I hate phones. Every time the phone rings I get a slight heebiedy-jeebiedy feel in my heart. If I don't know who it is, I find it especially hard to pick up. Calling people can take a few days to work up to unless I completely have to. How I've ever had any kind of phone sex is beyond me. People should either helicopter themselves to my vicinity, or mail me a letter, or start up a typing chat. I hate strangers on the phone, I hate friends on the phone. People who know me very well, especailly the talkative ones, and I tend to surround myself with them, will tell me: what are you talking about? you're a great phone-person. I just hide it well. If I'm feeling down or nervous, believe me, phone calls are the first thing to go. No visual cues. No time to form coherent sentences. No way to put a hand lightly on a shoulder. Forget it. I hate my phone. I use it, but I just had to confess.
This was brought on by the fact that T is going to call me soon and we are going to "discuss".
*Insert ominous music.*
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
well, there goes that thought
I just wanted to leave a comment, because though I wrote it flippantly, on a whim, this is a story that is very close to me. The experience is very much real, the family is very much mine. The second part isn't real obviously, but isn't complete imagination either, not quite the black-and-white movie I try to make it out to be. It's a combination of whispered gossip always humming around these towns, real-life stories and comments about removed relatives, neighbours, friends. Foreign yet me, the influence is undeniable. (Update: OK I just realised that this was filled with typos, how embarrassing… Think I fixed them up now.)
Oh I don’t know. Bah. I want to leave all behind sometimes, move to a farm sometimes, a farm by the sea. I knew a place like that once, a place close to the one I’ve described before. But this is another town, my wandering uncle’s town for a short while, though he could never stray very far from this area, once he had had a taste.
The buxom guileless neighbour would bring the milk from her cow to drink after a boil. It tasted so damn heavy and cloying, you would skim off the skin of cream, the best part, everyone would admonish, and still that animal taste. And the breakfast butter always white as yogurt, tasted fermented like it too. But there would be the smell of salt in the rough cool walls of those stone houses, the uneven stairs, the shade of the gnarly olive trees outside where we tied the hammock and piled ourselves in as children, giggling, swinging too hard. There would be dinners of man-grilled fish and cheese and crusty bread. String beans soured and spiced with garlic and olive oil and the juice of completely unripe grapes. Acid pounded out from those tart crunchy berries in a brass mortar and pestle, garlic smashed into liquid in a rhythmic clang the same way. And then tomatoes, always tomatoes on the side, freshly- picked just-sliced (holding it in their hands with the knife curving round) bright-red fleshy-firm dripping-pink tomatoes, eaten outside on summer nights, and countless other side dishes in small plates to pass around and devour too. Don't start eating until eight, the sun still up. Don't stop eating until ten, when the stars come out, no light but for the light from your house and the guileless neighbour's. Don’t stop eating past eleven, which is when the watermelon would come out, cooled with a rinse of cold water if they forgot to put it in the fridge before cutting open to reveal its magenta chill. You liked the crispy yellower not-as-sweet part near the rind, after all the other parts had been eaten out, after everyone had reached from across the table for their own trapezoid chunk. It would be agreed that this had been a good watermelon, the one who had tapped and prodded and chosen it from the watermelon truck that came round would nod in smug satisfaction. But you liked to trace your spoon bluntly over the discarded part in strokes, until all the sugary pale pinkish water came out, and then you would slurp it up with that spoon, and then when the spoon got to be too much work, you would hold it up to your mouth and tongue, the whole half-boat of it. Do it, do it, they would urge, so you would, shyly, greedily, careful not to drip it down your shirt. Aunts and uncles and grandparents alike would be there with their cloudy licorice drinks poured out in tall narrow glasses. Pouring the clear pungent liquor carefully a quarter (or so) of the way, the schlieren threads wisping and smoking as soon as the ice-cold water was dumped in, turning the whole glass into milky frost, magic. Don't get up to clear the table past midnight, maybe a few dishes here and there ushered in by the women. Not usually your mom because she was too busy rambling a stern idea out to a rapt face or two over that long unsteady table, cigarette smoke never-ending, shoes resting and shifting dustily in dusty fertile ground. And then afterwards, boiling water for the dishes, you did not cook girls, so you must clean. You do not have any boy cousins, though you're sure they would not have to do this, your brother does not, they are shocked when he takes his plate and other plates to the kitchen, and your mom shushes them and tells him to. He would even wash too, even your dad would at home, gladly enough, but your mom knows when, in front of whom, to pick her battles. So you are filling the basin from a kettle, washing glasses first, then dishes, then cutlery, greasy platters and pots and pans last, handing to your cousin to rinse, singing a random song, some random gossip, always some random thing to have a hysterical laughing fit over, you are young and dumb after all, your back aching from standing over the sink for so long, until the other sitting cousin steps up and you sit for a bit, you were such a big crowd. Your skin smelling like soap as you sit and grin at them- the creamy white slab of soap- bigger than your hand- awkward with its sharp corners- basin after basin of lukewarm water sloshed over your head during that wash after your last swim, the beach rocky and deep so that you would have to throw yourself from a crooked splintering platform into the cold splashing water all at once, water that always quickly warmed of course, once you got in, and in those parts, the water was a heavy navy blue, and then turned crystal and buoyant around your always last-to-tan legs.
And maybe I could have me that quintessential Mediterranean lover with a careless callous tanned body. Simple-minded, the son of the guileless farmer’s widow, you understand. She could come round to my mom's only brother's house to ask for my hand, since there is no one else to ask, no man left in that farm's family to get permission from mine. There would be dissent of course, like in any good black-and-white movie. Education, what is education, useless ideas written on the paper that we put in our furnaces to heat the water for our sons' baths after their swims. (Our daughters do not know how to swim.) Me, I have no daughter, my only son, he is a good boy, he says he wants your daughter, you must understand. Maybe it is Willed. And though no one would understand, and no one would agree to it, we are too different after all, they would have to in the end, wouldn’t they, when they found us, we would have to be married, the ragged red ribbon of (already ripped) chastity still placed around my waist by my dad, the wet muddy henna still slapped and bound on my hands to dry and dye as they sobbed for the life I was leaving behind, and there is always a life you are leaving behind. I could scrub the stone floors of his house, make our always messy bed, would anyone recognize me after a while, in baggy rolled up clothes so I could go milk the cow, the guileless cow lady passed away, sometimes I'm pregnant again, sometimes the cow. I’d still go for dips in dark seawater though, half-naked, scandalous. Though not too much of anyone around to bother us maybe, they would accept me maybe, this town that's barely a town, and he'd turn out to be a good boy after all maybe, never raise a hand to me or the children, knowing little, except that I'd probably raise that hand right back. This is what happens when you take an educated girl, son, her guileless ghost would tell him in his dreams, she does not worship like us, son, what can you do? He could kiss and worship me, fuck me hard and soft at my will, on shaky tables, under gnarly olive trees, in freshly laundered bed, have him never understand any of this, any of me, just a need for soft buttery body, for my dripping-pink cunt wet so he could curve it in slices, swath it around his cock, pound me liquid and tart, the angles of my olive body massaged under his grimy hands, held firm in his dusty hands by the in-dip of my creamy waist, my soapy legs shaking. To be fucked out of pure love for my arched doorway hips, like X in a way, putting an earnest cock in me in a perpetual promise of swinging hammock pleasure, cumming into me with a tiny grunt, fermented and fertile, resting then, past midnight, until time to clean-up, looking into eyes like vapid stars, seeing me from head to toe as his, nothing more, his girl in the farm by the sea.
Yeah I know. I’d be miserable.
Oh I don’t know. Bah. I want to leave all behind sometimes, move to a farm sometimes, a farm by the sea. I knew a place like that once, a place close to the one I’ve described before. But this is another town, my wandering uncle’s town for a short while, though he could never stray very far from this area, once he had had a taste.
The buxom guileless neighbour would bring the milk from her cow to drink after a boil. It tasted so damn heavy and cloying, you would skim off the skin of cream, the best part, everyone would admonish, and still that animal taste. And the breakfast butter always white as yogurt, tasted fermented like it too. But there would be the smell of salt in the rough cool walls of those stone houses, the uneven stairs, the shade of the gnarly olive trees outside where we tied the hammock and piled ourselves in as children, giggling, swinging too hard. There would be dinners of man-grilled fish and cheese and crusty bread. String beans soured and spiced with garlic and olive oil and the juice of completely unripe grapes. Acid pounded out from those tart crunchy berries in a brass mortar and pestle, garlic smashed into liquid in a rhythmic clang the same way. And then tomatoes, always tomatoes on the side, freshly- picked just-sliced (holding it in their hands with the knife curving round) bright-red fleshy-firm dripping-pink tomatoes, eaten outside on summer nights, and countless other side dishes in small plates to pass around and devour too. Don't start eating until eight, the sun still up. Don't stop eating until ten, when the stars come out, no light but for the light from your house and the guileless neighbour's. Don’t stop eating past eleven, which is when the watermelon would come out, cooled with a rinse of cold water if they forgot to put it in the fridge before cutting open to reveal its magenta chill. You liked the crispy yellower not-as-sweet part near the rind, after all the other parts had been eaten out, after everyone had reached from across the table for their own trapezoid chunk. It would be agreed that this had been a good watermelon, the one who had tapped and prodded and chosen it from the watermelon truck that came round would nod in smug satisfaction. But you liked to trace your spoon bluntly over the discarded part in strokes, until all the sugary pale pinkish water came out, and then you would slurp it up with that spoon, and then when the spoon got to be too much work, you would hold it up to your mouth and tongue, the whole half-boat of it. Do it, do it, they would urge, so you would, shyly, greedily, careful not to drip it down your shirt. Aunts and uncles and grandparents alike would be there with their cloudy licorice drinks poured out in tall narrow glasses. Pouring the clear pungent liquor carefully a quarter (or so) of the way, the schlieren threads wisping and smoking as soon as the ice-cold water was dumped in, turning the whole glass into milky frost, magic. Don't get up to clear the table past midnight, maybe a few dishes here and there ushered in by the women. Not usually your mom because she was too busy rambling a stern idea out to a rapt face or two over that long unsteady table, cigarette smoke never-ending, shoes resting and shifting dustily in dusty fertile ground. And then afterwards, boiling water for the dishes, you did not cook girls, so you must clean. You do not have any boy cousins, though you're sure they would not have to do this, your brother does not, they are shocked when he takes his plate and other plates to the kitchen, and your mom shushes them and tells him to. He would even wash too, even your dad would at home, gladly enough, but your mom knows when, in front of whom, to pick her battles. So you are filling the basin from a kettle, washing glasses first, then dishes, then cutlery, greasy platters and pots and pans last, handing to your cousin to rinse, singing a random song, some random gossip, always some random thing to have a hysterical laughing fit over, you are young and dumb after all, your back aching from standing over the sink for so long, until the other sitting cousin steps up and you sit for a bit, you were such a big crowd. Your skin smelling like soap as you sit and grin at them- the creamy white slab of soap- bigger than your hand- awkward with its sharp corners- basin after basin of lukewarm water sloshed over your head during that wash after your last swim, the beach rocky and deep so that you would have to throw yourself from a crooked splintering platform into the cold splashing water all at once, water that always quickly warmed of course, once you got in, and in those parts, the water was a heavy navy blue, and then turned crystal and buoyant around your always last-to-tan legs.
And maybe I could have me that quintessential Mediterranean lover with a careless callous tanned body. Simple-minded, the son of the guileless farmer’s widow, you understand. She could come round to my mom's only brother's house to ask for my hand, since there is no one else to ask, no man left in that farm's family to get permission from mine. There would be dissent of course, like in any good black-and-white movie. Education, what is education, useless ideas written on the paper that we put in our furnaces to heat the water for our sons' baths after their swims. (Our daughters do not know how to swim.) Me, I have no daughter, my only son, he is a good boy, he says he wants your daughter, you must understand. Maybe it is Willed. And though no one would understand, and no one would agree to it, we are too different after all, they would have to in the end, wouldn’t they, when they found us, we would have to be married, the ragged red ribbon of (already ripped) chastity still placed around my waist by my dad, the wet muddy henna still slapped and bound on my hands to dry and dye as they sobbed for the life I was leaving behind, and there is always a life you are leaving behind. I could scrub the stone floors of his house, make our always messy bed, would anyone recognize me after a while, in baggy rolled up clothes so I could go milk the cow, the guileless cow lady passed away, sometimes I'm pregnant again, sometimes the cow. I’d still go for dips in dark seawater though, half-naked, scandalous. Though not too much of anyone around to bother us maybe, they would accept me maybe, this town that's barely a town, and he'd turn out to be a good boy after all maybe, never raise a hand to me or the children, knowing little, except that I'd probably raise that hand right back. This is what happens when you take an educated girl, son, her guileless ghost would tell him in his dreams, she does not worship like us, son, what can you do? He could kiss and worship me, fuck me hard and soft at my will, on shaky tables, under gnarly olive trees, in freshly laundered bed, have him never understand any of this, any of me, just a need for soft buttery body, for my dripping-pink cunt wet so he could curve it in slices, swath it around his cock, pound me liquid and tart, the angles of my olive body massaged under his grimy hands, held firm in his dusty hands by the in-dip of my creamy waist, my soapy legs shaking. To be fucked out of pure love for my arched doorway hips, like X in a way, putting an earnest cock in me in a perpetual promise of swinging hammock pleasure, cumming into me with a tiny grunt, fermented and fertile, resting then, past midnight, until time to clean-up, looking into eyes like vapid stars, seeing me from head to toe as his, nothing more, his girl in the farm by the sea.
Yeah I know. I’d be miserable.
Monday, April 24, 2006
meaning?
I just got accused by him of having worrisome "shades of girlfriend feeling" towards him. This can't bode well for the venture.
I'm not sure I totally understand even what that means as I look at it from different angles. He says it's not about control, but about the possibility of coming out of this with a deep psychological feeling of being hurt, used, jealous etc .
It's weird, for all my 'involvement' with him, I'm not sure if real hurt to myself will ever come into play. Maybe I'm delusional, maybe I'm boombastic. OK I just felt like saying boombastic.
My worries coming into this were about losing something I enjoyed. Then I realised I can't really control what I enjoy, so I let it go. If I lose it, I'll be dissapointed, but I'll move on. No promises were made really, which I appreciate. There is an unspoken promise to not mislead or deceive, but I think this is true of anyone. There will be a momentary gap in my life if he moves out of it, but there are a billion and one other things out there in the world that I could go and learn about. I guess it sounds callous. It's not that I wouldn't miss him at all. It's just a grim, hopeful, restless sense of continuing life.
Anything beyond that really is about self-security. How can I get used? How can I get downgraded, degraded by this? How can I judge myself through my worth in his eyes? I know it seems like it sometimes. And I can tell you there are instances when I struggle with that, want that more than anything, gold stars meted out to me, stamps of approval on my presented polished forehead: we think you're great, we want to fuck you, we want to talk to you. But also, I mean really, what good does it do me in the end?
Maybe being this self-absorbedly introspective kind of helps me in some ways. The world shovels in input sure, but it all has to be processed inside first too. I have to agree with it first. And if I agree with another's bullshit, then that's my problem, and if it is an actual shortcoming that I should take into account, then that's something I have to go deal with too.
So what does it have to do with him, with the possibility of feeling like his "girlfriend"? Because his opinion is worth more to me? Maybe it is, but that's because I think he's got a brain worth respecting. But even that I take with a grain of salt.
I've tried to enjoy this and live it out to its fullest. I've tried not to hold back. I've failed quite often. I've made a place for this in my life, I'll admit. Is that what he means? How could I have not? How do people do that? Oh I'm doing this, but it's nothing. Everything means something. Yeah, we just call and fuck once in a while. No, she's just someone I bump into once in a while. I forget about him right afterwards. It means too much? How much is too much? What pie-slice of my thoughts should I not be cutting out and plating? Maybe he's right? Maybe, as always, I think too much, am too intense?
But I've taken this all with my own grain of salt and my own squeeze of lime and my own head shot back for the gulp, from the very beginning.
I don't know what that means: "shades of girlfriend feelings." Shades of intensity? Shades of depth? Shades of love? Shades of lurrrrve? Shades of lust? Shades of giving a shit? Shades of appreciation? Shades of commitment? Shades of complexity? Shades of messiness? What have I asked for that's too much? What constraint on time and energy? A meet every three months, a call every two weeks, a second thought when we do something together? How much shade is too dark and heavy to deal with?
"Girlfriend feeling"?? What does that mean??? Nearly a year now and it still makes no sense. I still feel it's part of some bigger picture that I never got.
But ah well, like I told him, I'm not going to worry, if it needs bringing up, it should be, if it can be worked out, it will be.
Oh dear, who knew I'd become such an eastern mystic doctor phil-esque piece of work?
It's only cause I finished all my schoolwork and I'm relaxed. Off to dinner I go.
I'm not sure I totally understand even what that means as I look at it from different angles. He says it's not about control, but about the possibility of coming out of this with a deep psychological feeling of being hurt, used, jealous etc .
It's weird, for all my 'involvement' with him, I'm not sure if real hurt to myself will ever come into play. Maybe I'm delusional, maybe I'm boombastic. OK I just felt like saying boombastic.
My worries coming into this were about losing something I enjoyed. Then I realised I can't really control what I enjoy, so I let it go. If I lose it, I'll be dissapointed, but I'll move on. No promises were made really, which I appreciate. There is an unspoken promise to not mislead or deceive, but I think this is true of anyone. There will be a momentary gap in my life if he moves out of it, but there are a billion and one other things out there in the world that I could go and learn about. I guess it sounds callous. It's not that I wouldn't miss him at all. It's just a grim, hopeful, restless sense of continuing life.
Anything beyond that really is about self-security. How can I get used? How can I get downgraded, degraded by this? How can I judge myself through my worth in his eyes? I know it seems like it sometimes. And I can tell you there are instances when I struggle with that, want that more than anything, gold stars meted out to me, stamps of approval on my presented polished forehead: we think you're great, we want to fuck you, we want to talk to you. But also, I mean really, what good does it do me in the end?
Maybe being this self-absorbedly introspective kind of helps me in some ways. The world shovels in input sure, but it all has to be processed inside first too. I have to agree with it first. And if I agree with another's bullshit, then that's my problem, and if it is an actual shortcoming that I should take into account, then that's something I have to go deal with too.
So what does it have to do with him, with the possibility of feeling like his "girlfriend"? Because his opinion is worth more to me? Maybe it is, but that's because I think he's got a brain worth respecting. But even that I take with a grain of salt.
I've tried to enjoy this and live it out to its fullest. I've tried not to hold back. I've failed quite often. I've made a place for this in my life, I'll admit. Is that what he means? How could I have not? How do people do that? Oh I'm doing this, but it's nothing. Everything means something. Yeah, we just call and fuck once in a while. No, she's just someone I bump into once in a while. I forget about him right afterwards. It means too much? How much is too much? What pie-slice of my thoughts should I not be cutting out and plating? Maybe he's right? Maybe, as always, I think too much, am too intense?
But I've taken this all with my own grain of salt and my own squeeze of lime and my own head shot back for the gulp, from the very beginning.
I don't know what that means: "shades of girlfriend feelings." Shades of intensity? Shades of depth? Shades of love? Shades of lurrrrve? Shades of lust? Shades of giving a shit? Shades of appreciation? Shades of commitment? Shades of complexity? Shades of messiness? What have I asked for that's too much? What constraint on time and energy? A meet every three months, a call every two weeks, a second thought when we do something together? How much shade is too dark and heavy to deal with?
"Girlfriend feeling"?? What does that mean??? Nearly a year now and it still makes no sense. I still feel it's part of some bigger picture that I never got.
But ah well, like I told him, I'm not going to worry, if it needs bringing up, it should be, if it can be worked out, it will be.
Oh dear, who knew I'd become such an eastern mystic doctor phil-esque piece of work?
It's only cause I finished all my schoolwork and I'm relaxed. Off to dinner I go.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
again
The thought of the call has been growing on me day by day.
The bewilderment and trepidation and self-consciousness has worn off bit by bit. I'm still a little overwhelmed but still all there.
Actually I'm in a twist of arousal right now. I want to sit down and write more about the call, the parts that turned me on. But I start to write it in my head and then it just fires off inside me before I can put aything down. I'm thinking of hearing her like that, I'm thinking of how T led my hand onto her, I'm thinking of T fucking her, I'm thinking of waiting to be fucked by him, oh i don't know, it's all there. Even T's call afterwards was pretty fucking crazy. Hot and heavy.
No wonder it's all felt a bit like a question. Did that just happen? What just happened? Is this me?
(It's so weird too not to have anyone to share it with. Sometimes this blog is all that keeps me sane. I wish I knew more people I could pick up a phone and talk about this with.
Although sometimes I admit it amuses me, because I'm a bit of a smart-aleck smug secretive so-and-so that way. So what have you been up to lately? Oh I dunno, nothing much really. )
And now I'm sitting here, just really burning, really needing to pick up the phone and call him. Except he has a friend over and I have no clear idea of what I want to say.
In the true manner of someone who has stepped off a thrill ride and finds she has survived , all I can think is: again, again.
Adrenaline junkie?
I want to do it again. More.
I might even keep my eyes open next time.
The bewilderment and trepidation and self-consciousness has worn off bit by bit. I'm still a little overwhelmed but still all there.
Actually I'm in a twist of arousal right now. I want to sit down and write more about the call, the parts that turned me on. But I start to write it in my head and then it just fires off inside me before I can put aything down. I'm thinking of hearing her like that, I'm thinking of how T led my hand onto her, I'm thinking of T fucking her, I'm thinking of waiting to be fucked by him, oh i don't know, it's all there. Even T's call afterwards was pretty fucking crazy. Hot and heavy.
No wonder it's all felt a bit like a question. Did that just happen? What just happened? Is this me?
(It's so weird too not to have anyone to share it with. Sometimes this blog is all that keeps me sane. I wish I knew more people I could pick up a phone and talk about this with.
Although sometimes I admit it amuses me, because I'm a bit of a smart-aleck smug secretive so-and-so that way. So what have you been up to lately? Oh I dunno, nothing much really. )
And now I'm sitting here, just really burning, really needing to pick up the phone and call him. Except he has a friend over and I have no clear idea of what I want to say.
In the true manner of someone who has stepped off a thrill ride and finds she has survived , all I can think is: again, again.
Adrenaline junkie?
I want to do it again. More.
I might even keep my eyes open next time.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
threeway
I couldn't stay away too long because I wanted to mark an occasion.
Yesterday I heard a girl cum on the phone. That's right, I had a three-way.
T orchestrated the whole thing, neither she or I had to do much talking. The girl B was apparently someone T had met up with, but was not someone he wants to fuck at all . But he said she had a very sexy voice.
Remember, he said, before she came on, remember I want you.
Her voice was indeed sexy, she cooed and squealed and trembled so delightfully. She had this breathy way of saying Yiiiieees to T's words.
It was cool. We came together hard. I have no idea what to make of it. It was a bit overwhelming. It was strange to hear him talk to another. And he was telling her all through, you're so sexy, look at the power you have now, look what you're doing to both of us. There was a lot to process, his words, her sounds, my arousal. I hadn't got much sleep.
She said, come time for her second cum, that she had to go to work soon. We shut the call altogether, since as T stated this was something special, for all three of us. You've inspired me so much, B, thank you.
L may not tell you, he said, but you've inspired her too. She probably has the dirtiest mind out of all three of us. She won't say it though... she'll.. write it. I laughed, blushing hard. I didn't like him talking for me much, even though it was true . Well, the writing part. The dirty part is anyone's guess really.
Bye B, I said tentatively as we left, the first time I actually directly acknowledged her, bye she said shyly. Awkward moment. She had a kind voice. I had felt her throughout trying for my sake to make sure he 'attend' to me too. I had felt T trying for her sake to downplay his attention towards me. I had felt myself trying for their sake to not be too demanding or controlling. Almost not be too turned on towards either??? It was fun. Bye.
He called me back two minutes later. Oh my god, I faked it, I didn't cum, he blurted immediately, not that I wasn't into it, but maybe I was tired, or nervous?...I had to fake it.
I thought he had cum. I felt sorry, and a bit betrayed.
He asked me if I had felt jealous at all. Yes, I said. I didn't really need to think about tha tanswer at all. Yeah? he said, a bit surprised, excited jealous, hurt jealous?
A little bit of both.
He sounded quite down. I don't want to hurt you, he said, if it's going to be something negative for you, we can scrap the threesome altogether.
Maybe hurt is too strong, I said, I don't know. It was confusing, it was new. I'd..I'd never heard you...
He agreed that to hear me talking to someone else would be weird too. Especially you, he said, talking. I was annoyed he should bring up my reticence again. But then I thought about it, me pouring into am eloquent heated stream of speech for another guy, while T listened with dropped jaw, and I had to laugh.
Yeah I know, I giggled, you'd be like: 'what the hell?!?'.
She called him while still on the phone with me. He was amused , said ok I have to take it, but don't leave. I need you.
He called back, said we would talk more about what she had said later. Then he fucked me hard and rough, there was ass involved, he claimed me as his, his claim felt like a question, but the words felt like actions, and I came again anyways, twice, hard, loud, messy, sticky.
As soon as he was done, he was immediately normal, all hello, how are you?. He does it on purpose, to be cruelly funny. I told him wearily and shortly to shut up.
How he laughed.
Did you cum?, I asked him. I've never asked him that before.
Yes, of course. No faking. I promise. I've never faked with you.
OK.
He told me again that he wants my full opinion on the call later on. Said it's easier to stop at this point. Reminded me he is going to want to settle down at some point though. We can't do this ... forever. My thoughts exactly. But that's not reason enough to do this either, so we should both decide..
Yeah, I don't know.
Yesterday, I heard a girl, aroused, on the phone.
Yesterday I heard a girl cum on the phone. That's right, I had a three-way.
T orchestrated the whole thing, neither she or I had to do much talking. The girl B was apparently someone T had met up with, but was not someone he wants to fuck at all . But he said she had a very sexy voice.
Remember, he said, before she came on, remember I want you.
Her voice was indeed sexy, she cooed and squealed and trembled so delightfully. She had this breathy way of saying Yiiiieees to T's words.
It was cool. We came together hard. I have no idea what to make of it. It was a bit overwhelming. It was strange to hear him talk to another. And he was telling her all through, you're so sexy, look at the power you have now, look what you're doing to both of us. There was a lot to process, his words, her sounds, my arousal. I hadn't got much sleep.
She said, come time for her second cum, that she had to go to work soon. We shut the call altogether, since as T stated this was something special, for all three of us. You've inspired me so much, B, thank you.
L may not tell you, he said, but you've inspired her too. She probably has the dirtiest mind out of all three of us. She won't say it though... she'll.. write it. I laughed, blushing hard. I didn't like him talking for me much, even though it was true . Well, the writing part. The dirty part is anyone's guess really.
Bye B, I said tentatively as we left, the first time I actually directly acknowledged her, bye she said shyly. Awkward moment. She had a kind voice. I had felt her throughout trying for my sake to make sure he 'attend' to me too. I had felt T trying for her sake to downplay his attention towards me. I had felt myself trying for their sake to not be too demanding or controlling. Almost not be too turned on towards either??? It was fun. Bye.
He called me back two minutes later. Oh my god, I faked it, I didn't cum, he blurted immediately, not that I wasn't into it, but maybe I was tired, or nervous?...I had to fake it.
I thought he had cum. I felt sorry, and a bit betrayed.
He asked me if I had felt jealous at all. Yes, I said. I didn't really need to think about tha tanswer at all. Yeah? he said, a bit surprised, excited jealous, hurt jealous?
A little bit of both.
He sounded quite down. I don't want to hurt you, he said, if it's going to be something negative for you, we can scrap the threesome altogether.
Maybe hurt is too strong, I said, I don't know. It was confusing, it was new. I'd..I'd never heard you...
He agreed that to hear me talking to someone else would be weird too. Especially you, he said, talking. I was annoyed he should bring up my reticence again. But then I thought about it, me pouring into am eloquent heated stream of speech for another guy, while T listened with dropped jaw, and I had to laugh.
Yeah I know, I giggled, you'd be like: 'what the hell?!?'.
She called him while still on the phone with me. He was amused , said ok I have to take it, but don't leave. I need you.
He called back, said we would talk more about what she had said later. Then he fucked me hard and rough, there was ass involved, he claimed me as his, his claim felt like a question, but the words felt like actions, and I came again anyways, twice, hard, loud, messy, sticky.
As soon as he was done, he was immediately normal, all hello, how are you?. He does it on purpose, to be cruelly funny. I told him wearily and shortly to shut up.
How he laughed.
Did you cum?, I asked him. I've never asked him that before.
Yes, of course. No faking. I promise. I've never faked with you.
OK.
He told me again that he wants my full opinion on the call later on. Said it's easier to stop at this point. Reminded me he is going to want to settle down at some point though. We can't do this ... forever. My thoughts exactly. But that's not reason enough to do this either, so we should both decide..
Yeah, I don't know.
Yesterday, I heard a girl, aroused, on the phone.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
breakout
Thank you all for the kind comments, I'm always touched anyone should identify or find this interesting. And writing is a compulsion for me, so if it is appreciated in any way, all the better. It actually makes me quite happy. (And in leaving a comment I guess you are already a tiny little part of the adventure, this life-o-mine, no?)
The compulsion thing is a bit of a problem though. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm feeling too the disparity between what has been said here these past two months and what has actually made its way to T. It's all good and real in my mind, and the events accounted are real, but if it's not being at least partially communicated to him, if he does not have any idea of my impression of the events, actually it's not even that, he probably has some idea, but if I'm not even making a real effort to put my thoughts of him across to him, so that it can be shot down or supported, in the very least changed, then there is no point really. I might as well be making it up. I might as well be masturbating to his complete fantasy in a corner of my room...you know what I mean? This is the point where him and I begin to really break down, if I continue like this. The writing helps maybe, to solidify my thoughts, (which is scary enough as is), but it can turn into a bit of a cop-out if I don't watch out.
I've said this before, damn.
(But he calls me, and everything just leaves my head, I'm just asking him if he's tired, what he's been up to, how was his weekend.)
I'm also growing uncomfortable with the amount of time that has gone into this writing. It seems out of proportion with the amount of time that has actually been spent with him.
Most of all, with all this writing, I'm losing focus, from living my life. And it is not totally because of him. Probably when I get like this, I could write missives on my relationship with my refrigerator. No but seriously, it's just the same as the last time this happened, I have been writing so much, a lot more than is being posted. About my family. About past relationships. About where I grew up. About how I started having sex. I've been retreating, really totally retreating. I feel like I could fall through the cracks any second and never actually have to live.
I could become completely mortified, stagnant, comatose. I know the feeling now. I could be the one whose drool is being wiped off of her wheelchair in an institute somewhere. They never did find out what went wrong. It is not as far as I first thought, though I wish it were, I wish this were a complete, remote dramatization.
Nothing is getting done, and I have to break out.
It may be that I will post again in two days, it may be a month, I could never venture a never-again, I don't know. I just feel, and I think we all feel this a bit from time to time, that I have to re-state the boundary, re-gain control. Actually put it up here. Not just talk about how I need to focus, but actually focus. Start to involve myself where required, not just where desired. In writing this I've already failed, but I'm hopefully moving there slowly.
I feel sad now. :(
Damn.
What if I'll never be able to take these steps fully? What if I find myself here over and over again? How many times will I just pull through ?
I don't care if it's genetic. I don't care if it's experience. I don't care if it needs medication, if my hormones need to be engineered and tweaked. I don't care if I need to learn the right thought processes, need to be positive, am looking at this the wrong way, am just making mistakes, if my distorted perceptions need a new lens, whatever. I don't care if it's a natural stage, if its 'normal' or 'abnormal'. I don't care if I am just like any other, if I need to snap out of it, if I'm just feeling sorry, if I'm self-absorbed, if I'm spoilt, if I'm weak, if I'm a baby, if I'm confused, if I'm dumb, if I need a therapist, a parent, a sibling, a friend, a pill, a life.
I know too much of the lingo, I feel like the reproach and the advice have always been inside, before anyone could open their mouths, I don't care, whatever it is, I just don't want it to be, it's a pain.
My heart questions its own throb, tirelessly, tiresomely, time and time again.
I don't want to be at all. But then I do. I cannot choose.
(Cannot. It is always true, what they say. Don't ever think the girl who took one pill too many was the girl who was finally able to make that choice.)
I'm tired again. Damn.
Stepping back now....
The compulsion thing is a bit of a problem though. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm feeling too the disparity between what has been said here these past two months and what has actually made its way to T. It's all good and real in my mind, and the events accounted are real, but if it's not being at least partially communicated to him, if he does not have any idea of my impression of the events, actually it's not even that, he probably has some idea, but if I'm not even making a real effort to put my thoughts of him across to him, so that it can be shot down or supported, in the very least changed, then there is no point really. I might as well be making it up. I might as well be masturbating to his complete fantasy in a corner of my room...you know what I mean? This is the point where him and I begin to really break down, if I continue like this. The writing helps maybe, to solidify my thoughts, (which is scary enough as is), but it can turn into a bit of a cop-out if I don't watch out.
I've said this before, damn.
(But he calls me, and everything just leaves my head, I'm just asking him if he's tired, what he's been up to, how was his weekend.)
I'm also growing uncomfortable with the amount of time that has gone into this writing. It seems out of proportion with the amount of time that has actually been spent with him.
Most of all, with all this writing, I'm losing focus, from living my life. And it is not totally because of him. Probably when I get like this, I could write missives on my relationship with my refrigerator. No but seriously, it's just the same as the last time this happened, I have been writing so much, a lot more than is being posted. About my family. About past relationships. About where I grew up. About how I started having sex. I've been retreating, really totally retreating. I feel like I could fall through the cracks any second and never actually have to live.
I could become completely mortified, stagnant, comatose. I know the feeling now. I could be the one whose drool is being wiped off of her wheelchair in an institute somewhere. They never did find out what went wrong. It is not as far as I first thought, though I wish it were, I wish this were a complete, remote dramatization.
Nothing is getting done, and I have to break out.
It may be that I will post again in two days, it may be a month, I could never venture a never-again, I don't know. I just feel, and I think we all feel this a bit from time to time, that I have to re-state the boundary, re-gain control. Actually put it up here. Not just talk about how I need to focus, but actually focus. Start to involve myself where required, not just where desired. In writing this I've already failed, but I'm hopefully moving there slowly.
I feel sad now. :(
Damn.
What if I'll never be able to take these steps fully? What if I find myself here over and over again? How many times will I just pull through ?
I don't care if it's genetic. I don't care if it's experience. I don't care if it needs medication, if my hormones need to be engineered and tweaked. I don't care if I need to learn the right thought processes, need to be positive, am looking at this the wrong way, am just making mistakes, if my distorted perceptions need a new lens, whatever. I don't care if it's a natural stage, if its 'normal' or 'abnormal'. I don't care if I am just like any other, if I need to snap out of it, if I'm just feeling sorry, if I'm self-absorbed, if I'm spoilt, if I'm weak, if I'm a baby, if I'm confused, if I'm dumb, if I need a therapist, a parent, a sibling, a friend, a pill, a life.
I know too much of the lingo, I feel like the reproach and the advice have always been inside, before anyone could open their mouths, I don't care, whatever it is, I just don't want it to be, it's a pain.
My heart questions its own throb, tirelessly, tiresomely, time and time again.
I don't want to be at all. But then I do. I cannot choose.
(Cannot. It is always true, what they say. Don't ever think the girl who took one pill too many was the girl who was finally able to make that choice.)
I'm tired again. Damn.
Stepping back now....
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Time goes by..
so slowly.
I swear this template is turning my writing more and more emo.
But yes, time goes slowly when you're waiting.
He met with her as planned, and we chatted about it for all of five minutes. He says he has to decide, but she is up for a threesome next week. You could have peeled me off the floor. Actually, you couldn't have, I was that floored. I asked how it went and it was "ok", she is apparently not "overly attractive". He said she asked him to "pleasure her manually", that he did and was "a bit bored". And in reference to whether he would like to fuck her or not, his answer is "slightly". I am trying not to be cynical but it all sounds a bit clinical and wishy-washy and suspect to me. I can deal with whatever picture I'm given, but I do need it to be more clear. Anyways I am sure I'll get a better idea once we can talk more. I'm sure it is uncomfortable and awkward for him to talk about and I don't want to push. And also I have to question why I need to know what I'm asking about.
I asked him what she has asked of me, and apparently she would like to see me cum. It's weird that I don't particularly want to chat with her on the Internet beforehand. I know I should. If I am honest, I am not particularly attracted to her photo either, and I can't pin down what it is, because everything about her is fine, but the whole composition doesn't come through for me. But then I am very new at this, and I don't know exactly what I look for in a woman. I don't even know if I fully look for a woman. And this kind of thing can only be told in real life, a presence, a smile, a way of moving and relating.
We will talk more later, he said, and dissapeared off into T land. It is Easter though so I assume a bunny kidnapped him off to a family dinner.
I have been sleeping too much, very dense dreams surrounding him and this. Fantasies spitting out of my ears. It is always like this for me when I feel an upheaval coming. I dreamt that I dreamt he kissed me, and then I dreamt that I woke up from this dream and he kissed me and I was like, hey I dreamt this. You can imagine my confusion upon awakening. The kissing felt fantastic and surreal and like we were going to stop and give each other high-fives. Strange. I dreamt he was about to tell me more of this girl, and I said, wait, before you tell me, and sat on his cock, and he told me like that, and though I would never ask him in life for that amount of detail, I asked question after question, he gave me every last little bit until I came. And I was telling him, I know, I know what you were thinking, you were lost completely, you didn't think of me at all, and it's hot, because it's the truth. Strange. I dreamt it happened, and this time, we tagged up on the girl, and I was teasing her with him, as though I had any say, I want to be fucked now, Girl, she had a name in my dream and I kept using it though I can't remember what it is now, what do you think?, should he stop?, should he stop so he can fuck me?, she was so close to cumming when I asked this, it sounds cruel but it didn't feel like it, she and I were smiling, her smile was desperate, knowing, hoping it was a game, mine to show I'm only teasing, although I did desperately want to be fucked, and T was joining in, hmm maybe I should stop, she does look like she needs to be fucked, what do you think? should I?, and he and I both knew that there would be no stopping, he would make her cum competely, but she didn't know this completely, and the funny thing is it didn't feel like it was about him at all, I was loving it because of her face, it was a surge of need to hold her arousal in my hand, make her cum even harder.
I know in real life this would be a poor tack to take, both for T, and for her, especially for a first encounter. I also know that overall, it sounds like whoa, not dealing with it so well are we? But it's more just that my mind's spinning about everything and anything surrounding this, and I want to control this because it is out of my hands at this moment in time, and I need to anchor it down now by figuring this out and taking the next step.
What's that you say about over-analysing?
I swear this template is turning my writing more and more emo.
But yes, time goes slowly when you're waiting.
He met with her as planned, and we chatted about it for all of five minutes. He says he has to decide, but she is up for a threesome next week. You could have peeled me off the floor. Actually, you couldn't have, I was that floored. I asked how it went and it was "ok", she is apparently not "overly attractive". He said she asked him to "pleasure her manually", that he did and was "a bit bored". And in reference to whether he would like to fuck her or not, his answer is "slightly". I am trying not to be cynical but it all sounds a bit clinical and wishy-washy and suspect to me. I can deal with whatever picture I'm given, but I do need it to be more clear. Anyways I am sure I'll get a better idea once we can talk more. I'm sure it is uncomfortable and awkward for him to talk about and I don't want to push. And also I have to question why I need to know what I'm asking about.
I asked him what she has asked of me, and apparently she would like to see me cum. It's weird that I don't particularly want to chat with her on the Internet beforehand. I know I should. If I am honest, I am not particularly attracted to her photo either, and I can't pin down what it is, because everything about her is fine, but the whole composition doesn't come through for me. But then I am very new at this, and I don't know exactly what I look for in a woman. I don't even know if I fully look for a woman. And this kind of thing can only be told in real life, a presence, a smile, a way of moving and relating.
We will talk more later, he said, and dissapeared off into T land. It is Easter though so I assume a bunny kidnapped him off to a family dinner.
I have been sleeping too much, very dense dreams surrounding him and this. Fantasies spitting out of my ears. It is always like this for me when I feel an upheaval coming. I dreamt that I dreamt he kissed me, and then I dreamt that I woke up from this dream and he kissed me and I was like, hey I dreamt this. You can imagine my confusion upon awakening. The kissing felt fantastic and surreal and like we were going to stop and give each other high-fives. Strange. I dreamt he was about to tell me more of this girl, and I said, wait, before you tell me, and sat on his cock, and he told me like that, and though I would never ask him in life for that amount of detail, I asked question after question, he gave me every last little bit until I came. And I was telling him, I know, I know what you were thinking, you were lost completely, you didn't think of me at all, and it's hot, because it's the truth. Strange. I dreamt it happened, and this time, we tagged up on the girl, and I was teasing her with him, as though I had any say, I want to be fucked now, Girl, she had a name in my dream and I kept using it though I can't remember what it is now, what do you think?, should he stop?, should he stop so he can fuck me?, she was so close to cumming when I asked this, it sounds cruel but it didn't feel like it, she and I were smiling, her smile was desperate, knowing, hoping it was a game, mine to show I'm only teasing, although I did desperately want to be fucked, and T was joining in, hmm maybe I should stop, she does look like she needs to be fucked, what do you think? should I?, and he and I both knew that there would be no stopping, he would make her cum competely, but she didn't know this completely, and the funny thing is it didn't feel like it was about him at all, I was loving it because of her face, it was a surge of need to hold her arousal in my hand, make her cum even harder.
I know in real life this would be a poor tack to take, both for T, and for her, especially for a first encounter. I also know that overall, it sounds like whoa, not dealing with it so well are we? But it's more just that my mind's spinning about everything and anything surrounding this, and I want to control this because it is out of my hands at this moment in time, and I need to anchor it down now by figuring this out and taking the next step.
What's that you say about over-analysing?
Thursday, April 13, 2006
release
She sits in my mailbox, this naked girl. A pocket-sized, café latte, angular woman, dark hair streaming down to her waist. She holds up her handcuffed hands to me. Her eyes are large, daring, consumed, almost freaky.
I know nothing about her.
You have found her.
She will come to your house, this naked girl, clothed. She has agreed to masturbate for you. In or out of her clothes, I do not know. You will watch. See how it goes. You will not let it go too far, you say. If it goes well, she says that she will be up for a threesome.
It is hot. The situation is hot. You are a hot man, especially when heated. A masturbating heating woman is hot. Watching one is hot. Being privy to this watching is hot. Sex is hot, when it’s real. Sex heats, burns, engulfs and enflames.
And who knows what will happen if we all end up doing this?
T, I let you go, you know, the same way I have had to let my life go. Let my life go to changes, to disruptions in equilibriums that can never be maintained. I have maybe been the first to break out, but I know we would have broken all the same. I know what I have always known, we could not stay in this place forever. And it is more than just a self-fulfilling prophecy.
You say to me once in the middle of another shared phone-call fantasy, and it’s funny, you say, I have no real interest in involving myself in another woman’s sexual life, in her every day thoughts and fantasies. And I think of how I understand this feeling. It was partly why I had no desire, in the end, to continue with N. I think of how this is just exactly what I would jealously guard from you. Just this desire to have you watch, you say, this desire to have you be there.
But T, you must know it is not fully true. You know you must, as I had to with him. You know you cannot sit back and watch a woman open her arousal to you, without being involved at some level. The second you respond, you have stepped in. You must have already if she has agreed to do this with you.
And it’s strange, I would be disappointed if you didn’t get involved in some way. I would hate for you to have posed completely, to have detached yourself like an artifical limb and enticed her there. I expect more from you. I cannot deny there is something lost, either way. It will be the final breaking of this delicate back that we have ridden together
I have nothing to tell you, really, there is no half-way. This we that we had, it broke upon his and her entry. That we was broken to begin with. What more could I ask you? Does she turn you on? Do you want to fuck her? Do you want to know her? How much? Wet-making and present-breaking questions. What more could I ask of you? To like her enough to fuck her, but not too much, not as much as you like me?? It is pointless. It is hypocritical.
The truth is you do not know how I will respond to her either if we do end up meeting. (Although I think the possibilities are more limited for me. You and she are fundamentally different for me, in a way that her and I can never be for you.) Still, you will have to know of her pleasure for me, just like you had to know of his.
I'm thinking too how you told me all you have given cannot help but make you protective of me. I picture you, looming over me like a benefactor who desires loyalty, dues paid, credit given. You have had to be patient, you have got to have me first, excited, nervous, fresh, at my most difficult and resistant and awkward. You have shown me this power, you have created this monster. Others will benefit. I will owe you always, but I will know too that this was all in me. And you know I cannot put yours or anyone's footnote at the bottom of my every page, again and again.
And maybe you don't know that in all you have given you have made me just as protective of you, though in a different way. Teacher's pet that I have become.
I let go of your exclusive sexual involvement with me now, your interest, your guidance, the zoning in for a moment of your cums and desires on me and into me. This same involvement that I admit I have hoarded so greedily and kept so close and secret to me. I let it go, maybe it will leave completely, maybe it will not. We will change, no doubt, we are changing. We will be just as good, worse, better, who knows?
T, this girl may blow your mind beyond your control, she may do nothing for you, she may end up being your girl, your love, she may start and run away. She will probably do something in between. These risks were always there, this I never had any control over. I never had you. I don’t know that I really want to have anyone that way. I cannot yearn for, I cannot fuck, puppets. You must do what you want. I want you to. I take comfort in what was had, this “good run”. This great cross-country sprint, in fact. I put faith into what might yet be had.
And I won’t even ask you much, you know, after that day. After any day really. I cannot hound you, because I cannot hound myself. I will hope that you will tell me to the best of your ability how you feel, towards her, towards me. I will wait, listen, see how I feel.
I will let go. I will in fact, play.
T, I’m nervous, I’m excited, I look backwards, I look forwards. And I kind of hope this works.
I know nothing about her.
You have found her.
She will come to your house, this naked girl, clothed. She has agreed to masturbate for you. In or out of her clothes, I do not know. You will watch. See how it goes. You will not let it go too far, you say. If it goes well, she says that she will be up for a threesome.
It is hot. The situation is hot. You are a hot man, especially when heated. A masturbating heating woman is hot. Watching one is hot. Being privy to this watching is hot. Sex is hot, when it’s real. Sex heats, burns, engulfs and enflames.
And who knows what will happen if we all end up doing this?
T, I let you go, you know, the same way I have had to let my life go. Let my life go to changes, to disruptions in equilibriums that can never be maintained. I have maybe been the first to break out, but I know we would have broken all the same. I know what I have always known, we could not stay in this place forever. And it is more than just a self-fulfilling prophecy.
You say to me once in the middle of another shared phone-call fantasy, and it’s funny, you say, I have no real interest in involving myself in another woman’s sexual life, in her every day thoughts and fantasies. And I think of how I understand this feeling. It was partly why I had no desire, in the end, to continue with N. I think of how this is just exactly what I would jealously guard from you. Just this desire to have you watch, you say, this desire to have you be there.
But T, you must know it is not fully true. You know you must, as I had to with him. You know you cannot sit back and watch a woman open her arousal to you, without being involved at some level. The second you respond, you have stepped in. You must have already if she has agreed to do this with you.
And it’s strange, I would be disappointed if you didn’t get involved in some way. I would hate for you to have posed completely, to have detached yourself like an artifical limb and enticed her there. I expect more from you. I cannot deny there is something lost, either way. It will be the final breaking of this delicate back that we have ridden together
I have nothing to tell you, really, there is no half-way. This we that we had, it broke upon his and her entry. That we was broken to begin with. What more could I ask you? Does she turn you on? Do you want to fuck her? Do you want to know her? How much? Wet-making and present-breaking questions. What more could I ask of you? To like her enough to fuck her, but not too much, not as much as you like me?? It is pointless. It is hypocritical.
The truth is you do not know how I will respond to her either if we do end up meeting. (Although I think the possibilities are more limited for me. You and she are fundamentally different for me, in a way that her and I can never be for you.) Still, you will have to know of her pleasure for me, just like you had to know of his.
I'm thinking too how you told me all you have given cannot help but make you protective of me. I picture you, looming over me like a benefactor who desires loyalty, dues paid, credit given. You have had to be patient, you have got to have me first, excited, nervous, fresh, at my most difficult and resistant and awkward. You have shown me this power, you have created this monster. Others will benefit. I will owe you always, but I will know too that this was all in me. And you know I cannot put yours or anyone's footnote at the bottom of my every page, again and again.
And maybe you don't know that in all you have given you have made me just as protective of you, though in a different way. Teacher's pet that I have become.
I let go of your exclusive sexual involvement with me now, your interest, your guidance, the zoning in for a moment of your cums and desires on me and into me. This same involvement that I admit I have hoarded so greedily and kept so close and secret to me. I let it go, maybe it will leave completely, maybe it will not. We will change, no doubt, we are changing. We will be just as good, worse, better, who knows?
T, this girl may blow your mind beyond your control, she may do nothing for you, she may end up being your girl, your love, she may start and run away. She will probably do something in between. These risks were always there, this I never had any control over. I never had you. I don’t know that I really want to have anyone that way. I cannot yearn for, I cannot fuck, puppets. You must do what you want. I want you to. I take comfort in what was had, this “good run”. This great cross-country sprint, in fact. I put faith into what might yet be had.
And I won’t even ask you much, you know, after that day. After any day really. I cannot hound you, because I cannot hound myself. I will hope that you will tell me to the best of your ability how you feel, towards her, towards me. I will wait, listen, see how I feel.
I will let go. I will in fact, play.
T, I’m nervous, I’m excited, I look backwards, I look forwards. And I kind of hope this works.
Monday, April 10, 2006
sigh
Damn T. Finally coming online only to tell me he's going to cum. Me asking him to leave a message on my phone then, since I have no cell and am at school. I can't call from a payphone because he is in another city.
wish you could hear it in your ear now - teasing the shit outa you
maybe make you cum just listening
Then going offline.
oh this feels soooo good
bye
How predictable. How easily I fall. How I urge him.
I'm not even sure I enjoy this right now. Think I'm too tired from school. Think I'm blank inside.
No anger. No joy. Just this pain between my legs. I asked for this.
Well I'm going to a payphone to access my voice-mail right now, and then I'm going to the bathroom for some privacy...
Might cheer me up.
Update:
Mm I felt that.
Listening to him on a payphone was not smart. Not smart at all.
He took up two whole voice message slots, talking out his fantasy. So aroused. His arousal beckons insanely when I hear it. It wipes everything out I admit. Even this blankness.
I started off alright, not too many people around. Bit my lip and looked at the ground. Then as he got closer and closer, a few people started to pop out from the computer lab. Around me. Too far gone to fully care, too wrapped up, I gripped the metal edge of the booth whitely as he talked. I thought I would cry from the exertion.
He fucked her again with me watching, and then fucked me. This is an idea we cannot seem to leave.
We are awkward, he says. We are watching, he says. It is such a deep and dark want for him, he says. He describes it all. Down to her feel. Down to her orgasm. Down to the ridge in his cock I have felt that will grate upwards inside me. Down to the way we will cum. Down to the way he will hold me to him after our hard fuck.
I listen, feel the dampness begin. When he cums, all I can do is shut my eyes.
There is more. I will have to go home and listen to it just one more time, cum just one more time,and then delete, like he asked in the next message. He wants the voiced fantasy of the moment left in the moment. Mine, they are mostly preserved here. But it is his wish.
And that school bathroom, I got to it, it knows me well by now. I pulsed and pushed on my clit, rapidly bringing myself there, and then flushed the toilet right when I came, in case someone was around, so I could cry out. (Professional public bathroom cummer, I have become apparently.) The cum is not nearly enough, but enough for now.
Ah, life is so silly and random sometimes. It sticks its tongue out at me, and endears itself to me against my will.
Talk about your mood swing. An orgasm will do that for you.
Back to work. Sigh. And I wonder why my work doesn't get done.
Up-update: It just occured to me that I've partly preserved his fantasy here too. But he can't really stop that. Hmm. Will have to bring it up some time. I think he is just wary of the real live moment being physically captured. But I have not a mind for abstractions today. I am naught but a happy cummer. :)
wish you could hear it in your ear now - teasing the shit outa you
maybe make you cum just listening
Then going offline.
oh this feels soooo good
bye
How predictable. How easily I fall. How I urge him.
I'm not even sure I enjoy this right now. Think I'm too tired from school. Think I'm blank inside.
No anger. No joy. Just this pain between my legs. I asked for this.
Well I'm going to a payphone to access my voice-mail right now, and then I'm going to the bathroom for some privacy...
Might cheer me up.
Update:
Mm I felt that.
Listening to him on a payphone was not smart. Not smart at all.
He took up two whole voice message slots, talking out his fantasy. So aroused. His arousal beckons insanely when I hear it. It wipes everything out I admit. Even this blankness.
I started off alright, not too many people around. Bit my lip and looked at the ground. Then as he got closer and closer, a few people started to pop out from the computer lab. Around me. Too far gone to fully care, too wrapped up, I gripped the metal edge of the booth whitely as he talked. I thought I would cry from the exertion.
He fucked her again with me watching, and then fucked me. This is an idea we cannot seem to leave.
We are awkward, he says. We are watching, he says. It is such a deep and dark want for him, he says. He describes it all. Down to her feel. Down to her orgasm. Down to the ridge in his cock I have felt that will grate upwards inside me. Down to the way we will cum. Down to the way he will hold me to him after our hard fuck.
I listen, feel the dampness begin. When he cums, all I can do is shut my eyes.
There is more. I will have to go home and listen to it just one more time, cum just one more time,and then delete, like he asked in the next message. He wants the voiced fantasy of the moment left in the moment. Mine, they are mostly preserved here. But it is his wish.
And that school bathroom, I got to it, it knows me well by now. I pulsed and pushed on my clit, rapidly bringing myself there, and then flushed the toilet right when I came, in case someone was around, so I could cry out. (Professional public bathroom cummer, I have become apparently.) The cum is not nearly enough, but enough for now.
Ah, life is so silly and random sometimes. It sticks its tongue out at me, and endears itself to me against my will.
Talk about your mood swing. An orgasm will do that for you.
Back to work. Sigh. And I wonder why my work doesn't get done.
Up-update: It just occured to me that I've partly preserved his fantasy here too. But he can't really stop that. Hmm. Will have to bring it up some time. I think he is just wary of the real live moment being physically captured. But I have not a mind for abstractions today. I am naught but a happy cummer. :)
Saturday, April 08, 2006
body
“OK those have to come off now,” you say, motioning to my panties. They are silly and satiny, with black bows on either side. “Mine too,” you say. “Because I’m already getting hard.” This makes me grin. I lean back and pull mine off quickly. I find myself helping you pull your grey cotton off too, unconsciously impatient, just want to get my hands, something, on. You smile a bit and thank me. And then pull me back on top. Before I can get a good look of your cock.
And then well, I don't know, I fight to grind against you, get to what I want. Can't quite hit it. Just spatters of your hardness as I fumble. Your shirt is off. I’m clinging frantic again now, my soft shirt smushed against the expanse of your bare chest.
“Actually, lay back,” you decide, pushing me backwards with one hand. Above me now, you poke unhurriedly between my legs with your cock. Just touching. I try to push you in. Then you are in, unexpectedly, in one go. I gasp at the burn and stretch of you inside me. Fuck. Then you pull me up to you.
Then you raise me completely up and I drop on to you, take you all the way in, reaching up inside me in one stroke as I push down. I gasp. Fuck.
It really has been a while.
Then I’m seeing you lie back, your naked bright male torso stretched out below me, for me, makes me happy. I start to reverse against you, keeping my hands on your stomach. But you don’t let me ride long, I don’t think, just get up and quickly flip me backwards, keeping you inside me. I fall hard on my back with my head at the foot of the bed, feel you swivel thrillingly that way inside too.
You’re holding my legs to you. You’re securing them close, you’re slingshotting them apart. We can’t seem to stay still. You are folding and forcing my cunt this way and that. I am straining and tensing away. Inside and out.
You’re holding me up like a bundle as you fuck, never the same. Every pivot from your hips, every sudden subtle shift has me gasping and moaning. I’m on my back, and I think we stay like this whole time. But the sensation keeps building and changing, cranking and rolling closer. Think I’m laughing or something at one point, think some kind of ahaha is coming out of my throat.
Your face is intent and impassive as you continue. Shallow and fast. Deep and slow. Up then down, always connected. Deep cunt, you say softly, slamming firmer and then angling deeper. Really quite deep. I yelp with every push into the depth of me, pain and pleasure holding happy swinging hands, so intense. I gasp when you stop and push my hands on my abdomen.
A cold quiet fury seems to have taken you over. I look away, lean my head back further towards the edge of your bed, as far as it can go, as far as I can see behind me.
You place one hand squarely centered on my exposed neck, thumb on one side, four fingers on the other. Thumb around my windpipe gently and closely. Then the other hand on top. I swallow and heartbeat faster as you push gingerly, still pushing inside me. I keep secure and calm. Must be nothing but defiance, because I can’t even bear the confines of a tight turtleneck usually. But you continue, you push slightly more, just enough for me to begin to slip away in panic, wondering how far you intend to go. I push my palms into the mattress for control. My cunt melts as you push inside at your own pace, my cries still come out but ever so slightly strangled from under your fingers.
Just this feeling of my throat vibrating against your two curved hands.
And then yes, we just keep moving. Still this serene controlled rage. Placing my hands here and there, above my head, to the side, careful and deliberate. Holding me down finally, right by my cunt. Hand weighing down on my pubic bone to keep me still. I push up to get away. Or just instinct. Or just to feel more of that steadfast warm pressure, focal on my hard bone. You’re telling me as always to go ahead and push. You’re still fucking me evenly. It galls me, even through my ecstatic fog. I think I’m scowling. I know I’m squirming. I buck away and you slip out- I want you back in- something like a rueful smile twitches through my frown. Violent, you observe calmly, raising an eyebrow. And then push right back inside me without another glance my way, go right back to it.
So much for a slow fuck, we just keep going. Stopping only to ask if I’ve missed you. Gnaahaayeees. So much. So long. You always ask, my answer never changes.
And I don’t know how many times I’ve cum, am cumming. However many times you tell me to. I remember one time your mouth seals my ear, vacuumed by your hot lips as you tell me. You bite hard and firm on my lobe as I cum. Gasping and shuddering happy every time. Remember my hips clear levitate off the bed one time, a slow motion arch that takes me by surprise. You hold me, you stay in, hard. And well, we just go on.
And then well, I don't know, I fight to grind against you, get to what I want. Can't quite hit it. Just spatters of your hardness as I fumble. Your shirt is off. I’m clinging frantic again now, my soft shirt smushed against the expanse of your bare chest.
“Actually, lay back,” you decide, pushing me backwards with one hand. Above me now, you poke unhurriedly between my legs with your cock. Just touching. I try to push you in. Then you are in, unexpectedly, in one go. I gasp at the burn and stretch of you inside me. Fuck. Then you pull me up to you.
Then you raise me completely up and I drop on to you, take you all the way in, reaching up inside me in one stroke as I push down. I gasp. Fuck.
It really has been a while.
Then I’m seeing you lie back, your naked bright male torso stretched out below me, for me, makes me happy. I start to reverse against you, keeping my hands on your stomach. But you don’t let me ride long, I don’t think, just get up and quickly flip me backwards, keeping you inside me. I fall hard on my back with my head at the foot of the bed, feel you swivel thrillingly that way inside too.
You’re holding my legs to you. You’re securing them close, you’re slingshotting them apart. We can’t seem to stay still. You are folding and forcing my cunt this way and that. I am straining and tensing away. Inside and out.
You’re holding me up like a bundle as you fuck, never the same. Every pivot from your hips, every sudden subtle shift has me gasping and moaning. I’m on my back, and I think we stay like this whole time. But the sensation keeps building and changing, cranking and rolling closer. Think I’m laughing or something at one point, think some kind of ahaha is coming out of my throat.
Your face is intent and impassive as you continue. Shallow and fast. Deep and slow. Up then down, always connected. Deep cunt, you say softly, slamming firmer and then angling deeper. Really quite deep. I yelp with every push into the depth of me, pain and pleasure holding happy swinging hands, so intense. I gasp when you stop and push my hands on my abdomen.
A cold quiet fury seems to have taken you over. I look away, lean my head back further towards the edge of your bed, as far as it can go, as far as I can see behind me.
You place one hand squarely centered on my exposed neck, thumb on one side, four fingers on the other. Thumb around my windpipe gently and closely. Then the other hand on top. I swallow and heartbeat faster as you push gingerly, still pushing inside me. I keep secure and calm. Must be nothing but defiance, because I can’t even bear the confines of a tight turtleneck usually. But you continue, you push slightly more, just enough for me to begin to slip away in panic, wondering how far you intend to go. I push my palms into the mattress for control. My cunt melts as you push inside at your own pace, my cries still come out but ever so slightly strangled from under your fingers.
Just this feeling of my throat vibrating against your two curved hands.
And then yes, we just keep moving. Still this serene controlled rage. Placing my hands here and there, above my head, to the side, careful and deliberate. Holding me down finally, right by my cunt. Hand weighing down on my pubic bone to keep me still. I push up to get away. Or just instinct. Or just to feel more of that steadfast warm pressure, focal on my hard bone. You’re telling me as always to go ahead and push. You’re still fucking me evenly. It galls me, even through my ecstatic fog. I think I’m scowling. I know I’m squirming. I buck away and you slip out- I want you back in- something like a rueful smile twitches through my frown. Violent, you observe calmly, raising an eyebrow. And then push right back inside me without another glance my way, go right back to it.
So much for a slow fuck, we just keep going. Stopping only to ask if I’ve missed you. Gnaahaayeees. So much. So long. You always ask, my answer never changes.
And I don’t know how many times I’ve cum, am cumming. However many times you tell me to. I remember one time your mouth seals my ear, vacuumed by your hot lips as you tell me. You bite hard and firm on my lobe as I cum. Gasping and shuddering happy every time. Remember my hips clear levitate off the bed one time, a slow motion arch that takes me by surprise. You hold me, you stay in, hard. And well, we just go on.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
stay and talk
I know blogworld has become a complete microcosm of my real world when I hit a certain mood, and I find myself lurking around nervously on other blogs reading, wanting to comment, wanting to say hello, but not wanting to ‘face’ anyone. Like how in the real world when the phone rings, I’ll want to pick up but can’t bring myself to. I stayed a couple of days at my sister’s after she called and called, and then finally knocked on my door and found me in my pyjamas at 3 pm. And I felt better during the stay, but it didn’t help much for when I got back home.
At least in blogland I can leave a quick comment and run. People don’t like that too much in reality-land. Hi-don’t look at me- bye. It’s weird, when I get like this, it’s not what I want to say, or saying it that matters, it’s just the contact, making that effort, being seen, that I do not feel up to. On the other hand if someone actually sat down and talked to me, I might just cry with a mixture of shame and relief. Weird.
Qu’est-ce qui se passe?!? Damned if I know. And I don’t ask that in French to be pretentious. I’m just remembering a certain French teacher who could ask/scream that with much conviction when she wanted to know what on earth was going on. That and ‘ca-sUF-FIT!’, a crescendo-ing arpeggio, at its wits end. That was for when she really didn’t care what was going on, just wanted it to end. Well I agree, ca su-reallyfuckin-fit!
I posted the last story, and it has two other parts, but I do not fully like it, it lacks oomph, it lacks sex. I feel out of touch, haven’t written an honest to goodness piece in so long.
I’ve mentioned my pet peeve for unfinished conversations. Some time last Wednesday, T left me a message. He apparently had something important he wanted to tell me.
We had an extraordinary talk a week before. I had all this work to do and had told him earlier that day that I might be on hiatus for a week or so. Of course, this restriction just left me horny and while taking a nap, I had a nice image of him, me and la troisieme. And so, miracle of miracles, I actually called him to tell him about it, the way he has, the way he would. This suprised and aroused him I think, and the miracle struck twice because, with a little bit of help, I talked my way through it and we came. We came with me talking you understand. My second time, and this one so strong and unexpected. I should write about it fully. I am surprised how vulnerable it left me. I wonder his courage at having done it all along. But I don't think he's ever taken it this far. I said some strange things, strange desires. It’s been coming to me in disordered fragments through the last two weeks.
(- ..I’m..I’m wondering how it would..feel for you.. to have me behind you like that.. and know.. the power you have over me right then.
- What power? What do I have?
His voice is thick. I can only whisper, slow and sad and resigned, almost to myself.
-You’ve fucked me before…. That’s your power… You don’t- need to do anything.
I hear him groan...
- What would you do?
- Uhuh. I’m not telling you what I would do,… I know exactly what I would do. But it’s your turn now, you tell me.
I laugh because I knew, was biding time.
-I don’t know where this story ends, T.
-Yes you do. Bring the thought to completion. Whatever you want me to be doing.. is what I’ll do.
-…I need you to fuck with me…
- Okay
-…I need you to come really really close, my fingers inside her, feeling you grow, wondering if you’re going to.. get to me………
-I need you to stop
- Okay
-I need you to pull out….. I need you to hold back a little bit when you start to fuck me........
-Yeah but you can make me cum very fast when you want.
He can. He knows.
-I know I can.
He knows he can.
-…So hold on just a little longer when you fuck me…..I’ll be the one in the end..begging you to cum.
And then I remember the unexpected break in my narrative, the loss, the complete desperate slipping away. It comes with no prompting from either of us, mid-sentence. It risks everything, and it could never take no for an answer. But I am not thinking or weighing it right then, I am just breathe whispering these words like a trance, and only after do I realize all that has passed. Something like this.
-Please cum please pleasse I’vebeenwai...ting.. I won’t cum without you… don’t hold back just cum so I can cum I need to please cum- my breath-please just cum- my breath- please - and then his frantic voice interrupting me, starling me, tight and rushed, barely forming the words, cumcunghmcum and I do.)
It does not seem like much, the conversation, but every sentence is larger than it first appears in the mirror. And it magnifies too when said out loud, no matter how quiet. And it is close to me, revealing, damning. I struggle with it, and now I have put him into it. Actually, it is all for him, and it is scary.
(And later on, apart from him, I struggle as always with the idea of this woman: have I made her a complete abstraction, a tool, a toy, a symbol to use? Will she be getting fully out of this if she were actually there?)
When we’re done, he has to leave immediately to clean up. I feel alone and steamrollered, my orgasm and my words sobbing and shivering through my body. He apologizes when he returns, says he had not expected or prepared to cum, had just been sitting there on his couch. He is uncharacteristically quiet, does not say a word, just his faint sighs and breathing and the odd barely audible God now and then. And for the first time, I do not want him at all to leave, and I don’t say anything. He gets ready to go, as he always would. Actually he has always joked how he feels like the ‘girl’, because he is the one who wants to stay and maybe talk, and he feels like I want him to go, when really I just feel too passed out to talk. But this time all I think is no, stay, and he asks me if I want him to go, and I say no, stay. I don’t want him to leave you see, don’t want this to drop away from under me, and he stays, still as silent as me, until I sigh and say ok, I should sleep. He says ok, says he can stay further, he wants to be sure, and I want him to stay, but my eyes are closing, I am beginning to fall asleep and I don’t want to ask him to be there, listening to me fall asleep. And he won't be there in the morning. And so we do our quick ok goodnight before the click.
I feel like he’s been acting a bit off ever since, but this is likely my paranoia.
And then he tells me of this, a week ago, this something important he needs to talk about. I don’t get the message until later, but as soon as I do, I tell him I’ll call if he wants. But by then he is sorry, he knows how busy I am with school, says he just kind of blurted it out, and it is not urgent, so we can talk about it later. Great. He says it’s nothing too long no, really not that urgent at all, nothing bad. Alright then, I say, cool, I’ll be pretty much done tomorrow night. OK we’ll talk then, he says, now I have to go.
Never happened. It’s been a week now and it’s never happened. I catch him online, we say a word or two. I mention again when I’m free so he can feel free to make the call, nothing more said. I know he’s busy. He’s said he had a stressful weekend. I think maybe he would like some time. I hope he is not avoiding. I was not made for this. Who is? But I’m sensitive to the power cubed I’m realizing, and I try to keep it down, rein it in. I am usually successful too, am this super chilling, relaxed , chillaxing girl. But then every once in a while, it just bursts out even worse.
Am I the only one who finds these starts and stops intensely annoying? It’s like me sitting you down and saying quietly ‘Listen, we need to talk’ and then you sitting down, ready to listen, all ears. And then me scooting off to get a cup of tea, and never coming back. Or coming back ten hours later and being like, sooo.. nice weather we’ve been lately huh? Nu-uh, no, not gonna work.
That little yellow Post-it note I left to myself in the back of my mind to not wonder what he wants to talk about was working fine, just flapping away until today when I realised how long it's been, and it turned into a neon flashing sign: DO NOT WONDER! Hello? I said, don't wond- stop that, you're wondering, don't speculate- I'm serious, stop it.
Rant over, I’m calm again. I bet you it won’t even end up have anything to do with above conversation. At any rate, I’ve waited a week, I will wait a few more days until this weekend, and then I will just have to ask for myself. Apparently Saturn went direct tonight and things are going to be a-moving. Snort.
For now I will worry about other things. My growing disconnect from the world. I know it's a bit creepy and suspect, I'm waiting for one particular phone call and yet I cannot pick up any others. Actually give me enough time and I won't be able to pick up his either. Gah but still, must be more obssessed with him than I think. (Whisper to self: err you created a blog revolving around him... ) Around the relationship. Not just him. It's true. Shut up.
Demons riding high tonight. I hope they go retrograde. Anything in there that mentions Satan going retrograde?
I'm not actually crazy, I just seem to want to write a lot when I have cramps. Yes, writing eases cramps, I thought everyone knew this. This kind of writing that is, not the ten page journal critique writing I should be doing .
Just to clarify.
At least in blogland I can leave a quick comment and run. People don’t like that too much in reality-land. Hi-don’t look at me- bye. It’s weird, when I get like this, it’s not what I want to say, or saying it that matters, it’s just the contact, making that effort, being seen, that I do not feel up to. On the other hand if someone actually sat down and talked to me, I might just cry with a mixture of shame and relief. Weird.
Qu’est-ce qui se passe?!? Damned if I know. And I don’t ask that in French to be pretentious. I’m just remembering a certain French teacher who could ask/scream that with much conviction when she wanted to know what on earth was going on. That and ‘ca-sUF-FIT!’, a crescendo-ing arpeggio, at its wits end. That was for when she really didn’t care what was going on, just wanted it to end. Well I agree, ca su-reallyfuckin-fit!
I posted the last story, and it has two other parts, but I do not fully like it, it lacks oomph, it lacks sex. I feel out of touch, haven’t written an honest to goodness piece in so long.
I’ve mentioned my pet peeve for unfinished conversations. Some time last Wednesday, T left me a message. He apparently had something important he wanted to tell me.
We had an extraordinary talk a week before. I had all this work to do and had told him earlier that day that I might be on hiatus for a week or so. Of course, this restriction just left me horny and while taking a nap, I had a nice image of him, me and la troisieme. And so, miracle of miracles, I actually called him to tell him about it, the way he has, the way he would. This suprised and aroused him I think, and the miracle struck twice because, with a little bit of help, I talked my way through it and we came. We came with me talking you understand. My second time, and this one so strong and unexpected. I should write about it fully. I am surprised how vulnerable it left me. I wonder his courage at having done it all along. But I don't think he's ever taken it this far. I said some strange things, strange desires. It’s been coming to me in disordered fragments through the last two weeks.
(- ..I’m..I’m wondering how it would..feel for you.. to have me behind you like that.. and know.. the power you have over me right then.
- What power? What do I have?
His voice is thick. I can only whisper, slow and sad and resigned, almost to myself.
-You’ve fucked me before…. That’s your power… You don’t- need to do anything.
I hear him groan...
- What would you do?
- Uhuh. I’m not telling you what I would do,… I know exactly what I would do. But it’s your turn now, you tell me.
I laugh because I knew, was biding time.
-I don’t know where this story ends, T.
-Yes you do. Bring the thought to completion. Whatever you want me to be doing.. is what I’ll do.
-…I need you to fuck with me…
- Okay
-…I need you to come really really close, my fingers inside her, feeling you grow, wondering if you’re going to.. get to me………
-I need you to stop
- Okay
-I need you to pull out….. I need you to hold back a little bit when you start to fuck me........
-Yeah but you can make me cum very fast when you want.
He can. He knows.
-I know I can.
He knows he can.
-…So hold on just a little longer when you fuck me…..I’ll be the one in the end..begging you to cum.
And then I remember the unexpected break in my narrative, the loss, the complete desperate slipping away. It comes with no prompting from either of us, mid-sentence. It risks everything, and it could never take no for an answer. But I am not thinking or weighing it right then, I am just breathe whispering these words like a trance, and only after do I realize all that has passed. Something like this.
-Please cum please pleasse I’vebeenwai...ting.. I won’t cum without you… don’t hold back just cum so I can cum I need to please cum- my breath-please just cum- my breath- please - and then his frantic voice interrupting me, starling me, tight and rushed, barely forming the words, cumcunghmcum and I do.)
It does not seem like much, the conversation, but every sentence is larger than it first appears in the mirror. And it magnifies too when said out loud, no matter how quiet. And it is close to me, revealing, damning. I struggle with it, and now I have put him into it. Actually, it is all for him, and it is scary.
(And later on, apart from him, I struggle as always with the idea of this woman: have I made her a complete abstraction, a tool, a toy, a symbol to use? Will she be getting fully out of this if she were actually there?)
When we’re done, he has to leave immediately to clean up. I feel alone and steamrollered, my orgasm and my words sobbing and shivering through my body. He apologizes when he returns, says he had not expected or prepared to cum, had just been sitting there on his couch. He is uncharacteristically quiet, does not say a word, just his faint sighs and breathing and the odd barely audible God now and then. And for the first time, I do not want him at all to leave, and I don’t say anything. He gets ready to go, as he always would. Actually he has always joked how he feels like the ‘girl’, because he is the one who wants to stay and maybe talk, and he feels like I want him to go, when really I just feel too passed out to talk. But this time all I think is no, stay, and he asks me if I want him to go, and I say no, stay. I don’t want him to leave you see, don’t want this to drop away from under me, and he stays, still as silent as me, until I sigh and say ok, I should sleep. He says ok, says he can stay further, he wants to be sure, and I want him to stay, but my eyes are closing, I am beginning to fall asleep and I don’t want to ask him to be there, listening to me fall asleep. And he won't be there in the morning. And so we do our quick ok goodnight before the click.
I feel like he’s been acting a bit off ever since, but this is likely my paranoia.
And then he tells me of this, a week ago, this something important he needs to talk about. I don’t get the message until later, but as soon as I do, I tell him I’ll call if he wants. But by then he is sorry, he knows how busy I am with school, says he just kind of blurted it out, and it is not urgent, so we can talk about it later. Great. He says it’s nothing too long no, really not that urgent at all, nothing bad. Alright then, I say, cool, I’ll be pretty much done tomorrow night. OK we’ll talk then, he says, now I have to go.
Never happened. It’s been a week now and it’s never happened. I catch him online, we say a word or two. I mention again when I’m free so he can feel free to make the call, nothing more said. I know he’s busy. He’s said he had a stressful weekend. I think maybe he would like some time. I hope he is not avoiding. I was not made for this. Who is? But I’m sensitive to the power cubed I’m realizing, and I try to keep it down, rein it in. I am usually successful too, am this super chilling, relaxed , chillaxing girl. But then every once in a while, it just bursts out even worse.
Am I the only one who finds these starts and stops intensely annoying? It’s like me sitting you down and saying quietly ‘Listen, we need to talk’ and then you sitting down, ready to listen, all ears. And then me scooting off to get a cup of tea, and never coming back. Or coming back ten hours later and being like, sooo.. nice weather we’ve been lately huh? Nu-uh, no, not gonna work.
That little yellow Post-it note I left to myself in the back of my mind to not wonder what he wants to talk about was working fine, just flapping away until today when I realised how long it's been, and it turned into a neon flashing sign: DO NOT WONDER! Hello? I said, don't wond- stop that, you're wondering, don't speculate- I'm serious, stop it.
Rant over, I’m calm again. I bet you it won’t even end up have anything to do with above conversation. At any rate, I’ve waited a week, I will wait a few more days until this weekend, and then I will just have to ask for myself. Apparently Saturn went direct tonight and things are going to be a-moving. Snort.
For now I will worry about other things. My growing disconnect from the world. I know it's a bit creepy and suspect, I'm waiting for one particular phone call and yet I cannot pick up any others. Actually give me enough time and I won't be able to pick up his either. Gah but still, must be more obssessed with him than I think. (Whisper to self: err you created a blog revolving around him... ) Around the relationship. Not just him. It's true. Shut up.
Demons riding high tonight. I hope they go retrograde. Anything in there that mentions Satan going retrograde?
I'm not actually crazy, I just seem to want to write a lot when I have cramps. Yes, writing eases cramps, I thought everyone knew this. This kind of writing that is, not the ten page journal critique writing I should be doing .
Just to clarify.
Monday, April 03, 2006
introduction
This is how we begin.
I sit on your bed in a thong, calm and alone, naked knees curled in front of me.
Sex. Very soon I will be having sex. With you. I look at your alarm clock. Fifteen minutes left?
We’ve reached your house, and we’ve haggled and weighed dispassionately whether we should fuck, like we’re discussing whether we’d like to go grab a cup of coffee.
Are you too tired? Will it be half-hearted because of this? Is there enough time? These are all questions that have been raised. All valid.
You fill the frame of your door, in your underwear too, all shoulders and legs and grey cotton briefs. You stand there, eclipsed, nothing but the damning maddening happening brute of a man I have fucked with once or twice or thrice. It’s been a while.
I smile mutely and ignore the sudden flattening wrench of excitement.
“Yeah, let’s do it,” I proclaim finally, turning towards your bedroom, as much not to look at you, as to get moving. Because I want it, I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t know how to say it any less casually.
“Okay…” you laugh, a bit unsure. “I can’t promise much, maybe just a slow fuck.”
Fine with me.
You’re questioning still, as you place one knee on the bed. “Are you sure you’re okay with the rushed time?” Then the next knee. “Do we even have enough time?” I ask, eyes reluctantly shifting to the clock. “Maybe we should just… relax together… or something…” I continue, looking over at you lamely.
Your body is upright, legs flat and bent in front of you, your suggestion is again that I just come and sit on your lap. “It may or may not lead to sex,” you say.
We may or may not be smiling just a tiny bit.
I start to lift myself, start to place my knees on either side of you. You start to pull me in close. “My alarm clock is fifteen minutes ahead, by the way,” you inform me, close to my ear.
I laugh and mumble some answer. Like I could stop at that point. With the plunge of my shirt poised fervent near your face. My dark hair thickly curtaining around. I can smell my own perfume- the salon scent in your ashy brown do- my limbs wrapped sudden and crooked around you, wide, like a cricket on a downward dragging leaf, hugging just as fierce. Your hands I find on my startled back, and it seems to me for a fleeting moment you’re clinging just as hard too. This need perches unsteady- sways wild- thumps agog- this blood reels in my ears. I feel like it must be splintering clear and pointy off my skin. I just push down further. You find the flesh of my bare cheeks spreading over your stripped legs. You reach down easy and quick, seat your firm hands underneath me- and –oh- you ply and work my ass- wind cooled from our walk, now fondled in your warm palms, so good. Your face turns a grimace. Mine must be almost plaintive. This is how. Moving and pushing against you, feeling you heat between my heating legs. Feeling your cotton-covered hardening cock pushing up, hands squeezing still. Moaning and bowing my neck down onto you for help, burying my face on the side of your neck. Parting my lips distractedly around the pale skin behind your ear, remembering to breathe. We begin.
I sit on your bed in a thong, calm and alone, naked knees curled in front of me.
Sex. Very soon I will be having sex. With you. I look at your alarm clock. Fifteen minutes left?
We’ve reached your house, and we’ve haggled and weighed dispassionately whether we should fuck, like we’re discussing whether we’d like to go grab a cup of coffee.
Are you too tired? Will it be half-hearted because of this? Is there enough time? These are all questions that have been raised. All valid.
You fill the frame of your door, in your underwear too, all shoulders and legs and grey cotton briefs. You stand there, eclipsed, nothing but the damning maddening happening brute of a man I have fucked with once or twice or thrice. It’s been a while.
I smile mutely and ignore the sudden flattening wrench of excitement.
“Yeah, let’s do it,” I proclaim finally, turning towards your bedroom, as much not to look at you, as to get moving. Because I want it, I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t know how to say it any less casually.
“Okay…” you laugh, a bit unsure. “I can’t promise much, maybe just a slow fuck.”
Fine with me.
You’re questioning still, as you place one knee on the bed. “Are you sure you’re okay with the rushed time?” Then the next knee. “Do we even have enough time?” I ask, eyes reluctantly shifting to the clock. “Maybe we should just… relax together… or something…” I continue, looking over at you lamely.
Your body is upright, legs flat and bent in front of you, your suggestion is again that I just come and sit on your lap. “It may or may not lead to sex,” you say.
We may or may not be smiling just a tiny bit.
I start to lift myself, start to place my knees on either side of you. You start to pull me in close. “My alarm clock is fifteen minutes ahead, by the way,” you inform me, close to my ear.
I laugh and mumble some answer. Like I could stop at that point. With the plunge of my shirt poised fervent near your face. My dark hair thickly curtaining around. I can smell my own perfume- the salon scent in your ashy brown do- my limbs wrapped sudden and crooked around you, wide, like a cricket on a downward dragging leaf, hugging just as fierce. Your hands I find on my startled back, and it seems to me for a fleeting moment you’re clinging just as hard too. This need perches unsteady- sways wild- thumps agog- this blood reels in my ears. I feel like it must be splintering clear and pointy off my skin. I just push down further. You find the flesh of my bare cheeks spreading over your stripped legs. You reach down easy and quick, seat your firm hands underneath me- and –oh- you ply and work my ass- wind cooled from our walk, now fondled in your warm palms, so good. Your face turns a grimace. Mine must be almost plaintive. This is how. Moving and pushing against you, feeling you heat between my heating legs. Feeling your cotton-covered hardening cock pushing up, hands squeezing still. Moaning and bowing my neck down onto you for help, burying my face on the side of your neck. Parting my lips distractedly around the pale skin behind your ear, remembering to breathe. We begin.
freedom-bound
Cannot seem to play along. Let this pass. The day and the next. But a year- another year- I’m 33 –I’m 43 –I’m 53. Already I’ve overextended my inelastic imagination. Do not think in these terms. Let this pass. Let these drop. Wipe them. Collect, crumple, fling behind my back. I can do this. There is nothing wrong with me. Nothing. Nothing to examine. No do-over. I can. I am living one second, I know it all, love like a tail-biting benzene snake wringing my waist, my thoughts, my world. Collapses in like dual light- body and mind- wave and particle. Satisfied. I will do this. Passes too though. Too quickly. So do not think at all. Just live it. Stop.
Want to be filthy and sweet and untrammelled. Fettered only to another’s desire. If I part my legs just right, you finger my lips and flare them just right, and then you place your pink tongue and lick just right, maybe I will feel this. But I refuse to turn to you or you or you for this. Not with this. I will come to you desperate and needing and overstrung, yes. But not with this. Not like this. Turn away.
Want to be filthy and sweet and untrammelled. Fettered only to another’s desire. If I part my legs just right, you finger my lips and flare them just right, and then you place your pink tongue and lick just right, maybe I will feel this. But I refuse to turn to you or you or you for this. Not with this. I will come to you desperate and needing and overstrung, yes. But not with this. Not like this. Turn away.
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