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?
Friday, October 28, 2005
Thursday, October 27, 2005
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?
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?
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
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.
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.
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.
My cum. Right after. Inevitable.
Monday, October 24, 2005
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.
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.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
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.
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.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
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.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
everything in between
silhouettescracks
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
Friday, October 14, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, October 10, 2005
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...)
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...)
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
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)
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)
Sunday, October 02, 2005
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.
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