, my bliss and my memory of it is left intact.

And my sleep, when I do give in to it, is wonderfully unbroken.



(Act 1 and 3 of my freaky Friday is underway...)

orgasm - study I

T has a recording of me sitting on his computer. (No not a recording of me while I sit on his computer. The recording is doing the sitting. In so far as recordings can sit.)

Anyways… It is a recording of a talk of ours that took place 20 minutes before I was about to leave the house to go catch the bus.

It starts off with a rustle of the microphone being adjusted. Then you hear a girl’s voice, nervous, expectant. She sounds small but calm, and she says

yes… yeah…alright.. ok I’ll try

If you could listen on the other side, this is what you would hear:

This time around I want you to tell me when you’re cumming.. It’s an incredible feeling to be able to communicate right before an orgasm. So tell me , let me know, right when you’re going to cum.

I have always enjoyed actually my collapse of language (and many other mind functions) in the moments right before I come. I could see though how it might be fun to try and find words anyways. Ok I need a subject, me, me, I’m the subject, I, now a verb, it is a verb next right?, Quick, quick the verb. Hurry, I’m cumming and I’ve got to say it. (Alright I’ll stop being corny, sorry.)

And then of course, there’s the working of the larynx that has other noisy plans, so you can actually get the words out. Yes, I could see how it could be interesting. Embarrassing maybe.. (‘I’m cumming! I’m cumming!’ I mean really, it’s been done. And where are they coming from? That’s what I always want to know when I hear it.) But still… interesting.

I won’t go through the whole recording because I think you may be getting tired already of hearing about our phone sex. It must sound repetitive at times, although of course it is not, there is a different feel to it every time. But suffice to say I did manage to say something that sounded like ‘I’m cumming’ before I was about to cum. I might have heralded it a second too soon, but for a first try it was not too bad. (I also managed to land on the phone right afterwards. So actually what you really hear in the recording is ‘Imcumming…aaa…*dial tone*… fuck!’ No one said I was graceful.)

God damn, I’m in a goofy mood. It’s too bad. I had some ‘serious’ points to discuss here.

Oh yes, my first point was that actually there was a power to the experience. The power of communication, yes. But also the power of being able to identify exactly when an orgasm is coming on. Which actually, I’ve never been really good at.

There’s another thing I’m not really good at, and it came up, when I finally managed to call him back. (I have a finicky phone.)

He asked me how I would rate my orgasm. On a scale of one to ten.

I was befuddled. ??There’s a scale for these things?

How much on the scale do I drop my orgasm if I couldn’t enjoy it fully because I landed on the phone?

So I gave him a number, pretty arbitrarily. I went for 8. If it were up to me, as opposed to the rules of scaling, I’d give every orgasm a 10. And then just add pluses now and then for fun, when I felt more enthusiastic than normal. (And there could be many intertwined reasons for that enthusiasm: my body, my mind, the weather)

But he had another question. What was my favorite orgasm?

More kerfluxion. (I don’t think that’s a word. But doesn’t it just sound confused?)

You can hear my answer on the recording, because I was still lying in bed and hadn’t bothered to get up to shut off the mic.

‘My favorite orgasm? I don’t know.. I never thought about it… that way’

I really hadn’t. He let it go, because we were both worn out, and I had to run to catch my bus.

I really never have tried to compare different orgasms. Partly because I am very much a mind fuckee (and fucker). And though I’m trying to be more aware of it, I do not actually listen to my body much during sex. I respond to it, but I don’t know exactly which parts of it are working or why or in what way. This would be a good skill to acquire, I know, and I’m working on it. So I thank him for bringing it up.

I know some orgasms must be better than others, but when I try to compare, it is like comparing apples and oranges.... and bananas and kumquats and carambolas.

(Mmm carambolas.. OK I just like saying that. Say it with me - carambolas. Also known as star fruit. A very pretty fruit too, five pointed corners when you cut it transversely, not much of an odor, sweet and sour, flesh not too soft or hard, kinda stringy but juicy. I’ll tell you when I get an orgasm that’s like a carambola.)

Some orgasms are soft and gentle and make you smile. Some are hard and intense and make you scream. Some roll and unfold, some just explode. Some are big and expansive and steamer-roll over you, others are small and contained and pin you to the spot. You may prefer one over the other, but me, I have difficulties choosing. Anyways, I shouldn’t have to. They are all good, all all good. I wouldn’t want to offend them by choosing one over the other. The only bad orgasm is no orgasm. (Although I must note too that sex without orgasm can also be a happy thing as long as you’re having fun)

But now yesterday on the phone it came up again, but in a different form.

When I was writing 'at the doorway', I actually got myself quite worked up. I had to stop. I had to stop and take a break. A busy break. I wanted to feel an orgasm too, so I could put the steam of that into the last part.

Things were just on that day. I don’t know whether it was just like that from the beginning, and that is why I started writing, or if it was the writing that got me to that state. But I could feel it as soon as I started, that I was going to cum, and cum very fast, and maybe because of the fast, it was going to be very intense. So I stopped and set up the microphone again. And I was right, because what I got was a (wincingly embarrassing to me) recording of me moaning like a screaming banshee (screaming like a moaning banshee?) right when I came. And I managed to announce it right before too, quite coherently, made me proud.

So I sent him this recording. (He’s going to have quite a collection soon!) And I told him about it, how it was very intense and how he will be able to tell when he hears it.

He liked it, and he told me later that he had to go to his room and make a wet mess upon hearing it . (Wet messes, mmm) But he had an interesting question to ask as a result of my description of it.

Which of my orgasms were better, the ones during sex with him, or during masturbation? And (here’s the even more difficult part), I had to put aside the mental aspect (he called it emotional, but I prefer mental) of two people sharing an experience during sex, and just talk from a purely ‘physical’ point of view.

Errr.

Don’t be harsh on him, because I know he doesn’t ask in the normal jealous way. He has admitted there is some insecurity in that question, yes. But mostly he is just curious, and wants to know where things stand.

So it has been decided.. I will study my orgasms for T. (Actually mostly for me, but he's the one who brought it up.) I will dissect them and report to him my findings. And to you as well of course.

(…to be continued when I am feeling more sane and less silly)

(and less obsessed with annoying parentheses)

at the doorway

as soon as you see me slip a finger inside slide do it before you do anything else yes when you see me find a wall to trap my back against lift my skirt and do just that yes wet i’ll be wet don’t doubt it don’t question it just do just that invade me with your index warm wet around index warm our breaths mmmm yes just like that feel me parting just like that hold my one leg up against your side so i part more give me something to hold on to your back your neck your mouth mmmm suck sweet on my fingers yes let my other arm be up extended spread fingers pressed against the wall for balance for control hear my cry as soon as you see me and let it be from that finger move closer slide my leg back down to move closer stay inside but move closer touch your tongue first in between my spread fingers then inside my mouth my already open panting mouth i’ll close it to hold your tongue holding and sucking parted lips parting a quick soft bite on the way out so hot hot your earlobe to tug between my teeth push another finger inside push the third in yes my cunt yes just keep it there bring your thumb onto my clit and push yes just a little gentle gentle push slide left oh move the rest of you back now be just that hand now let me see you do it doing it to me want you to see what you’re doing to me (lost face lost lost moment) feel what you’re doing to me (feel it on your fingers a little wet when you slipped inside when you saw me now just a dripping mess of inside skin burn) hear what you’re doing to me (un-quieted) give me just a bit of your noise face too you make me wet with your i want this groan and your i’m taking this look (except you’re giving and i'm taking) wait let me pull you in just a bit to tug it all down let me see that too so i can reach out enough to feel that too cock in hand (your cock is in my hand) the things the many things the many very yes the yes we will do with this in hand so so warm and thick were you this hard already before you saw me and slipped inside did i do this to you is this mine is this hard cock mine do you give it to me now for me to use on me in me i do so want it in me pause with cock in stroking hand pause with breath in throat (just pause) your fingers push away from each other pushing me apart god yes my parts pushing open wide you prop me open wide with your fingers god (disquietingly loud) push still furrow in still your cock frozen still in my hand gripping so so deep begin to lose a part of your hand inside chunnel in deep deep wet oh so wet oh relentless you taking my hand and placing it on my clit like i could oh and i could (be pushed up higher under my own fingers) throbbing heat pleasure heat throbbing fuck fuckfuckfuck panic where are you reaching what are you touching please push harder please don’t stop almost fuck oh god fuck me please don’t let me cum like this so easy fuckmefuckme Fuck Me Now let me cum from your fuck yes from your still in my hand fucking cock swollen oh thank you you’re turning me around thank you you’re grabbing my hips towards you thank you holding my wrists against the wall pushing in ooo always so fucking warm and smooth and perfect and full when you push in so past ready for this this one is just for my cum later (soon) later we will walk away from this doorway and find another place to fuck so i can enjoy you fully finally fully exploding inside me (white white and hot and sticky- will it dribble out- i want to know) but now just do this just for me skin of your legs bumping on my ass pump piston push blank wall joyful crying just your pushes just your cock just you for this for this i ask you to slip a finger inside when you see me so it can cum to this so i can hold your cock in a slippery tight embrace like this not long now not long just a little faster harder just a little more yes yes YES i c u m (cum cum ummmmmmmmmm)…everything jostled and shaken and released trembling hold me up keep me here i’m gone o.

power play

This time when T tells me I cannot cum until he is ready, I resist.

I resist because it has been a while since we’ve interacted, and he is not enough in my mind for me to give in.

I’ve noticed anyways, and it’s manifested itself in the last couple of entries, that I’ve begun to harbor a certain animosity towards his sexual power over me.

There is a spirited stubborn Hot Bitch hidden somewhere in me. If cornered, the Hot Bitch does not know foe or friend, she kicks and claws to break free. If struggling with something, she snarls at attempts to help. If told to do something, she wants to do the exact opposite. If you want her, she wants to laugh cruelly, and dangle what you desire just out of your reach, to see how much you really do. And if you hold her in your power, she wants to fight and push the extent of that control, find out what she may gain or lose out of it.

But mostly her hostility, my hostility, is just game, so I shrug, and I play with it. He tells me not to cum and for the first time, I ignore him. Completely and consciously. I continue my self-ministrations, working myself up quickly. And he hears my cries begin to rise, dangerously close. And I am almost completely lost in it, lifting, lifting, my voice close to breaking, when his words fall like slabs into my reverie-

DON’T CUM.

I pull back so quickly, that I thrill at the pull, thrill too that I had to make him command it again, and command it so hard and cold too.

He is taking his time now. And he tells me so, that now he just wants to make me wait.

I know his cock is hard and ready. I know he does not need more time to go down this cum path with me.

I need.

But the Hot Bitch is strong in me today, and she does not plead. So I continue in quiet whimpers, touching light and slow, gulping for control. My previous headstrong rush to orgasm now has me teetering and tottering painfully closer than I would have if I had just taken my time. And the sounds he is making along with me do not help.

I tire of the struggle. I may not plead, but I can ask. Or do my Hot Bitch’s version of asking.

Let me cum now, T

I’m sorry?

Let me cum now..?

I add the question mark as an after-thought. But his answer is a swift growl, like I’ve never heard before.

NO. You’ll cum when I want you to. Only when I want you to.

And oh this just makes me breathe harder. I let him catch my broken breath after broken breath. And the fly of my fingers and the rise of my cry this time round is not voluntary at all.

Faster, he murmurs.

And we both do. And I wait and hope for his cum, so I can have mine too, and I know it is coming when his words become a rush to block out my growing moans.

Don’t cum. Don’t cum. Dontcum, dontcumdontcumdontcum. And then suddenly flipped in the second before he loses it. CUM. NOW. CUUUUUM. And then just his roar.

Underneath his roar, underneath the picture of white cum spurting out of his cock, maybe some getting on his hands, underneath my puppet fingers, underneath his command, I finally get my cum. And the Hot Bitch hers too.

I break unexpectedly long and wonderful and slow and drawn-out, fingers moving through it all, as if trying to shake out all lost cums.

And even in the pleasant gasping stupor of post-orgasm, or maybe because of it, because of this surrender of my powerful cum, the thought is still whispering there. And it is so unwarranted that I have to smile.

I hate you.

coincidence? I think not!

It must have been some kind of premonition because two minutes before he called, I pulled down my pants.

I wasn’t changing into anything else. I was in front of my computer, checking my e-mail. But I looked down and my jeans were heavy and my legs needed air. So I unbuttoned, and released myself from my jeans, tugging them down to the ground and stepping out. Leaving me in lacy racy indigo panties. (Yes I've got every color in the rainbow)

And then he called.

Premonition or not, it was certainly convenient.

dessert

It is a sepia dream and I am stripped down to burnt umber skin.

You’re sitting on a peeling wooden chair, just in jeans, your crème brulee torso a frame to push against. I’m looking at you with a slow smolder. I sense a vague reproach in me. I want you to know how it has been to be burn, burn, burning like this. You will understand how it has been to be wait, wait, waiting like this. Determined copper in my eyes.

This time I will not bend to you, this time I will not be weakened. I am resolute, do not let my raw sienna smile deceive. You will be branded at the point where this incense burn ends.

You smell the smoke of my sex as I approach, feet landing pointed in a straight line.

I kneel down at your feet. Do not be deceived.

My hair falls in singed rolls of cinammon onto your lap. My face is just breathe, breathe, breathing there, hot on your lap. You want to take a palm and place it under that hair, at the point of my neck where it all begins. You want to trace a triad of lines on my stretched neck with three fingers. And then further down, all the way down my brandished brandy back.

Hands to your sides please. I combust your plans with my own and you laugh, but you obey. I finger the thick material of your jeans at the waist. I take the cold shiny top button in between a thumb and finger. I thread it through and out. I pull down the rusty bronze zipper. The buzzing sound of its descent is a familiar call.

I lean back away from you, on the floor, elbows on a polished pine floor, stomach taut. My legs are spread slightly open, a pointed cliff peaking at my knees, waiting above your feet, left and right. When you look down, your first view is of my maroon sex, waiting below you.

I look vulnerable like this. Do not be deceived.

I play with myself, smiling stickily, looking right at you, fingers circling at a secret nub, syrups of pleasure beginning to form and coat me.

Touch yourself please. You grin and wriggle down your pants and push them aside. Your shove down your briefs and push them aside. My smile deepens cherry red, pleased. Your caramel cock is revealed, and it is golden, and its melted form is stiffening, and it is beautiful to watch, and it is all I can do not to taste to see if it’s as sweet as it looks, to stop and lick sticky spirals around it with the tip of my tongue.

I watch your luscious sight for a while instead, my fingers still probing at me. Your hand is at your base, because I want it to be there. You are stroking, because I want you to be.

I stand up finally. I straddle you, keeping one leg rooted on one side, and throwing the other one over your lap. I do not touch you still, supporting myself with my hands at the back of the chair, my body struggling, my ginger nipples straining close to your mouth. Hold my hips please. My warm whisper drips like nectar into your ear.

You let go of yourself and your fingers dig candy cane stripes into my hips, holding me up. I take your cock with one hand. Your touch from before has you hard, my touch now has you hard, and my dark plum core is hovering right above you, and this has you hard too.

I inch my way down, tensing up my knees, closer and closer. I waver in the flash moment before we touch. I imagine you flinching at the shock to your nerves from what feels like my fire. I picture myself reduced at our first touch to a pile of sawdust ashes under your feet. I know I must keep this all in, I know I must maintain control.

I am joyful inside, but I look at you grimly, and I descend on to you, guiding you in with my hand. And it is just fine, more than just fine. The excess heat is there in our joint gasp as we meet, and it is there as my cunt captures your cock like a parted baked peach, my cooked apricot flesh cradling you tightly. I move down slowly, and you plunge your way slowly up into me, pushing everything back in my mind. My razed insides respond, molten and soft, and you respond back, stiff and unyielding. I withdraw my hand, and, gripping tightly at your shoulders, I begin to ride you, sweeping you, as your hands slide down closer to my ass, guiding me up and down.

It is so sweet and it is so delicious, and our delicate skins are so wet and smooth against each other, and it is just exactly want I wanted from you. To be filled by you, to have your friction to myself again, to use your pleasure as my own and oh there is nothing to know but the next thing I know – next thing I know- there is nothing I know but the next thing I know-

Next think I know, I am not just sighing anymore, I am gripping you tighter, not just with my hands but with my cunt walls. And I am squeeze, squeeze, squeezing on your cock. And I am strokes of dark blackberry stain wet all over you. And next thing I know, I am moaning with a loudness my shattering mind cannot gauge, and you are groaning too. And next thing I know, my knees are useless, and we have melted off the chair and we are on the floor.

And I am shaking but I am filled with a sudden want. Lick me please. And you pull out, and your expressive face is quickly lost between my legs, and your tongue is burrowed inside my still pulsing pussy, our musky spice dripping onto your tongue.

Your roving tongue jolts desire anew in me, and this time you do it before I can ask for it. When you do it this time, you are not thinking of my want at all. You pull me up from my legs, away from the solid pine floor, my ankles to your sides. You jam yourself inside, encountering little resistance, shoving me over and over towards where you start. So I feel I never end, my liquid brown eyes wide, my chocolate mouth open and open, my wet cunt splitting open and open as your thickness grows. And your face alone in this moment could make a girl cum. So I know I stand no chance.

I make my last request, before I lose the last of my control. I push it desperately out of my contorted mouth. My worn-out throat. Cum inside me please.

And you do.

Icing on my cake.


Note: I was hungry when I wrote this (in more ways than one). :) And I love being silly like this and going over the top with a theme.

changes

My mood has taken a bit of a nosedive and my zest for writing along with it. I thought I would force myself to sit here and write though. Whatever may come to my mind.

Memories of long silences are not far away enough for me to forget. I can’t afford really to stay silent. Not again.

I do not handle changes in seasons well. Maybe it is a childhood spent in a country where the seasons only changed from hot to hotter to hottest. Changes in temperature, not knowing whether to put a jacket on today or not, shifts in the hours of darkness, trivialities like these all unsettle me like you would not believe.

I always forget it but then just when I realize what may be making me feel so out of sync, fall is already upon me and leaves are already crunching under the boots that I finally had to force myself to wear again.

Have I caught it early this time? Or are there other things?

I’ve been on birth control pills for three weeks now. My first stint with them years ago was not very pleasant. It coincided in fact with the start of my depression; make of that what you will. Doctors certainly do, pulling it left or right, cautioning me to weigh in all the factors before blaming it on the wonders of medication.

Not that I blame them, the doctors I mean. I am much the same. It is maybe the first thing I had to learn when I tried to take on this funny identity of a ‘scientist’. There are no reasons, only possibilities, likely or not.

And likeliness means nothing when you are a minute dot on a curve.

Anyways, this new batch of pills, is supposed to have hmm what was the phrase ‘little to no side-effects’

I was doing all right, except I weighed myself and I seemed to have gained ten pounds in two months. Maybe even in less time than that, that is just the last time I happened to have weighed myself.

I am a hypocrite because I am the annoying girl who claimed to never care about my weight at all, and ate whatever the hell I wanted to until now, when I realize that it has changed quite a bit so suddenly. It is not really noticeable, clothes a little tighter around the hips, stomach not so flat anymore. I recall suddenly that my body used to feel a different way under my hands before. Subtle changes. I used to like the round hard feel of the contours of my hipbone and ribs. Not because this feel is necessarily any more attractive than another, but because it is the way I am used to being, for as long as I remember.

It is changes I fear, just when you realize you actually liked a stasis, it has shifted.

Although yes I will admit this too, that a part of me is remembering being stripped down to just my skin that first time in T’s bed more than two months ago, and how afterwards we lay and his hands were on my hips and he was stroking absentmindedly at my soft skin stretched across my hip bone, discovering a new body, and he said, ‘I like this. Right here.’ And I said ‘Yes me too’

Forgive my vanity. And the dependent weakness of that thought.

I had this coming. I’ve lost little loved quirks of my body. I’ll get over it. I’ll find new ones again at some point.

I just have to watch for my mood now again with these new pills. I have to balance watching it too much with watching it too little. And I was always a clumsy one when it came to balance.

When I was on anti-depressants before, I could not orgasm anymore. I would be there in bed in my normal position, hands rubbing on me. I would buildbuildbuild- roll back down. Buildbuildbuild- roll back down. Relax. Breathe. Enjoy. Think. Build build buildbuildbuild- so close- roll back down. Again and again. Sometimes for hours. Exhausted. Past the point when I knew I wouldn’t be able to cum anyways, under normal circumstances.

It scared the shit out of me. The punishment of my mind gone awry, maybe I could not deal with it alone, but deep down somewhere there, it was still somewhat in my control. It was just me. Wrong or right. What could I control of these administered chemicals? What else might I lose? Should I change medications? How long with this next one? How many to try?

Same impatient questions always.

I’m listening to T’s music right now. I haven’t talked to him at all in more than a week, haven’t talked to him comfortably and unrushed for three weeks or so. Our last talk was quite sexy but it got cut short because I had to leave. And then he got a cold that changed into messy bronchitis. Which I felt surprisingly bad about, it did not sound very pleasant for him at all.

And now I don’t know if he is better or not, because I just haven't been able to reach him. He has flashed on and offline, so he cannot be that bed-ridden. And I’ve called and left a message or two, but I wasn’t really feeling too energetic about it.

The wonderful weary weakness of flesh, it brings us to each other’s bed, and then keeps us away from it. And my proud spirit that wants him will keep me away from him now, because I do not want games, but I cannot keep calling, I really really can’t. If I ask too much from what he wants, or he gives too little from what I want, then I’d rather go think about that, instead of continuing to kick the same wall.

I’m taking birth control pills because I have this fantasy of a man cumming in me. I’ve never felt it and I really want to and I seem to want it especially with T. It’s a risk though. He has told me that he has been tested recently. And though I think we have established that this meant that he would not be sleeping with other women, I still have to fully clarify the situation before I go through with this.

If a friend told me this, I’d be worried for her, and think she was being a bit foolish. A lot of this depends on how much I trust him, and I do. So I would feel like such an idiot if anything bad came out of this.

So much feels off tonight. I was craving his cock in my cunt so badly before, but it feels even that is gone. The changes I was thinking of making, the ones I was hyped up about, have been put on the back-burner. It is like that with all my so-called needs. Ever-changing.

I need our sex to feel a little more established, before I can move it in another direction.

Right now though, all this is gone, because what I desire at this moment the most is intimacy. And it makes me sad, because if that is the most of what I want, I am probably on the wrong path.

I am not a big fan of that word ‘intimacy.’ I use it to mean a closeness that borders on a startling pain, a stepping past a boundary of yours by someone else, whether that be in mind or body.

It is not that an intimacy that is not tied to a deeper love is nothing. What a roundabout way of putting it. What I mean is, an intimacy contrived without love gives me something, but like my medicated attempts at orgasm, it falls just short of being truly satisfying. It never takes me all the way there. Wherever that there is where I want to go.

Again that first time in his bed, and also when he came to my house, I’m remembering the mornings as we were waking up, and I am fixated on one point. How he reached over sleepily and held my hand. T’s hand in my hand. I wish I could say his real name right now, I want it savored on my tongue in that sentence.

How many hands have I held since I stopped being a child? I feel like when I am old, and looking back on people I’ve met, I will forget the cocks, the talks, forget it all, except for the hands that my- by then gnarled- hands once held.

My girl friend and I encountered a skunk one night-time walk a couple of weeks ago. We startled upon it and we found it as startled as us, hissing, on its tip-toes, hair raised, ready to spray. I was the first to hear it and I pointed it out and froze, and my friend grabbed my hand and we ran like crazy like that, as far away from it as we could, laughing adrenaline laughs.

There was a certain thrill to it, but not a sexual one at all. The thrill of being inextricably meshed into someone’s life like that for a moment. So that her skunk was my skunk.
: ))). And our clasped hands a signal of it.

It is what I secretly crave from everyone, T especially. I have this hunger to be submerged in people, like experiencing them will help me better understand something. It does not stop either, once let in, I will only wonder if there’s more. Not that I’m obsessive about it, but if given the opportunity to step in a little deeper and the person is interesting enough, I will take it. I do not know whether I am proud or ashamed of this part of me. I know only, our sex is, amongst many other things, a way to me of doing just that.

There is not much time left for us, though I haven’t told him yet. My mom’s visiting in less than two months, and then during the two months that she’s living with me, a lot of this is going to become very close to impossible. And when I get back? We will have to see how it goes.

So many changes happening. So many coming ahead. And then still the ones that I think I should make. Mend, mend, mend so I can sleep.

T, it is a horrible thought, and I know I do not mean it, because even thinking it feels so wrong. But the thought comes to me that if you were rewinded back to the invisible unfound dot you were before we met, I would not have to sit here like this, wishing you would make a reappearance, hoping for a call.

I'll publish this in all its unedited blah disconnected glory. There is writing that is meant to be read, and writing that is meant to be just written, a messy upheaval to be wiped away. This, I think, is more of the latter. But I will keep it here anyways.