nonsense

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

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

To be on hold implies faith.

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

To leave to chance implies faith.

Just undeterminably misplaced. To misplace implies a place.

Unfilled placeholders take up shapeless space.

(I never was lost, will soon be found.

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

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

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

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

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

long weekend

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think I almost wish you could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My heartbeat circuits all through blank me. Me.

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

insane

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, maybe.

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

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

Reponsible. Need to be responsible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But ok, that was a huge tangent.

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

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

I also really need a vibrator.

habit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To O

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

Hurray!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Blogday, you O you.

And many more.

wish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No point. Not right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He told me that I don’t know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The end

He just called. Told me his decision.

No more sex with T for Learn.

The time was over. Yay intution.

Will go be sad now for a bit I think.

maybe?

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

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

Crap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

zig-zag

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

But things become clearer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pleasure!!!! :))

Pleasure indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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