Dear T,
The problem was my legs. My legs uncovered on the bed were sex.
To make matters worse, your shorts were wrapped around my legs. What was once around your legs intimated itself between mine, and I am embarassed to say it, but I swear, you were fondling me already.
I had nearly finished the book. I put it down, sighed with relief inside when you walked in, realising just how much I had been waiting. (Nonsense, nonsense.)
It felt startlingly intimate. I wanted to avoid your sleepy eyes.
We murmured good-mornings and did-you-sleep-wells. My chest was like sex about to happen, trying not to move, not to breathe. Your chest was like sex too, something right here, you said, pushing right on your sternum, like I need weight, force, something. I know the feeling.
You looked so much younger than you are. You looked so open. You looked so dreamy and unarmed. Your body looked so relaxed, but could not seem to slouch, could not help but flaunt its breadth and strength. You looked so unshakeable. You looked so gentle. You looked like you were searching. You looked alive and uncontained, your hand pushed to your chest like that, like an ape trying to make a thumping claim.
You came to me like a cue ball that had to be shot. You were irresistible and you knew it. You were so much like sex it hurt.
Come give me a hug, you said. My smile grew wide.
I got up shyly, my head like sex, flying. I started to give you a hug. No, you said, and spun me round, my ass crushed suddenly against your crotch. Like this. I closed my eyes like sex and tried not to move inside the brace of your arm, afraid.
(In the back of my mind whispered my story, that you were the second man to hold me ever.)
You broke the hug and we stood alone.
You flopped your body on the bed like sex. You threw yourself on the bed I had been sleeping in with a sleepy sigh, lying with me already.
I laughed because it was easy to follow, to flop down next to you. I thanked you inside for making it easy. My body tense and trembling like sex. Laughing like sex. Oh it’s over, you said, if you’re going to lie down next to me, you’re going to have to turn round. You pulled my back to you again. I lay smashed again, my back against your chest again, my ass against your crotch again, my legs down your legs. We were fucking already.
Nonsense, nonsense, was beating still. It made me wait still, unsure. You were laughing in my ear, rambling, embarrassed. I know what you must think, I really do have this feeling, something right here, it’s not a line, I’m not trying to like...
The funny part is I could sense you meant it, as you said it. You prided yourself on the comfort of being a guest at your house, that you did not push, that you were innocuous, that you would never ‘take advantage’.
Shh. I wanted to say. Shh. Let’s go.
I swear it was me who put my hand beneath your shirt first.
The skin on your back was like sex. Fleece and steel and cream.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
9. when we can- lure
Dear T,
You don't know this.
The first night in your house, I woke up early, alone in your guestroom. I got up and opened my door wide- on purpose.
I could not go back to sleep from the anticipation, though I was trying hard to quell it.
Nonsense, I tried to tell myself.
I wanted you, and I wanted you to want me.
I stole a book from your living room- a childhood favorite- and I read. Sentences jived and jumbled in my head.
I kept my bare legs uncovered though I was cold, left only your cat to keep my lap warm.
I remember the scene well because it was my own design. I saw myself doing it, telling myself all the while, nonsense, nonsense.
It was the only thing I knew to do. The only initiative my courage let me take.
I wanted you to find me and fuck me. And you did.
You don't know this.
The first night in your house, I woke up early, alone in your guestroom. I got up and opened my door wide- on purpose.
I could not go back to sleep from the anticipation, though I was trying hard to quell it.
Nonsense, I tried to tell myself.
I wanted you, and I wanted you to want me.
I stole a book from your living room- a childhood favorite- and I read. Sentences jived and jumbled in my head.
I kept my bare legs uncovered though I was cold, left only your cat to keep my lap warm.
I remember the scene well because it was my own design. I saw myself doing it, telling myself all the while, nonsense, nonsense.
It was the only thing I knew to do. The only initiative my courage let me take.
I wanted you to find me and fuck me. And you did.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
open
I have a day alone today. I find myself wanting to turn here for a moment of peace. A moment to blather.
I always forget how much I love my privacy and independence until it gets invaded the way it has during this week. There has been a topsy-turvy change in my life with my family here, and it is hard to adjust. I'm sitting here wondering what I can do to make it less so.
This gap between us bothers me. The discrepancy amongst the faces that I show to different people pokes at me still.
Where to start? What would be easiest? Or no, what would be best?
I wonder what it is I expect of myself.
Reading my 'cock' entry, I am dismayed at my own mean-spiritedness. If there is one thing I strive for myself -though there are too many things- it is to be generous. I want to be generous of myself. Not charitable or altruistic, just open and giving. I want to believe in the abundance inside me, I think, because life is too short to be miserly. My heart has no patience really, for counting pennies and finding safe-holds. It makes me unhappy.
Still, I find myself doing it all the time. Maybe some time it is necessary, I don't know. I am sure there are limits to what a person can give, but I am sure those limits don't lie quite as close as I think.
I don't want to be afraid to need. I don't see the point.
Need is a deceptive word anyways.
I am tired of reminding myself this, that whether I will get what I want or not is besides the point. I can't change really, the things I want.
I don't want to begrudge anyone the praise they deserve, because I was too busy struggling with my own desire to maintain some illusory power.
I don't want to hoard anymore. I grow smaller and smaller inside just thinking about it.
I don't want to complain anymore. I want to be grateful when it is due. I want to enjoy. I want strength. I want to be big and I want to have courage.
I will be calling T now. It feels natural and calm between us now.
I called him from school the other day. This time it was me. I called right from the bathroom, did not even bother with much of a preliminary chat. I just felt so horny. I didn't even really ask, he was good telling me that this is what he wanted too. His boarder was in the shower, and he told me to be fast, that he could not cum as fast as me but that he wanted to hear me. I stood in the corner of the bathroom, it was a clinic one with a shower and everything. I leaned against the tiles and slipped a finger in like I was told, and I felt strange, sliding in easier than I expected, wet, throbbing tighter than I expected. When I came like Iwas told, that I could not scream out seemed like the biggest torture and I tried to whimper it out instead, fuck, fuck, fuck, but it was not good enough, did not match the pleasing terror of my body for a moment suspended, my hand scrabbling on to the tiles, but there was no hold. I could not breathe, my breath rattling far too loudly like in a wind tunnel into my cellphone's speaker. Delicious, he whispered. I had to agree. I was dissapointed again not to hear him, and I felt sorry that he couldn't, but it did not seem like such an affront.
I know it's convenient to slip back to this, but I think we both need it right now. Another goodbye or two or three does not seem to matter right now. Still have to talk about it properly with him though. Blah.
I admitted to him already that I didn't want to tell him much of what I did last time on the phone. He sounded a bit wounded. He sounded too a bit sorry for me. Before I could explain more, he told me it hadn' t been
about a secret desire to squash me by asserting his power, that he had been feeling genuinely insecure .
I am glad for our friendship because we have a strange, detached ability to discuss and examine and pick apart and throw away the things that may build resentment toward each other . Even when it is tedious and embarassing, even when I am impatient about it, I can appreciate that much. Few people take the time. And fewer people can actually grasp the nature of relationships enough to be able to try and navigate at all.
I don't know what more to say to him. I am afraid to have him see me fully, but I am more afraid to have him not.
Too many, too many of those.
I always forget how much I love my privacy and independence until it gets invaded the way it has during this week. There has been a topsy-turvy change in my life with my family here, and it is hard to adjust. I'm sitting here wondering what I can do to make it less so.
This gap between us bothers me. The discrepancy amongst the faces that I show to different people pokes at me still.
Where to start? What would be easiest? Or no, what would be best?
I wonder what it is I expect of myself.
Reading my 'cock' entry, I am dismayed at my own mean-spiritedness. If there is one thing I strive for myself -though there are too many things- it is to be generous. I want to be generous of myself. Not charitable or altruistic, just open and giving. I want to believe in the abundance inside me, I think, because life is too short to be miserly. My heart has no patience really, for counting pennies and finding safe-holds. It makes me unhappy.
Still, I find myself doing it all the time. Maybe some time it is necessary, I don't know. I am sure there are limits to what a person can give, but I am sure those limits don't lie quite as close as I think.
I don't want to be afraid to need. I don't see the point.
Need is a deceptive word anyways.
I am tired of reminding myself this, that whether I will get what I want or not is besides the point. I can't change really, the things I want.
I don't want to begrudge anyone the praise they deserve, because I was too busy struggling with my own desire to maintain some illusory power.
I don't want to hoard anymore. I grow smaller and smaller inside just thinking about it.
I don't want to complain anymore. I want to be grateful when it is due. I want to enjoy. I want strength. I want to be big and I want to have courage.
I will be calling T now. It feels natural and calm between us now.
I called him from school the other day. This time it was me. I called right from the bathroom, did not even bother with much of a preliminary chat. I just felt so horny. I didn't even really ask, he was good telling me that this is what he wanted too. His boarder was in the shower, and he told me to be fast, that he could not cum as fast as me but that he wanted to hear me. I stood in the corner of the bathroom, it was a clinic one with a shower and everything. I leaned against the tiles and slipped a finger in like I was told, and I felt strange, sliding in easier than I expected, wet, throbbing tighter than I expected. When I came like Iwas told, that I could not scream out seemed like the biggest torture and I tried to whimper it out instead, fuck, fuck, fuck, but it was not good enough, did not match the pleasing terror of my body for a moment suspended, my hand scrabbling on to the tiles, but there was no hold. I could not breathe, my breath rattling far too loudly like in a wind tunnel into my cellphone's speaker. Delicious, he whispered. I had to agree. I was dissapointed again not to hear him, and I felt sorry that he couldn't, but it did not seem like such an affront.
I know it's convenient to slip back to this, but I think we both need it right now. Another goodbye or two or three does not seem to matter right now. Still have to talk about it properly with him though. Blah.
I admitted to him already that I didn't want to tell him much of what I did last time on the phone. He sounded a bit wounded. He sounded too a bit sorry for me. Before I could explain more, he told me it hadn' t been
about a secret desire to squash me by asserting his power, that he had been feeling genuinely insecure .
I am glad for our friendship because we have a strange, detached ability to discuss and examine and pick apart and throw away the things that may build resentment toward each other . Even when it is tedious and embarassing, even when I am impatient about it, I can appreciate that much. Few people take the time. And fewer people can actually grasp the nature of relationships enough to be able to try and navigate at all.
I don't know what more to say to him. I am afraid to have him see me fully, but I am more afraid to have him not.
Too many, too many of those.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
8. when we can- assure
Dear T,
I am tired of being asked if I’m sure.
Are you sure you should be where you are, are you sure you want to walk down that street, are you sure you want to wear that skirt, are you sure, are you, you?
The nice ones ask you if you’re sure, the bad ones don’t care if you’re sure. I wanted someone who knew I was sure.
X asked me if I was sure the first time his mouth ventured beneath my flannel pajamas, furrowing beneath a loose button to move onto the beginning of the swell of my breasts. It was the first time anyone had touched my body like that. I thought I would explode.
He began, and then heavy with guilt, he stopped abruptly, turned his back to me without a word and tried to go back to sleep.
I lay with my back on the bed, chest still heaving, staring at his back, wondering idly which one of us was more insane.
I cosied up my breasts onto his back finally, uncertainly, sighing. I felt strange, like I was being forced to play Eve, searching out the arousal he was trying to repress. I moved my hand across his chest, holding him to me. He turned back round finally and began to kiss again on my neck, and then between my breasts. My hands moved to unbutton my top. That is when he asked me if I was sure.
I felt the urge to slap him for asking, for buying into the hysteria. You would have to know how I grew up to fully understand the anger I felt.
But I felt sorry for his struggle. And I knew he meant well.
All I said was yes, yes, yes.
I am tired of being asked if I’m sure.
Are you sure you should be where you are, are you sure you want to walk down that street, are you sure you want to wear that skirt, are you sure, are you, you?
The nice ones ask you if you’re sure, the bad ones don’t care if you’re sure. I wanted someone who knew I was sure.
X asked me if I was sure the first time his mouth ventured beneath my flannel pajamas, furrowing beneath a loose button to move onto the beginning of the swell of my breasts. It was the first time anyone had touched my body like that. I thought I would explode.
He began, and then heavy with guilt, he stopped abruptly, turned his back to me without a word and tried to go back to sleep.
I lay with my back on the bed, chest still heaving, staring at his back, wondering idly which one of us was more insane.
I cosied up my breasts onto his back finally, uncertainly, sighing. I felt strange, like I was being forced to play Eve, searching out the arousal he was trying to repress. I moved my hand across his chest, holding him to me. He turned back round finally and began to kiss again on my neck, and then between my breasts. My hands moved to unbutton my top. That is when he asked me if I was sure.
I felt the urge to slap him for asking, for buying into the hysteria. You would have to know how I grew up to fully understand the anger I felt.
But I felt sorry for his struggle. And I knew he meant well.
All I said was yes, yes, yes.
7. when we can- exhibit
Dear T,
You were busy and I could never reach you. I started to look around.
If you remember, I found N right at the end of my mom's three month stay, my mind deranged from being so demure and contained for so long.
I found him on a dating site and we chatted stupidly, each trying to impress the other, both of us convinced of our own wit. We vied to gain the upper ground from each other from the start.
The worst part is I used you like my badge of pride. I have a guy I have sex with already, thank you very much, I told him, knowing full well it would pique his interest.
Of this, I am definitely not proud. I want to delete that paragraph. It was low, and I felt too reckless to care to stop myself. I think it is the biggest reason I was too ashamed to bring him up to you at once.
Very soon after my mom left, I bought a tight aqua sweater that stopped right below my hips and I showed it to N one night, wearing only that. I curled my legs out on my bed, looking straight at the camera, laughing and talking about other things. I wanted his eyes on me, appraising the curves of my body. I wanted to turn him on despite himself, wanted him to lose his cool, lose his smirk.
He smirked anyways. What had I expected?
I have done similar things with X too. Except X would stare at me with love, groaning. His eyes on me were both comforting and exciting.
Once we were on web-cam again, and I mentioned to X that I wanted to clean my room. He wanted to watch me do it, to make sure that I did. I knew he just wanted to watch me. I could see the look in his eyes. I cleaned my room, pausing to take off my shirt, then a couple of minutes later my pants, then minutes later my bra. I barely looked at him at all, only glancing at the screen once in a while to make sure he was there. He sat there with shy smile, his eyes caressing me. I love your back, I remember him typing, such a sexy back. I just smiled, cleaned my room as I shivered with anticipation, dripping into my panties as he watched me take my time, organizing the top of my dresser, folding my clothes, picking up papers from the floor.
We came soon after.
I have shown myself like that one other time too for two complete strangers.
I was younger then, around 19. I had only just been introduced to the world of sex, and now felt the need to send myself on probing quests, rampaging through all aspects of sex on the Internet. I had no credit card, so the free "tease" video-chat sessions seeemed an interesting option.
Traffic was usually low for the 'men-on-display'. On a particularly slow day-- well okay, on a day when I was the only one in two of these mens' "rooms" -- I struck up the nerve to stop lurking and actually talk. I apologised for having no credit, made it annoyingly clear that I did not intend to get any, and then asked them curiously and even more annoyingly, if they were bored, because they sure looked bored.
(The women on this site tended to maintain a pose of coquetry throughout, some more plastic than others. But the men, I found, in general, whether busy or not, did not even bother to hide their cool apathy, kept it on their face as though their reverse psychology was their only charm. )
You're a funny one, I remember the younger one smirking after a couple of minutes. We exchanged information from there, both men suggesting it to me within minutes of each other. Maybe they were hoping to make a client out of me yet, though it did not occur to me at the time.
Pretty soon, they had me on camera too, both at the same time. With the older one I was discussing music. He played songs for me to listen to though his microphone. The other one was begging me to take off my clothes, please, telling that he had been sitting there trying to maintain a half-hearted hard-on for clients the whole day and he needed release now that he was off-duty.
So I did.
I liked the boy who asked. He was tan, had almond eyes that, while bored, flickered bemused warmth every once in a while too . I found I was aroused and curious about how he had maintained his state of semi-erection for so long.
I did it once again because I could, because I got tired of wondering if I should. I sat in my bra and panties, keeping my back and neck straight, feeling strange and awkward. The young one grinned. I took off my bra. He grinned wider.
I hated the surprise on the other older man’s face, asking me what I was doing, asking if I was sure. He thought I was too young, that I was lying about my age, though it did not stop him from talking to me, nor from staring at me. I hated his condescending protection. But I liked both of their eyes on me, taking in my body, my breasts in the cold air, twinging inside.
Then the twinging stopped and I felt suddenly silly and a bit pathetic, exactly the silly and a bit pathetic girl that I knew they must think of me, as though that mattered. I left, before I could see either of their cocks.
Maybe that two-minute video clip is floating around somewhere on the ethernet, who knows? We’ll find out when I get famous. Heh.
I never did any of that for you. You told me you weren’t a very visual person anyways. Sounds and touch were what got you off, and thoseI had no problem providing, did not even have to try.
You needed only to let me know that your thought had turned to me and I was wet and moaning. It scared me.
Yes, you were different. I did not feel equal to you and I always both hated and loved this.
I've said it before. You had me already exposed, before I could even try to tease you with myself. I was already exhibited to you.
You were busy and I could never reach you. I started to look around.
If you remember, I found N right at the end of my mom's three month stay, my mind deranged from being so demure and contained for so long.
I found him on a dating site and we chatted stupidly, each trying to impress the other, both of us convinced of our own wit. We vied to gain the upper ground from each other from the start.
The worst part is I used you like my badge of pride. I have a guy I have sex with already, thank you very much, I told him, knowing full well it would pique his interest.
Of this, I am definitely not proud. I want to delete that paragraph. It was low, and I felt too reckless to care to stop myself. I think it is the biggest reason I was too ashamed to bring him up to you at once.
Very soon after my mom left, I bought a tight aqua sweater that stopped right below my hips and I showed it to N one night, wearing only that. I curled my legs out on my bed, looking straight at the camera, laughing and talking about other things. I wanted his eyes on me, appraising the curves of my body. I wanted to turn him on despite himself, wanted him to lose his cool, lose his smirk.
He smirked anyways. What had I expected?
I have done similar things with X too. Except X would stare at me with love, groaning. His eyes on me were both comforting and exciting.
Once we were on web-cam again, and I mentioned to X that I wanted to clean my room. He wanted to watch me do it, to make sure that I did. I knew he just wanted to watch me. I could see the look in his eyes. I cleaned my room, pausing to take off my shirt, then a couple of minutes later my pants, then minutes later my bra. I barely looked at him at all, only glancing at the screen once in a while to make sure he was there. He sat there with shy smile, his eyes caressing me. I love your back, I remember him typing, such a sexy back. I just smiled, cleaned my room as I shivered with anticipation, dripping into my panties as he watched me take my time, organizing the top of my dresser, folding my clothes, picking up papers from the floor.
We came soon after.
I have shown myself like that one other time too for two complete strangers.
I was younger then, around 19. I had only just been introduced to the world of sex, and now felt the need to send myself on probing quests, rampaging through all aspects of sex on the Internet. I had no credit card, so the free "tease" video-chat sessions seeemed an interesting option.
Traffic was usually low for the 'men-on-display'. On a particularly slow day-- well okay, on a day when I was the only one in two of these mens' "rooms" -- I struck up the nerve to stop lurking and actually talk. I apologised for having no credit, made it annoyingly clear that I did not intend to get any, and then asked them curiously and even more annoyingly, if they were bored, because they sure looked bored.
(The women on this site tended to maintain a pose of coquetry throughout, some more plastic than others. But the men, I found, in general, whether busy or not, did not even bother to hide their cool apathy, kept it on their face as though their reverse psychology was their only charm. )
You're a funny one, I remember the younger one smirking after a couple of minutes. We exchanged information from there, both men suggesting it to me within minutes of each other. Maybe they were hoping to make a client out of me yet, though it did not occur to me at the time.
Pretty soon, they had me on camera too, both at the same time. With the older one I was discussing music. He played songs for me to listen to though his microphone. The other one was begging me to take off my clothes, please, telling that he had been sitting there trying to maintain a half-hearted hard-on for clients the whole day and he needed release now that he was off-duty.
So I did.
I liked the boy who asked. He was tan, had almond eyes that, while bored, flickered bemused warmth every once in a while too . I found I was aroused and curious about how he had maintained his state of semi-erection for so long.
I did it once again because I could, because I got tired of wondering if I should. I sat in my bra and panties, keeping my back and neck straight, feeling strange and awkward. The young one grinned. I took off my bra. He grinned wider.
I hated the surprise on the other older man’s face, asking me what I was doing, asking if I was sure. He thought I was too young, that I was lying about my age, though it did not stop him from talking to me, nor from staring at me. I hated his condescending protection. But I liked both of their eyes on me, taking in my body, my breasts in the cold air, twinging inside.
Then the twinging stopped and I felt suddenly silly and a bit pathetic, exactly the silly and a bit pathetic girl that I knew they must think of me, as though that mattered. I left, before I could see either of their cocks.
Maybe that two-minute video clip is floating around somewhere on the ethernet, who knows? We’ll find out when I get famous. Heh.
I never did any of that for you. You told me you weren’t a very visual person anyways. Sounds and touch were what got you off, and thoseI had no problem providing, did not even have to try.
You needed only to let me know that your thought had turned to me and I was wet and moaning. It scared me.
Yes, you were different. I did not feel equal to you and I always both hated and loved this.
I've said it before. You had me already exposed, before I could even try to tease you with myself. I was already exhibited to you.
6. when we can - step out
I guess I will just go on. No time to write. This is a bit of a tangent, and my least favorite letter since it talks more directly about him, which I don't think is fair. But it is something I need to own up to. And does give a glimpse into the true flavor of our relationship.
Dear T,
When I first met you, you were filled with promises too, but I was relaxed because I knew it was not about the impressing with money, nor the bribing to lure me in.
Us going on actual dates. What a concept.
You probably don’t even remember, but for a brief time, there were talks of theaters we could go to, a fancy place you said that a friend could get you cheap, a place we could dress up for, film festivals and jazz festivals and food festivals, scary movies, you said, no one watches scary movies with me.
We did none of these things once we had sex. We never even left your house.
You probably don’t remember, you used to call at 2 a.m. just to talk. You had a game where we asked each other questions that the other couldn't ask back.
We stopped asking at all.
You probably don’t remember, there were photos from the country I grew up in you never looked at, there were my poems you said you wanted to read but then never got back to me on, there were favorite songs I sent you that I never heard about again either.
I got tired of asking. I was shy about it to begin with. I enjoyed when you showed me similar things, and left it at that.
(But I was disappointed. My safe retreat, my private hole, beckoned again.)
Do I sound like the neglected girlfriend? It's not quite like that.
When you met me, it was at a point where a part of me just wanted new people to hang out with, to talk about and share the things I never got to with others. All my old friends seemed to have tied their feet to their narrow spots. There was a part of me that wanted feedback from someone I actually respected, to give me courage to open up.
It's not that you never reached out to me. You were in fact one of the first to give me real credit for the things I actually cared about. You were the first to tell me I could write, to tell me you had printed out one of my writings, to tell me you pressed the 'save' button without hesitation whemever I pressed send. You were the first to tell me I could play. The first to find songs you just knew I would like, the first to go out and buy a CD after listening to it with me.
It's that you reached out and then stopped.
I didn't care though because, more than any of this, I wanted to fuck you. You said it didn’t have to come at a cost to a friendship, but time made it so.
Time was cruel to us in general, we have said it over and over, unlucky clashes in both our schedules persisting throughout. If I believed in signs, I would have given up on us a long time ago. (Signs be damned. )
I know choices were forced, and maybe it was easier for us that way.
I know that was the whole idea, that you did not have the time. No time for a "relationship", yes, but no time for friendship? You had to leave our chats without goodbyes, you had to juggle between phonecalls, you had to kick me out the door come time for work.
It's not that I held it against you. I could be the same from time to time.
You were always working, you are still. And that is your choice.
You’re struggling with that choice now, questioning your addiction to work, what it is covering, asking yourself if it’s worth it, what you're missing out on. I cannot imagine you being less passionate about what you do, but I too wonder what room it leaves you with, and what doors it leaves untouched.
I don't want you to be left lonely one day, and the sad part is I don't mean that I want you to be with me.
As much as I will envy it, I do hope you find someone you want to make time for, as you have said that that is what you want.
This is an old story. I can only wish you well.
Dear T,
When I first met you, you were filled with promises too, but I was relaxed because I knew it was not about the impressing with money, nor the bribing to lure me in.
Us going on actual dates. What a concept.
You probably don’t even remember, but for a brief time, there were talks of theaters we could go to, a fancy place you said that a friend could get you cheap, a place we could dress up for, film festivals and jazz festivals and food festivals, scary movies, you said, no one watches scary movies with me.
We did none of these things once we had sex. We never even left your house.
You probably don’t remember, you used to call at 2 a.m. just to talk. You had a game where we asked each other questions that the other couldn't ask back.
We stopped asking at all.
You probably don’t remember, there were photos from the country I grew up in you never looked at, there were my poems you said you wanted to read but then never got back to me on, there were favorite songs I sent you that I never heard about again either.
I got tired of asking. I was shy about it to begin with. I enjoyed when you showed me similar things, and left it at that.
(But I was disappointed. My safe retreat, my private hole, beckoned again.)
Do I sound like the neglected girlfriend? It's not quite like that.
When you met me, it was at a point where a part of me just wanted new people to hang out with, to talk about and share the things I never got to with others. All my old friends seemed to have tied their feet to their narrow spots. There was a part of me that wanted feedback from someone I actually respected, to give me courage to open up.
It's not that you never reached out to me. You were in fact one of the first to give me real credit for the things I actually cared about. You were the first to tell me I could write, to tell me you had printed out one of my writings, to tell me you pressed the 'save' button without hesitation whemever I pressed send. You were the first to tell me I could play. The first to find songs you just knew I would like, the first to go out and buy a CD after listening to it with me.
It's that you reached out and then stopped.
I didn't care though because, more than any of this, I wanted to fuck you. You said it didn’t have to come at a cost to a friendship, but time made it so.
Time was cruel to us in general, we have said it over and over, unlucky clashes in both our schedules persisting throughout. If I believed in signs, I would have given up on us a long time ago. (Signs be damned. )
I know choices were forced, and maybe it was easier for us that way.
I know that was the whole idea, that you did not have the time. No time for a "relationship", yes, but no time for friendship? You had to leave our chats without goodbyes, you had to juggle between phonecalls, you had to kick me out the door come time for work.
It's not that I held it against you. I could be the same from time to time.
You were always working, you are still. And that is your choice.
You’re struggling with that choice now, questioning your addiction to work, what it is covering, asking yourself if it’s worth it, what you're missing out on. I cannot imagine you being less passionate about what you do, but I too wonder what room it leaves you with, and what doors it leaves untouched.
I don't want you to be left lonely one day, and the sad part is I don't mean that I want you to be with me.
As much as I will envy it, I do hope you find someone you want to make time for, as you have said that that is what you want.
This is an old story. I can only wish you well.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
cock
And the award for most frequent use of the word cock goes to... Don't mind the jokes, what else I got?
T,
You are not who I think you are and I don’t know if I can go through with the rest of these letters.
I don’t know if I can reassure you any longer. Coming on my own is what I’ve always done. My comforting retreat. Yes, I am good at it. Yes, it feels good.
You say you know your insecurity is stupid. I don’t think it is but I don’t know what more to tell you.
It comes out of my mouth before I can stop it though. Stubborn.
I need cock.
Humor me, you say, don’t tell me you need cock. Tell me you need my cock
(Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, I don’t need you.)
I want to say it again and again, taunt you with it, cruel in my lie by omission.
I need cock. Cock. Just cock.
I want to push the lie even further. Say exactly what I do not mean.
A cock. Any cock. Just a slab of cocky man- meat. On a vegan day, I'll take a burst of vitamin-any vegetable that pushes my credulity, any I-can't- believe- it's- not-cock carrot, cucumber, zuchinni. A frozen banana for when I'm feeling fruity. Cock straight off the bench-presses. Cock pick-pocketed off the sweltering streets. Cock hiding under drag-queen dresses. Cock strapped onto a woman's hips, jutting below her swaying tits. Cock that makes me fall to my feet. Huge cervix-servicing cock. Tiny clit-tickling cock. Plastic cock. Rubber cock. Pink cock. Purple cock. Glitter and polka-dot cock. Cocks with balloon heads, cocks with girths like open arms, cocks with hair like the prairies, cocks shaved smooth like nectarines. Cock cock cock.
Forcing myself to say more, finally, trying to think of you, trying to show my true feeling, trying not to resent you. It's not humouring you, I tell you, irate, you know I need you, grunting, like the way you split me open, like the way you move inside me, panting, smooth, like your rhythm, sobbing, don't ask questions you should know answers to, yes ok yes...
(What the fuck do you want from me? Don’t make me say anymore, please, babe, throw me a bone here, throw it far away, make me bound on all fours away from you, eager to find it, and then make me forget to come back to you. I cannot find my way back to you, my sweet, my sexy.)
I am weak. It makes me angry inside, and it makes me sad to be so angry. And then I am angry all over again for being sad, and I want to bury you in a crappy shower of mean, crass, merciless words. Use the phrases that can exact the most pain. And there is a violence inside me that brings tears to my eyes. I want to rub your face in dirt, I want to scratch your blood out into my shit, I want to hold you close to me and drag us both into this mud, safe and silent.
(Or take what you want, I’ll say what you want, keep asking, just keep talking about your cock. I know I’m about to cum again.)
I can't even show you I'm angry. Even that admits too much.
I groan and groan, my fingers beneath me. You have me self-conscious of my groans now, but my fingers feel so damn good, slipping all over the place. I think: fuck you, I'll feel the way I want.
And worse, I think: listen to me now. Listen to what I can do without you.
(It's a lie by the way. Are you really afraid to hear me? Even when I am actually groaning under the sound of your moving mouth, your presence on the other line, thoughts of you?)
I groan louder, harder, on purpose, harder than even I feel.
Next time I fuck you, you say, I'm going to make you cum so hard.. so many times..
(Next time you fuck me, you say? And when will that be? I'm laughing now T, evil laughing. telling you, oh, I hope so.)
I know I have failed you... For feeling this, for doing this. If you do not know what you have done for me, then I must have failed you. I don’t know if you can ever know.
It’s just… I don’t want to need you anymore. And it’s cruel of you to ask.
Am I better than the way I'm behaving?
PS. I came all the same, when you told me to, the same as always. I came without you, wishing only that I could have heard you.
PPS. I was the one who couldn' t bring you there.
T,
You are not who I think you are and I don’t know if I can go through with the rest of these letters.
I don’t know if I can reassure you any longer. Coming on my own is what I’ve always done. My comforting retreat. Yes, I am good at it. Yes, it feels good.
You say you know your insecurity is stupid. I don’t think it is but I don’t know what more to tell you.
It comes out of my mouth before I can stop it though. Stubborn.
I need cock.
Humor me, you say, don’t tell me you need cock. Tell me you need my cock
(Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, I don’t need you.)
I want to say it again and again, taunt you with it, cruel in my lie by omission.
I need cock. Cock. Just cock.
I want to push the lie even further. Say exactly what I do not mean.
A cock. Any cock. Just a slab of cocky man- meat. On a vegan day, I'll take a burst of vitamin-any vegetable that pushes my credulity, any I-can't- believe- it's- not-cock carrot, cucumber, zuchinni. A frozen banana for when I'm feeling fruity. Cock straight off the bench-presses. Cock pick-pocketed off the sweltering streets. Cock hiding under drag-queen dresses. Cock strapped onto a woman's hips, jutting below her swaying tits. Cock that makes me fall to my feet. Huge cervix-servicing cock. Tiny clit-tickling cock. Plastic cock. Rubber cock. Pink cock. Purple cock. Glitter and polka-dot cock. Cocks with balloon heads, cocks with girths like open arms, cocks with hair like the prairies, cocks shaved smooth like nectarines. Cock cock cock.
Forcing myself to say more, finally, trying to think of you, trying to show my true feeling, trying not to resent you. It's not humouring you, I tell you, irate, you know I need you, grunting, like the way you split me open, like the way you move inside me, panting, smooth, like your rhythm, sobbing, don't ask questions you should know answers to, yes ok yes...
(What the fuck do you want from me? Don’t make me say anymore, please, babe, throw me a bone here, throw it far away, make me bound on all fours away from you, eager to find it, and then make me forget to come back to you. I cannot find my way back to you, my sweet, my sexy.)
I am weak. It makes me angry inside, and it makes me sad to be so angry. And then I am angry all over again for being sad, and I want to bury you in a crappy shower of mean, crass, merciless words. Use the phrases that can exact the most pain. And there is a violence inside me that brings tears to my eyes. I want to rub your face in dirt, I want to scratch your blood out into my shit, I want to hold you close to me and drag us both into this mud, safe and silent.
(Or take what you want, I’ll say what you want, keep asking, just keep talking about your cock. I know I’m about to cum again.)
I can't even show you I'm angry. Even that admits too much.
I groan and groan, my fingers beneath me. You have me self-conscious of my groans now, but my fingers feel so damn good, slipping all over the place. I think: fuck you, I'll feel the way I want.
And worse, I think: listen to me now. Listen to what I can do without you.
(It's a lie by the way. Are you really afraid to hear me? Even when I am actually groaning under the sound of your moving mouth, your presence on the other line, thoughts of you?)
I groan louder, harder, on purpose, harder than even I feel.
Next time I fuck you, you say, I'm going to make you cum so hard.. so many times..
(Next time you fuck me, you say? And when will that be? I'm laughing now T, evil laughing. telling you, oh, I hope so.)
I know I have failed you... For feeling this, for doing this. If you do not know what you have done for me, then I must have failed you. I don’t know if you can ever know.
It’s just… I don’t want to need you anymore. And it’s cruel of you to ask.
Am I better than the way I'm behaving?
PS. I came all the same, when you told me to, the same as always. I came without you, wishing only that I could have heard you.
PPS. I was the one who couldn' t bring you there.
Friday, June 16, 2006
5. when we can- compete
Dear T,
My dirty fantasy reminds me of N who could not stop laughing as we first began to kiss and my usual tiny noises begin to escape from my usual heaving chest. He told me later, when I asked to know, that he was laughing because I was funny, a funny contradiction. That he always knew it is the innocent-looking ones like me to watch out for.
It grated on my nerves, even if he did not mean much by it. I felt uneasily pleased and charged. It made me hateful and competitive and defiant, made me want to do even more just to show him up.
There was something about him anyways that felt like he was gathering notches in his belt, just for some kind of undefined prestige. (Driving down to fuck someone I met on the Internet, check!.)
Like how he told me wanted to fuck a T.A. just to say that he had to others. I would lower my standards to fuck one, he shared. (What does that mean, to lower your standards? As far as phrases go it is both a condescending and untruthful one.)
Personally, I can see the attraction to the idea. Because how hot would that power imbalance be? How strident an attraction would there have to be to cross that line? How lovely and rushed and urgent would it be to meet illicitly and give in again and again to temptation?
But when asked why he wanted to do it, he could not tell me. Just for the bragging rights?, I asked. Yeah, he said. Oh, I said. It was the beginning of my vague disappointment. It was just to say to the buddies he did A, B, C and D, never ever really doing A, B, C or D. Bragging rights are over-rated, I could not resist telling him gently.
I was tempted for a moment to offer him just the “prestige” he wanted by getting exactly what I wanted out of him, indulging myself in my own weakness for upmanship, for needlessly proving myself to others.
He promised me expensive dinners, hotels and breakfasts, like I needed bribes to concede to be with him. This was my own negative view I suppose. He had the right to offer what he felt like offering. I didn’t think myself unworthy of “the treatment”. I just didn’t see the need for it. I had only wanted to know him. I had nothing of the sort to offer back to him.
I think it was just the way he said it. I took his breakfast but I couldn’t take the rest.
I fucked him because I could. Because I was tired of being cautious. And it did feel good.
But then I opted out. It all seemed too derivative, insincere, and most of all, pointless.
Which reminds me... why did I start telling you all this again?
My dirty fantasy reminds me of N who could not stop laughing as we first began to kiss and my usual tiny noises begin to escape from my usual heaving chest. He told me later, when I asked to know, that he was laughing because I was funny, a funny contradiction. That he always knew it is the innocent-looking ones like me to watch out for.
It grated on my nerves, even if he did not mean much by it. I felt uneasily pleased and charged. It made me hateful and competitive and defiant, made me want to do even more just to show him up.
There was something about him anyways that felt like he was gathering notches in his belt, just for some kind of undefined prestige. (Driving down to fuck someone I met on the Internet, check!.)
Like how he told me wanted to fuck a T.A. just to say that he had to others. I would lower my standards to fuck one, he shared. (What does that mean, to lower your standards? As far as phrases go it is both a condescending and untruthful one.)
Personally, I can see the attraction to the idea. Because how hot would that power imbalance be? How strident an attraction would there have to be to cross that line? How lovely and rushed and urgent would it be to meet illicitly and give in again and again to temptation?
But when asked why he wanted to do it, he could not tell me. Just for the bragging rights?, I asked. Yeah, he said. Oh, I said. It was the beginning of my vague disappointment. It was just to say to the buddies he did A, B, C and D, never ever really doing A, B, C or D. Bragging rights are over-rated, I could not resist telling him gently.
I was tempted for a moment to offer him just the “prestige” he wanted by getting exactly what I wanted out of him, indulging myself in my own weakness for upmanship, for needlessly proving myself to others.
He promised me expensive dinners, hotels and breakfasts, like I needed bribes to concede to be with him. This was my own negative view I suppose. He had the right to offer what he felt like offering. I didn’t think myself unworthy of “the treatment”. I just didn’t see the need for it. I had only wanted to know him. I had nothing of the sort to offer back to him.
I think it was just the way he said it. I took his breakfast but I couldn’t take the rest.
I fucked him because I could. Because I was tired of being cautious. And it did feel good.
But then I opted out. It all seemed too derivative, insincere, and most of all, pointless.
Which reminds me... why did I start telling you all this again?
Thursday, June 15, 2006
4. when we can- tempt
With mention to O and Nina, for inspiring me to share my own "dirty" fantasies.
Dear T,
I spin the dirtiest fantasies I can these days.
I dream of being a temptress to ugly leery men, old, the workmen maybe who come to my house. I have them stare at me with contempt and lust, disgust and awe. I lure them to bedrooms and demand to be fucked. I watch their faces gauging what they may or may not catch from me, wondering how their imagined demons could come presented to them in such pretty packages, wondering how they couldn’t tell right off from my face, such an innocent face, like my wanting sex should come with a mark for their own protection.
(My mother whispers in my ear that which I have heard her say many times, sitting righteously on her claimed living-room couch, watching TV and tsk, tsk, tsking. The ones we should be most afraid of are those who have lost even their sense of shame. Those are the ones who are truly lost. Mother dear, I am afraid to tell you because I don’t want you to fear me, hate me, but I never had it to begin with. I was ashamed when I lied, when I wasted, when I did not appreciate, when I was idle, when I attacked needlessly, when I hurt spitefully, but this, I could not feel for at all. Should I have forced it? Would you have preferred my struggle? Would I have had the mark then to set me apart?)
This fantasy of mine is a place I can never fully let myself go; when faced with a hint of that look in a man’s eyes in real life, a part of me is left cold.
Dear T,
I spin the dirtiest fantasies I can these days.
I dream of being a temptress to ugly leery men, old, the workmen maybe who come to my house. I have them stare at me with contempt and lust, disgust and awe. I lure them to bedrooms and demand to be fucked. I watch their faces gauging what they may or may not catch from me, wondering how their imagined demons could come presented to them in such pretty packages, wondering how they couldn’t tell right off from my face, such an innocent face, like my wanting sex should come with a mark for their own protection.
(My mother whispers in my ear that which I have heard her say many times, sitting righteously on her claimed living-room couch, watching TV and tsk, tsk, tsking. The ones we should be most afraid of are those who have lost even their sense of shame. Those are the ones who are truly lost. Mother dear, I am afraid to tell you because I don’t want you to fear me, hate me, but I never had it to begin with. I was ashamed when I lied, when I wasted, when I did not appreciate, when I was idle, when I attacked needlessly, when I hurt spitefully, but this, I could not feel for at all. Should I have forced it? Would you have preferred my struggle? Would I have had the mark then to set me apart?)
This fantasy of mine is a place I can never fully let myself go; when faced with a hint of that look in a man’s eyes in real life, a part of me is left cold.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
3. when we can - feel
Dear T,
I absorb myself in pure sensation these days.
On a makeshift bed in my living room on a heat-wave’s night, I play with an ice cube, circling it on and around my nipples. My breasts sweaty, in a pulled down nightshirt, loose and thin and white, night air through the window and everything blue and grey from the lights outside.
I glide the melting ice down my stomach, wincing, then down by my heating cunt, sliding the diminished slip of chill inside, the drips soaking my folds, the spikes of frosty pleasure-torture through me.
I cram my fingers inside once it's gone, as many as I can, as deep as I can, just to feel how far I can go…
I absorb myself in pure sensation these days.
On a makeshift bed in my living room on a heat-wave’s night, I play with an ice cube, circling it on and around my nipples. My breasts sweaty, in a pulled down nightshirt, loose and thin and white, night air through the window and everything blue and grey from the lights outside.
I glide the melting ice down my stomach, wincing, then down by my heating cunt, sliding the diminished slip of chill inside, the drips soaking my folds, the spikes of frosty pleasure-torture through me.
I cram my fingers inside once it's gone, as many as I can, as deep as I can, just to feel how far I can go…
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
27. when we can- repeat
Dear T,
Let me say it again, just one more time, while I still can.
Dear Teacher, to me, you were always an ocean-bridler.
Dear Teacher, you were always running out of time in class.
Dear Teacher, you never stayed in the room if I was in the middle of undress. You preferred to avert your gaze kindly when I was rocking under duress.
Dear Teacher, you asked only to see me already stripped. You asked only to see me in my brightest blue best.
Dear Teacher, you were a serpent-charmer, hypnotic to your core, I stayed shaking my head because you were shaking yours.
Dear Teacher, you were a joke-maker, a riddle-teller, a quiz-competitor, your grin catching on easily, catching on my heart and my memories and other such hooks.
Dear Teacher, you were a music-player, your hands nearly as small as mine, rolling off strings of complex chords like they were nothing, taking me to your basement to listen, telling me my beat gave you inspiration, telling me that I think I might like this and this song, telling me to belt out when I play, to over-shoot rather than under-do, to make each set of notes mine.
Dear Teacher, you were a law-imposer, never letting me let on that I was shy and scared, cornered by my own lack of courage. When I laughed in embarassment, I hated how you turned my desk to face the back wall. You gave me no way out. I looked at it blankly, collecting myself grudgingly. You stood by my side, telling me to focus, telling me to go in there and undress, telling me to get on my hands and knees, telling me to take it, telling me to squeeze, telling me to tell you. Tell you.
Dear-Teacher, you failed me sometimes, but you were better than most, you were still a praise-giver, a patience-bidder, a faith-enforcer, a wonder-watcher, a pride-taker, reminding me gently when I forgot, that I could, that I was strong, that I could take it deep, that I could say what I wanted, that my words were worth reading, that my breath was worth hearing, that my body was worth taking, that I myself was worth a second glance.
Dear Teacher, I would be worried if it was just me, that I was putting you up too high in my sky-thoughts, but I know that to many of us, you were our dream-grower and our magic-worker. To me, you were always my ocean-bridler.
Dear Teacher, all I can say is thank you.
Let me say it again, just one more time, while I still can.
Dear Teacher, to me, you were always an ocean-bridler.
Dear Teacher, you were always running out of time in class.
Dear Teacher, you never stayed in the room if I was in the middle of undress. You preferred to avert your gaze kindly when I was rocking under duress.
Dear Teacher, you asked only to see me already stripped. You asked only to see me in my brightest blue best.
Dear Teacher, you were a serpent-charmer, hypnotic to your core, I stayed shaking my head because you were shaking yours.
Dear Teacher, you were a joke-maker, a riddle-teller, a quiz-competitor, your grin catching on easily, catching on my heart and my memories and other such hooks.
Dear Teacher, you were a music-player, your hands nearly as small as mine, rolling off strings of complex chords like they were nothing, taking me to your basement to listen, telling me my beat gave you inspiration, telling me that I think I might like this and this song, telling me to belt out when I play, to over-shoot rather than under-do, to make each set of notes mine.
Dear Teacher, you were a law-imposer, never letting me let on that I was shy and scared, cornered by my own lack of courage. When I laughed in embarassment, I hated how you turned my desk to face the back wall. You gave me no way out. I looked at it blankly, collecting myself grudgingly. You stood by my side, telling me to focus, telling me to go in there and undress, telling me to get on my hands and knees, telling me to take it, telling me to squeeze, telling me to tell you. Tell you.
Dear-Teacher, you failed me sometimes, but you were better than most, you were still a praise-giver, a patience-bidder, a faith-enforcer, a wonder-watcher, a pride-taker, reminding me gently when I forgot, that I could, that I was strong, that I could take it deep, that I could say what I wanted, that my words were worth reading, that my breath was worth hearing, that my body was worth taking, that I myself was worth a second glance.
Dear Teacher, I would be worried if it was just me, that I was putting you up too high in my sky-thoughts, but I know that to many of us, you were our dream-grower and our magic-worker. To me, you were always my ocean-bridler.
Dear Teacher, all I can say is thank you.
26. when we can- share
Dear T,
I dream that years have past since we’ve talked and I am getting married and I write to you about it. I am excited and in love with him. I want you to be proud of me, happy for me, as though I am trying to reassure us both that you did good by me, always did.
You call me. You are all of this for me indeed, there is genuine joy in your voice, congratulating me heartily.
You ask me how the sex is, say you are curious.
I wake up.
I dream that years have past since we’ve talked and I am getting married and I write to you about it. I am excited and in love with him. I want you to be proud of me, happy for me, as though I am trying to reassure us both that you did good by me, always did.
You call me. You are all of this for me indeed, there is genuine joy in your voice, congratulating me heartily.
You ask me how the sex is, say you are curious.
I wake up.
25. when we can- cling
Dear T,
I am so weary of cutting out people completely from my life. I will take this foolish path again and again if it means a part of me can still hold on to them inside.
I said I could do it, but I can’t. I will let my grip slip slowly instead, as we ponder to stay friends or not to stay friends, to talk every day or is it every week or should we make it every month, whether to ignore you, how much to tell you, how long until I can see you without wanting to fuck you, how long until I can see you again at all, how long can I go not seeing you again?
I remember how in the beginning when I felt we should not write anymore, how I could not close even that virtual door properly, even with so little really at stake. It seems like from another lifetime, another friendship, when I sat to write that to you. I wrote that we could be “in case of emergency, break glass” friends for each other. When and only when everyone else fails us, could we seek out each other, as briefly as we wanted, to say whatever random thing that needed to be said.
How romantic, how brave, how silly, how delusional, and how I want that for us still.
I am so weary of cutting out people completely from my life. I will take this foolish path again and again if it means a part of me can still hold on to them inside.
I said I could do it, but I can’t. I will let my grip slip slowly instead, as we ponder to stay friends or not to stay friends, to talk every day or is it every week or should we make it every month, whether to ignore you, how much to tell you, how long until I can see you without wanting to fuck you, how long until I can see you again at all, how long can I go not seeing you again?
I remember how in the beginning when I felt we should not write anymore, how I could not close even that virtual door properly, even with so little really at stake. It seems like from another lifetime, another friendship, when I sat to write that to you. I wrote that we could be “in case of emergency, break glass” friends for each other. When and only when everyone else fails us, could we seek out each other, as briefly as we wanted, to say whatever random thing that needed to be said.
How romantic, how brave, how silly, how delusional, and how I want that for us still.
24. when we can- inspire
Dear T,
I suspected from the start that I was not the first girl to feel like this about you. In classic smitten fashion, I could not and still cannot really conceive that anyone could know any part of you and not fall for you.
I just knew I would do this with you, knew that the repeating passage of time would not make it easier. I knew I would have to experience this with you, take what I could and then leave when I must.
It was always worth it. It was no torture. It was no sacrifice. I am no martyr.
You are still an inspiration, my lovely and imperfect inspiration.
I suspected from the start that I was not the first girl to feel like this about you. In classic smitten fashion, I could not and still cannot really conceive that anyone could know any part of you and not fall for you.
I just knew I would do this with you, knew that the repeating passage of time would not make it easier. I knew I would have to experience this with you, take what I could and then leave when I must.
It was always worth it. It was no torture. It was no sacrifice. I am no martyr.
You are still an inspiration, my lovely and imperfect inspiration.
23. when we can- fit
Dear T,
These confessions are true.
I look to be the woman who gets attached to the men she has sex with. Women are that way you know, an emotional lot, it’s the chemicals that are released after an orgasm, I’ve heard, that leaves the poor things so confused, as though our minds process every neuron flash in a vacuum, completely out of context from any other thought. Although notice N never comes up at all in this way. Stopping talking to him was simple, like a shrug. And luckily the shrug was mutual, because he had his chance if he really wanted to and he disappeared just as easy.
But to you I really was attached to begin with, from your first email to me, and I could not make much sense of it, when there was nothing really to build on, nowhere we could go really.
A voice suspiciously like my mother’s is whispering again to me, always, about equal partnerships, common life goals, compatible and complementary personalities. I don’t know if these exist, I don’t know how much of this I want. But I do know we are not any of that.
Forgive me for the continued indulgence, but I have tried to picture you meeting my family, I have tried to imagine sharing a house, I have tried to see myself living with you. My mind recoils like rubber from these thoughts. I tip-toe around you always, you see, on edge, try to stand tall around your exacting, looming self.
I cannot marry myself to Teacher. I cannot seem to move you from that title. I know you cannot move me either.
I know you love me too, but that doesn't matter, because it is nowhere near the same admiration, same depth I you. I know you don’t write to me in your head, and don’t spend the tiniest fraction of the time that I do thinking about you.
( Love is easy, after all, and there are too many kinds.)
These confessions are true.
I look to be the woman who gets attached to the men she has sex with. Women are that way you know, an emotional lot, it’s the chemicals that are released after an orgasm, I’ve heard, that leaves the poor things so confused, as though our minds process every neuron flash in a vacuum, completely out of context from any other thought. Although notice N never comes up at all in this way. Stopping talking to him was simple, like a shrug. And luckily the shrug was mutual, because he had his chance if he really wanted to and he disappeared just as easy.
But to you I really was attached to begin with, from your first email to me, and I could not make much sense of it, when there was nothing really to build on, nowhere we could go really.
A voice suspiciously like my mother’s is whispering again to me, always, about equal partnerships, common life goals, compatible and complementary personalities. I don’t know if these exist, I don’t know how much of this I want. But I do know we are not any of that.
Forgive me for the continued indulgence, but I have tried to picture you meeting my family, I have tried to imagine sharing a house, I have tried to see myself living with you. My mind recoils like rubber from these thoughts. I tip-toe around you always, you see, on edge, try to stand tall around your exacting, looming self.
I cannot marry myself to Teacher. I cannot seem to move you from that title. I know you cannot move me either.
I know you love me too, but that doesn't matter, because it is nowhere near the same admiration, same depth I you. I know you don’t write to me in your head, and don’t spend the tiniest fraction of the time that I do thinking about you.
( Love is easy, after all, and there are too many kinds.)
22. when we can- judge
Dear T,
If it were pathetic confessions that we were doing…
Is it pathetic anyways, that I happen to see all of this in you?
Maybe it is my inconsequential blabbing whenever we talk these days that is more so.
Maybe what is pathetic is my fear of the none of any of this you saw in me. It shouldn’t matter, but some days it does.
I fear anyways of becoming a despot to my own opinion of myself, embracing all those who favor it, rejecting all those who don’t. Do I do right, do I do right, do I do right by myself? Can I see myself?
But these confessions are true.
If it were pathetic confessions that we were doing…
Is it pathetic anyways, that I happen to see all of this in you?
Maybe it is my inconsequential blabbing whenever we talk these days that is more so.
Maybe what is pathetic is my fear of the none of any of this you saw in me. It shouldn’t matter, but some days it does.
I fear anyways of becoming a despot to my own opinion of myself, embracing all those who favor it, rejecting all those who don’t. Do I do right, do I do right, do I do right by myself? Can I see myself?
But these confessions are true.
21. when we can- confess
Dear T,
You call during a five-minute break because you say you wanted to and I smile for an hour after. You flash your electric blue eyes when excited. You pick up a couple of strands of hair casually from my head and hold it between your fingers distractedly when talking in bed now and then, and it is the one thing somehow I cannot accept at all. It is the one thing I really wish you wouldn't do, or if you must do, I really wish you wouldn't ever stop. You have the most fluid intelligence I have encountered in any person. You are smarter than me, and as vain as it sounds, this is not a judgment I make often, nor make lightly. I am envious of you because of this. I do not like that you are so eloquent and discerning, so analytical and insightful. I watch your mind ticking around facts, numbers, riddles, experiences, organizing them, drawing from them, making perceptions, pondering on how you could improve on them. I have read your writing, that first piece of erotic writing you sent me befrer we ever had had sex. It was before I had read much erotic writing at all, but it is now still one of the sexiest pieces of writing I’ve ever encountered, and that is saying a lot. I think of how I had instantly known after reading it, my body already aching, that if you had walked in to my room right then, I would have fucked you. Sex was always inevitable from then on with you. If that was the purpose of sending it to me, it certainly served its purpose well. (I guess I have tried to use my own writing the same way.) I have listened to your music, listened to you talk, looked at your life, visited your house, seen who you’ve touched. I have felt your fuck. Some of these are on the surface, and some of these are not. I have seen how you are careful to care, how you struggle to do the right thing, how your enthusiasm is contagious, how you laugh like an impudent boy, how you say what can’t be said, how you are a teacher at heart and how I have a weakness for that, for the ones who have to share things learnt. For the ones who believe you will get it too, the ones who know how to trick you into getting it when they have to, with their charisma, with their patience, with their hope, with their pride, with their humble wonder. All of these are in you. You know this power, carry its responsibility around your neck like a collar. When you are in pain like you are now, I have sudden, surprising thoughts of holding your head to my heart, kissing your every finger if it would help, even if it wouldn’t, just so I have something to do. When you are mistaken, I am sadly shaken. When you are troubled, I am troubled, but I admit more than just for you, I feel vaguely unhinged, like a child with misplaced faith. I’m rooting for you though, in the end, for what it’s worth, hoping this will pass, hoping that you find whatever it is you want because you deserve it. I don’t know, all I know is I have a tender pride for you, though I have had no hand in you, that you be happy is what makes the world happy, and the world happy is what I like to see.
If it were pathetic confessions that we were doing, these are what I would tell you.
You call during a five-minute break because you say you wanted to and I smile for an hour after. You flash your electric blue eyes when excited. You pick up a couple of strands of hair casually from my head and hold it between your fingers distractedly when talking in bed now and then, and it is the one thing somehow I cannot accept at all. It is the one thing I really wish you wouldn't do, or if you must do, I really wish you wouldn't ever stop. You have the most fluid intelligence I have encountered in any person. You are smarter than me, and as vain as it sounds, this is not a judgment I make often, nor make lightly. I am envious of you because of this. I do not like that you are so eloquent and discerning, so analytical and insightful. I watch your mind ticking around facts, numbers, riddles, experiences, organizing them, drawing from them, making perceptions, pondering on how you could improve on them. I have read your writing, that first piece of erotic writing you sent me befrer we ever had had sex. It was before I had read much erotic writing at all, but it is now still one of the sexiest pieces of writing I’ve ever encountered, and that is saying a lot. I think of how I had instantly known after reading it, my body already aching, that if you had walked in to my room right then, I would have fucked you. Sex was always inevitable from then on with you. If that was the purpose of sending it to me, it certainly served its purpose well. (I guess I have tried to use my own writing the same way.) I have listened to your music, listened to you talk, looked at your life, visited your house, seen who you’ve touched. I have felt your fuck. Some of these are on the surface, and some of these are not. I have seen how you are careful to care, how you struggle to do the right thing, how your enthusiasm is contagious, how you laugh like an impudent boy, how you say what can’t be said, how you are a teacher at heart and how I have a weakness for that, for the ones who have to share things learnt. For the ones who believe you will get it too, the ones who know how to trick you into getting it when they have to, with their charisma, with their patience, with their hope, with their pride, with their humble wonder. All of these are in you. You know this power, carry its responsibility around your neck like a collar. When you are in pain like you are now, I have sudden, surprising thoughts of holding your head to my heart, kissing your every finger if it would help, even if it wouldn’t, just so I have something to do. When you are mistaken, I am sadly shaken. When you are troubled, I am troubled, but I admit more than just for you, I feel vaguely unhinged, like a child with misplaced faith. I’m rooting for you though, in the end, for what it’s worth, hoping this will pass, hoping that you find whatever it is you want because you deserve it. I don’t know, all I know is I have a tender pride for you, though I have had no hand in you, that you be happy is what makes the world happy, and the world happy is what I like to see.
If it were pathetic confessions that we were doing, these are what I would tell you.
20. when we can- hound and circle
Dear T,
When you come online and the first thing you tell me is how you had another dream about a threesome, can you understand that is difficult for me to say anything back to you?
I was trying so hard to respect your choice, and then your calls, and trying not to give in completely to all of it again, and now this.
I tell you the worst thing I can, that I want to know what it is about seeing me alone that does not appeal to you, what is it that makes you so reluctant.
You are so taken aback by this, I feel immediately contrite. I know I said it mostly to have something to say to you, because I feel out of sorts, don’t know how to relate to you anymore.
You defend yourself, that the reasons you gave me were real, the struggle in your life was genuine. You admit that for a little while the idea of the threesome had been new and exciting enough to keep you distracted from some of your concerns.
But on the phone, yesterday, you say, that was just me and you!! (The exclamation marks are your addition, not mine.)
But it was not completely about your sexual desire for me. I know as far as distractions go, nothing can really top the idea of a threesome.
I wanted to know what line I had crossed in your life, what balance had been broken, that you needed to step away from it. You have told me already, but I still cannot not make perfect sense of it all.
I haven’t really needed to figure it out either, but when you come to me again like this, I realize that I cannot continue to play along without knowing.
You tell me that it is normal that I feel a little confused, that we have been going on in circles for quite some time now.
We have. Could you tell me what center we have been circling around?
When you come online and the first thing you tell me is how you had another dream about a threesome, can you understand that is difficult for me to say anything back to you?
I was trying so hard to respect your choice, and then your calls, and trying not to give in completely to all of it again, and now this.
I tell you the worst thing I can, that I want to know what it is about seeing me alone that does not appeal to you, what is it that makes you so reluctant.
You are so taken aback by this, I feel immediately contrite. I know I said it mostly to have something to say to you, because I feel out of sorts, don’t know how to relate to you anymore.
You defend yourself, that the reasons you gave me were real, the struggle in your life was genuine. You admit that for a little while the idea of the threesome had been new and exciting enough to keep you distracted from some of your concerns.
But on the phone, yesterday, you say, that was just me and you!! (The exclamation marks are your addition, not mine.)
But it was not completely about your sexual desire for me. I know as far as distractions go, nothing can really top the idea of a threesome.
I wanted to know what line I had crossed in your life, what balance had been broken, that you needed to step away from it. You have told me already, but I still cannot not make perfect sense of it all.
I haven’t really needed to figure it out either, but when you come to me again like this, I realize that I cannot continue to play along without knowing.
You tell me that it is normal that I feel a little confused, that we have been going on in circles for quite some time now.
We have. Could you tell me what center we have been circling around?
19. when we can- wonder
Dear T,
Here is the danger in my thoughts, in any controlled experiment like this. The questions I ask that I know I shouldn’t.
If you had seen me a little more often, for longer visits, if we had lived in the same city, gone out and done things together, would you have at least kissed me?
It’s not that I had an expectation, but I just want to know.
I want to know.
Why wouldn’t you kiss me? You admitted it yourself.
Why didn’t you want to? Why didn’t you even for a moment see me that way?
I would have kissed you. That much is sure.
I know it doesn’t matter. But your kiss still haunts my dreams
Here is the danger in my thoughts, in any controlled experiment like this. The questions I ask that I know I shouldn’t.
If you had seen me a little more often, for longer visits, if we had lived in the same city, gone out and done things together, would you have at least kissed me?
It’s not that I had an expectation, but I just want to know.
I want to know.
Why wouldn’t you kiss me? You admitted it yourself.
Why didn’t you want to? Why didn’t you even for a moment see me that way?
I would have kissed you. That much is sure.
I know it doesn’t matter. But your kiss still haunts my dreams
18. when we can- miss
Dear T,
When I tell you that I miss cock, that I just want to be fucked, it is true, but is also a lie by omission. I can’t afford to tell you any more than that anymore. Not when we are halfway there, halfway gone.
The full truth is I can’t stop thinking of how I would like nothing better than to lift and sit myself on top of your cock, rooted onto you. I miss the pleasure of your cock, the texture of your head when it begins to split me open.
Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera. Weary from my want for you again. Are you weary from reading it?
Actually, the entire truth, if I were to stretch it out completely is that I miss you entirely, miss the giddy laugh that is being around you, miss a bit too what we never were.
When I tell you that I miss cock, that I just want to be fucked, it is true, but is also a lie by omission. I can’t afford to tell you any more than that anymore. Not when we are halfway there, halfway gone.
The full truth is I can’t stop thinking of how I would like nothing better than to lift and sit myself on top of your cock, rooted onto you. I miss the pleasure of your cock, the texture of your head when it begins to split me open.
Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera. Weary from my want for you again. Are you weary from reading it?
Actually, the entire truth, if I were to stretch it out completely is that I miss you entirely, miss the giddy laugh that is being around you, miss a bit too what we never were.
17. when we can -remember
Dear T,
In between these two merging extremes of pure touch and pure mind-fuck, there are thoughts of you. I meander there once in a while as well, do not bother to stop it.
I want to bring the girl still in with us, dream that I will find her now that I’ve stopped looking, and you will want to do it still. We watch her together as she strokes with languid fingers on her clit, her hands larger than mine, not circling and flicking like me, but waltzing up, up, up from her ass to her clit, her fingers as uncertain curtains for her cunt. And it the same fantasy always, I want her to watch us when you move to me finally. After you are done fucking her and I am done watching you fuck her, it is her turn to watch us.
I remember you telling one girl we chatted with what it is that I like to do with you, she likes when I whisper in her ear, she likes when I dominate her, she likes when I control her orgasms, and how it twists and tingles inside to hear you tell another that, my proud need to expose and exhibit myself rearing up again.
And on rare occasion, I imagine we really are all three of us connected and touching until we forget whose cock is in whose cunt, I am just touching somewhere on someone’s skin and someone is inside me and you are there, your energy is there, and I could cum just from it.
I remember the change that came over you after you first placed your fingers inside me and made me cum. You had already had an infectious enthusiasm, but I was still amazed at how you were now positively radiating sex, bouncing off the walls with it, devastatingly honest and open about it. It made me want to devour you alive. You had to leave to teach and I sat in your shorts and shirt, playing your videogames, finding I kept on losing, could not focus at all. You pounced into the room during a break, could not concentrate, thinking of you up there, having you in my house right now, you rushed, and you looked the part, you really did, that damn tremor in your breath, and I could only laugh, speechless from the start, and you told me decisively, come with me please, lifting me up from your couch with your hand in my hand and tugging me back into your room, and then lie down please, on your stomach, and then pulling the shorts down and then the panties, so that I was already gasping, fuck, it is this memory most of all that has me aching just to write of it, and then plunging your fingers into me suddenly in a moment of pain, but then quickly smoothing away as I became wet, terribly, terribly wet, so that you could go harder and harder, deeper in, completely fuck me with your two fingers, the cries coming out of me like a cascade, and cumming was easy, far too easy, and as I lay there moaning, trying to regain a hold on all that had passed, you asked me, was that ok?, wasn't too rough? and I mumbled with a mouth surprised into slackness a nu-uh, no, not at all.
And then I think of that time of our "three acts", on the third act, how I had gasped, I need a break babe, as you pounded into me, me on my stomach again, my cunt raw from over-use. And we both smiled secret smiles, because there are far worse things you can be then overly fucked. You pulled out immediately. And then after I had caught my breath, you slowly slid back in, asking again if this was ok, and I was, much, much better, yes, and then you sauntered in and out, pausing, bending over me so you could whhisper in my ear, is this ok, is this ok, until I was begging you for more, trying to push back against you, panicking every time you stopped to ask, and you continued to creep in and out every so slowly and gently, seemed to go on for hours and hours, your mouth occasionally touching on my back, until I floated into a haze that I thought would go on forever, and then I realized that I had actually drifted into orgasm, the easiest, gentlest, calmest, most rolling of cums, licks of smiling, pulsing waves that went on and on, and I had forgotten even about you, until I realisexd you were groaning and I felt your cum drip out of me and onto my ass, and I felt your shaky kisses all over my neck and I felt, quite simply, as I lay there trembling, blessed.
And then I just think of your clean creamy skin, remembering that time when I had you after a shower, your body laid by my side, at your naked disposal, you grinned, and I grinned back shyly. And so I peered over you, my head resting on my palm, on the hinge of my elbow, smearing with the index finger of my other hand the three dots of water on your chest, right below your neck, savouring, wondering what on earth to do with you next.
(How is it that such few, short encounters hold so many memories?)
In between these two merging extremes of pure touch and pure mind-fuck, there are thoughts of you. I meander there once in a while as well, do not bother to stop it.
I want to bring the girl still in with us, dream that I will find her now that I’ve stopped looking, and you will want to do it still. We watch her together as she strokes with languid fingers on her clit, her hands larger than mine, not circling and flicking like me, but waltzing up, up, up from her ass to her clit, her fingers as uncertain curtains for her cunt. And it the same fantasy always, I want her to watch us when you move to me finally. After you are done fucking her and I am done watching you fuck her, it is her turn to watch us.
I remember you telling one girl we chatted with what it is that I like to do with you, she likes when I whisper in her ear, she likes when I dominate her, she likes when I control her orgasms, and how it twists and tingles inside to hear you tell another that, my proud need to expose and exhibit myself rearing up again.
And on rare occasion, I imagine we really are all three of us connected and touching until we forget whose cock is in whose cunt, I am just touching somewhere on someone’s skin and someone is inside me and you are there, your energy is there, and I could cum just from it.
I remember the change that came over you after you first placed your fingers inside me and made me cum. You had already had an infectious enthusiasm, but I was still amazed at how you were now positively radiating sex, bouncing off the walls with it, devastatingly honest and open about it. It made me want to devour you alive. You had to leave to teach and I sat in your shorts and shirt, playing your videogames, finding I kept on losing, could not focus at all. You pounced into the room during a break, could not concentrate, thinking of you up there, having you in my house right now, you rushed, and you looked the part, you really did, that damn tremor in your breath, and I could only laugh, speechless from the start, and you told me decisively, come with me please, lifting me up from your couch with your hand in my hand and tugging me back into your room, and then lie down please, on your stomach, and then pulling the shorts down and then the panties, so that I was already gasping, fuck, it is this memory most of all that has me aching just to write of it, and then plunging your fingers into me suddenly in a moment of pain, but then quickly smoothing away as I became wet, terribly, terribly wet, so that you could go harder and harder, deeper in, completely fuck me with your two fingers, the cries coming out of me like a cascade, and cumming was easy, far too easy, and as I lay there moaning, trying to regain a hold on all that had passed, you asked me, was that ok?, wasn't too rough? and I mumbled with a mouth surprised into slackness a nu-uh, no, not at all.
And then I think of that time of our "three acts", on the third act, how I had gasped, I need a break babe, as you pounded into me, me on my stomach again, my cunt raw from over-use. And we both smiled secret smiles, because there are far worse things you can be then overly fucked. You pulled out immediately. And then after I had caught my breath, you slowly slid back in, asking again if this was ok, and I was, much, much better, yes, and then you sauntered in and out, pausing, bending over me so you could whhisper in my ear, is this ok, is this ok, until I was begging you for more, trying to push back against you, panicking every time you stopped to ask, and you continued to creep in and out every so slowly and gently, seemed to go on for hours and hours, your mouth occasionally touching on my back, until I floated into a haze that I thought would go on forever, and then I realized that I had actually drifted into orgasm, the easiest, gentlest, calmest, most rolling of cums, licks of smiling, pulsing waves that went on and on, and I had forgotten even about you, until I realisexd you were groaning and I felt your cum drip out of me and onto my ass, and I felt your shaky kisses all over my neck and I felt, quite simply, as I lay there trembling, blessed.
And then I just think of your clean creamy skin, remembering that time when I had you after a shower, your body laid by my side, at your naked disposal, you grinned, and I grinned back shyly. And so I peered over you, my head resting on my palm, on the hinge of my elbow, smearing with the index finger of my other hand the three dots of water on your chest, right below your neck, savouring, wondering what on earth to do with you next.
(How is it that such few, short encounters hold so many memories?)
16. when we can- outdo and undo
Again with credits to O and Nina, and my apologies for any echoing.
Dear T,
Only in that fantasy with the workmen can I allow myself to be truly reactionary, let myself feel triumphant in their shock, struggle to outdo my subversion in their eyes as much as my rage truly wants.
But my purest desire is also there in the taboo of their hatred and disregard; I engineer the cleanest, fastest of all orgasms.
There are many directions I could take it, but I need to strip it of all niceties these days, expose it starkly: a grimy, calloused touch on my hips, (still a touch), my mouth around their appalled, struggling, wanting, cocks, (still a hard feel against my tongue), a senseless, brutal pushing in of their cringing cocks inside, (still a penetration). As they stand over me, discussing me crudely like I am not there, I am still wet. Look at her, such a dirty girl, look at how wet her pussy is, can you believe her, who knows where she’s been, look at this ass, check out these tits, leering at the body that I have stripped down naked to so I can be fucked.
And that I let myself fantasise this, be subject to this, is a terrible proof of my body's need, it strikes fear in my heart to know this, that I am walking around, living my life, carrying such volatile, fragile want inside me the whole time.
For me, exposing myself to the extent of my desire, recognizing it, has always been a straight, easy trip to orgasm, with little need for touch.
Dear T,
Only in that fantasy with the workmen can I allow myself to be truly reactionary, let myself feel triumphant in their shock, struggle to outdo my subversion in their eyes as much as my rage truly wants.
But my purest desire is also there in the taboo of their hatred and disregard; I engineer the cleanest, fastest of all orgasms.
There are many directions I could take it, but I need to strip it of all niceties these days, expose it starkly: a grimy, calloused touch on my hips, (still a touch), my mouth around their appalled, struggling, wanting, cocks, (still a hard feel against my tongue), a senseless, brutal pushing in of their cringing cocks inside, (still a penetration). As they stand over me, discussing me crudely like I am not there, I am still wet. Look at her, such a dirty girl, look at how wet her pussy is, can you believe her, who knows where she’s been, look at this ass, check out these tits, leering at the body that I have stripped down naked to so I can be fucked.
And that I let myself fantasise this, be subject to this, is a terrible proof of my body's need, it strikes fear in my heart to know this, that I am walking around, living my life, carrying such volatile, fragile want inside me the whole time.
For me, exposing myself to the extent of my desire, recognizing it, has always been a straight, easy trip to orgasm, with little need for touch.
15. when we can- avoid
Dear T,
I remember how N showed me his cock on web-cam, the way you would for me a week later. I remember the contrast and again, my duplicity. I told N I had to hear him, because I needed the extra simulation, found myself bored, watching his hand glide in-and-out in-and-out from his base. But then how I also begged to hear you, absolutely knew I had to, the second I saw you and knew how aroused you must be.
I remember on the phone how he would begin his soulless and look-at-important-me-and-what-I’m-saying narratives. Aren’t we the coolest, the naughtiest, the worst, that is all his voice seemed to keep drumming. And the words only a monotone of and then I will move slowly up your thighs and then I will suck your clit and then I will put a finger in.
It’s not easy, I could not hold against him. What do I know after all, about talking on the phone, never mind taking the initiative? But what little I said to you was always real. A real desire. I hope at least that it felt like that to you.
It was not just his inability to create a smooth flow of words the way you could. I could not stop doubting his intentions.
I found my mind drifting as I listened to him, pushing him back again so I could be left to my own devices. I did try to guide him, like you would me I felt silly doing it. Why do you want to lick my cunt? What do you like about it? How will it feel? I tried to give it some dimension. Say what you would really like to do with me, I told him. If it is my reaction you like then speak of that, speak of what you know you want. Don't just use the ‘this one gets ‘em every time’ formulas on every girl, because in your head, getting me off is what gives you permission to jerk off in my presence.
Sigh, he was not that bad.
He was not you, I guess, and you knew this when I let him go, though I said little. You said you were glad in a way, that this had probably been good for us, given me more of an appreciation for you. I wanted to shoot you down for knowing it and for saying it. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t deny it.
But N was trying I think, in the end. He obviously had some kind of imagination, he obviously had some clue of what he was doing, some potential. He just needed to tone down the arrogance, work to earn it first. He needed to pay closer attention, discern. He needed to bring himself to it rather than watch himself do it. He needed to get over himself so I could get over myself.
He brought out a side of me I did not like.
I remember how N showed me his cock on web-cam, the way you would for me a week later. I remember the contrast and again, my duplicity. I told N I had to hear him, because I needed the extra simulation, found myself bored, watching his hand glide in-and-out in-and-out from his base. But then how I also begged to hear you, absolutely knew I had to, the second I saw you and knew how aroused you must be.
I remember on the phone how he would begin his soulless and look-at-important-me-and-what-I’m-saying narratives. Aren’t we the coolest, the naughtiest, the worst, that is all his voice seemed to keep drumming. And the words only a monotone of and then I will move slowly up your thighs and then I will suck your clit and then I will put a finger in.
It’s not easy, I could not hold against him. What do I know after all, about talking on the phone, never mind taking the initiative? But what little I said to you was always real. A real desire. I hope at least that it felt like that to you.
It was not just his inability to create a smooth flow of words the way you could. I could not stop doubting his intentions.
I found my mind drifting as I listened to him, pushing him back again so I could be left to my own devices. I did try to guide him, like you would me I felt silly doing it. Why do you want to lick my cunt? What do you like about it? How will it feel? I tried to give it some dimension. Say what you would really like to do with me, I told him. If it is my reaction you like then speak of that, speak of what you know you want. Don't just use the ‘this one gets ‘em every time’ formulas on every girl, because in your head, getting me off is what gives you permission to jerk off in my presence.
Sigh, he was not that bad.
He was not you, I guess, and you knew this when I let him go, though I said little. You said you were glad in a way, that this had probably been good for us, given me more of an appreciation for you. I wanted to shoot you down for knowing it and for saying it. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t deny it.
But N was trying I think, in the end. He obviously had some kind of imagination, he obviously had some clue of what he was doing, some potential. He just needed to tone down the arrogance, work to earn it first. He needed to pay closer attention, discern. He needed to bring himself to it rather than watch himself do it. He needed to get over himself so I could get over myself.
He brought out a side of me I did not like.
14. when we can- guide
Dear T,
I couldn’t have told N exactly what he was doing not quite right. It is difficult to describe, what was missing, how another person doing something extremely similar might get an entirely different response from me. I guess it’s every guy’s nightmare, my vagueness about this.
I know only that it is not really about physical skill in the end.
(Intention, intention is the root of a real fuck I think. I fuck men whole, I think, taking in the melding personalities of their cocks, limbs, looks, words. If this is emotional, it is no more emotional than my any other kind of interaction with a person.)
Should I have tried to show him anyways? Worked to improve him? It seemed an interesting, pleasant idea. I was tempted to do that too, train him. In my cruel laughter was my desire to force him to see what he was missing.
I wanted, I think, to be you.
I wondered if I was up to the task. Had I learned that much over the months, from you, from my writing, from my reading ? Did I really know a thing or two, or was I just being as bad as him, assuming my own superiority?
I couldn’t have told N exactly what he was doing not quite right. It is difficult to describe, what was missing, how another person doing something extremely similar might get an entirely different response from me. I guess it’s every guy’s nightmare, my vagueness about this.
I know only that it is not really about physical skill in the end.
(Intention, intention is the root of a real fuck I think. I fuck men whole, I think, taking in the melding personalities of their cocks, limbs, looks, words. If this is emotional, it is no more emotional than my any other kind of interaction with a person.)
Should I have tried to show him anyways? Worked to improve him? It seemed an interesting, pleasant idea. I was tempted to do that too, train him. In my cruel laughter was my desire to force him to see what he was missing.
I wanted, I think, to be you.
I wondered if I was up to the task. Had I learned that much over the months, from you, from my writing, from my reading ? Did I really know a thing or two, or was I just being as bad as him, assuming my own superiority?
13. when we can- compare and contrast
Dear T,
N’s cock was not as lovely as yours.
Your cock was secret, gave off its own secret sweet scent, worked in mysterious ways, saved its best for last, stretch-stretch-stretching right until the very end, extending far past its original length. It pushed smoothly, always warmly. It seeked out in exact caresses shifting hard and soft in a hypnotically human rhythm. It pierced with friction and purpose. Its head bloomed large and pulsed with blood, stinging sensitively to touch, the balls smooth and patient. When it came, it seemed to cum deep from inside, quickly too, a surprise burst of targeted force, viscous and silver.
(If it is cocks we are talking of, X’s was brown and wholesome, fat and filling. Its shying, dull head could take a beating in my clumsy hands and mouth. Its skin was surprisingly thin and soft, balls prominent, hairy and wrinkly, the smell slightly off. It pushed back my skin with a left and then a right and then an up-down-up. It shoved jerky and wanting and protracted and demanding inside me, the balls stretched tense on the verge of bursting the whole time. And then it came quietly, outside my cunt always, in his own hands always, gurgling out, into my mouth, gaggy salty ammonia, or onto my breasts, thick and sluggish.)
N’s cock had an eager, glistening, obvious, pale pink head when pushed between my breasts, or when paused against my cheek for dramatic effect. It was pretty, but looked to me puffed up proud beyond its achievement, swollen and bombastic. It came copiously in a stretched-out deluge that kind of made me laugh, the watery cum making its way onto my face, neck, breasts, couch. Cruel, I know, to laugh at that, like how I laughed when he warned in my ear that he was going to fuck me now. I had had this said to me before, but not in that fashion, not like it was a threat. Is this the part where I’m supposed to be scared? , I thought mockingly to myself. And so I laughed and asked him to clarify. Are you going to fuck me hard? To his credit, he gave a yes, not wavering, and kissed me hard, then soft, then hard, toying rather than torn. He shoved me backwards finally, and I was surprised for a second but still I was laughing, even on my way down. I cannot tell you how malicious I felt, how I wanted to tease him for being the cub who thinks he’s got a roar. I admit it was fun to challenge him like that, attractive almost. And fuck me hard he did, needlessly and affectedly rough, if a little mechanically, which made it hard to cum. I moaned along, in pain but enjoying his effort.
Strange how the same actions can hold different meanings. I am immorally deceptive in my silent duplicity, because I closed my eyes finally, but it was like I would when alone. I removed myself from him forcibly rather than involuntarily slipping away. I strained to focus on the sensation as he continued to piston in and out of me like a tiresome metronome. I took myself by the hand and led myself to my orgasm, ignoring my own pained moans, using his cock as my extra help only when I could.
N’s cock was not as lovely as yours.
Your cock was secret, gave off its own secret sweet scent, worked in mysterious ways, saved its best for last, stretch-stretch-stretching right until the very end, extending far past its original length. It pushed smoothly, always warmly. It seeked out in exact caresses shifting hard and soft in a hypnotically human rhythm. It pierced with friction and purpose. Its head bloomed large and pulsed with blood, stinging sensitively to touch, the balls smooth and patient. When it came, it seemed to cum deep from inside, quickly too, a surprise burst of targeted force, viscous and silver.
(If it is cocks we are talking of, X’s was brown and wholesome, fat and filling. Its shying, dull head could take a beating in my clumsy hands and mouth. Its skin was surprisingly thin and soft, balls prominent, hairy and wrinkly, the smell slightly off. It pushed back my skin with a left and then a right and then an up-down-up. It shoved jerky and wanting and protracted and demanding inside me, the balls stretched tense on the verge of bursting the whole time. And then it came quietly, outside my cunt always, in his own hands always, gurgling out, into my mouth, gaggy salty ammonia, or onto my breasts, thick and sluggish.)
N’s cock had an eager, glistening, obvious, pale pink head when pushed between my breasts, or when paused against my cheek for dramatic effect. It was pretty, but looked to me puffed up proud beyond its achievement, swollen and bombastic. It came copiously in a stretched-out deluge that kind of made me laugh, the watery cum making its way onto my face, neck, breasts, couch. Cruel, I know, to laugh at that, like how I laughed when he warned in my ear that he was going to fuck me now. I had had this said to me before, but not in that fashion, not like it was a threat. Is this the part where I’m supposed to be scared? , I thought mockingly to myself. And so I laughed and asked him to clarify. Are you going to fuck me hard? To his credit, he gave a yes, not wavering, and kissed me hard, then soft, then hard, toying rather than torn. He shoved me backwards finally, and I was surprised for a second but still I was laughing, even on my way down. I cannot tell you how malicious I felt, how I wanted to tease him for being the cub who thinks he’s got a roar. I admit it was fun to challenge him like that, attractive almost. And fuck me hard he did, needlessly and affectedly rough, if a little mechanically, which made it hard to cum. I moaned along, in pain but enjoying his effort.
Strange how the same actions can hold different meanings. I am immorally deceptive in my silent duplicity, because I closed my eyes finally, but it was like I would when alone. I removed myself from him forcibly rather than involuntarily slipping away. I strained to focus on the sensation as he continued to piston in and out of me like a tiresome metronome. I took myself by the hand and led myself to my orgasm, ignoring my own pained moans, using his cock as my extra help only when I could.
12. when we can- try and err
Dear T,
N slapped my face in cowardly pats the second and last time we had sex.
He knew vaguely of a fantasy of mine, the element of a struggle in my own consent that I circled around. He lived to amass these kind of sordid details, you'd be surprised how many girls fantasize about this, he boastingly assured to me, like I had asked for his assurance, like he knew precisely what this was, when I didn't even myself.
It really must have just been his voice. Or my pride and prejudice. You or someone else could have said that to me, and I would have beeen like interesting point, let's discuss it.
He called me his little kink which I could not help but enjoy the pretense of being, even as I my stomach once again did its turns. The problem was that he was not under my skin yet, I was neither his, nor little, nor did I feel like a kink.
(Define kink, I wanted to ask him, the same way I had asked him to define slut, which he couldn't do. Stop analyzing and quizzing him, I whispered to myself. )
He could not bring my fantasy to life. He misunderstood it perhaps, quite understandably. Or maybe for me, it was not anything that should be brought to life at all.
But he slapped my face lightly and casually, like the reprimand of some kind of Mafia godfather, as I held his cock in my mouth.
It felt like a silly pantomime of puppets, unnecessary, when we were both standing right there. And the most of what I felt was a minor queasy distaste, like I had just sampled food ruined by over-salting. I was also vaguely annoyed, like a fly had just whined in my ear, distracting my attention in a meaningless buzz and then flying away. Had he continued, maybe I would have swatted him right back.
I let it pass, and I do regret that, becauese it is easy to look back and say, oh, but I would have. Then again, it doesn't truly matter, since I did gain something from it.
If nothing else, I learnt that the feeling I preferred was that of a deserved humility, not a senseless humiliation, and it was a place to tread into cautiously, with someone who I have a greater trust towards.
N slapped my face in cowardly pats the second and last time we had sex.
He knew vaguely of a fantasy of mine, the element of a struggle in my own consent that I circled around. He lived to amass these kind of sordid details, you'd be surprised how many girls fantasize about this, he boastingly assured to me, like I had asked for his assurance, like he knew precisely what this was, when I didn't even myself.
It really must have just been his voice. Or my pride and prejudice. You or someone else could have said that to me, and I would have beeen like interesting point, let's discuss it.
He called me his little kink which I could not help but enjoy the pretense of being, even as I my stomach once again did its turns. The problem was that he was not under my skin yet, I was neither his, nor little, nor did I feel like a kink.
(Define kink, I wanted to ask him, the same way I had asked him to define slut, which he couldn't do. Stop analyzing and quizzing him, I whispered to myself. )
He could not bring my fantasy to life. He misunderstood it perhaps, quite understandably. Or maybe for me, it was not anything that should be brought to life at all.
But he slapped my face lightly and casually, like the reprimand of some kind of Mafia godfather, as I held his cock in my mouth.
It felt like a silly pantomime of puppets, unnecessary, when we were both standing right there. And the most of what I felt was a minor queasy distaste, like I had just sampled food ruined by over-salting. I was also vaguely annoyed, like a fly had just whined in my ear, distracting my attention in a meaningless buzz and then flying away. Had he continued, maybe I would have swatted him right back.
I let it pass, and I do regret that, becauese it is easy to look back and say, oh, but I would have. Then again, it doesn't truly matter, since I did gain something from it.
If nothing else, I learnt that the feeling I preferred was that of a deserved humility, not a senseless humiliation, and it was a place to tread into cautiously, with someone who I have a greater trust towards.
11. when we can -give in
Dear T,
You held me for a little bit after we decided we would not have sex after all, and I was very surprised to find that I drifted off into sleep like that for a little while. It was my first and only time falling asleep in a cuddle with anyone. Strange, because it was when you were the most strange to me.
We woke up the next morning, my bare ass lay sidled against your arm and I did not move it, moved it, did not move it, kept it there, then not there, then there again, as I started to wake up.
And you fucked me after all didn’t you? You rolled me on my stomach suddenly, snarling something about your soft ass on me, such a tease.
I was deleriously glad in my drowsiness, my heart pounding out of control.
A sample, you joked, to help you decide. I’d never been fucked like that before. In full knowledge. In complete control.
Were you attempting to protect me from this the night before, from where we are now? From the way I write to you now?
It’s ok, it still doesn’t matter.
You held me for a little bit after we decided we would not have sex after all, and I was very surprised to find that I drifted off into sleep like that for a little while. It was my first and only time falling asleep in a cuddle with anyone. Strange, because it was when you were the most strange to me.
We woke up the next morning, my bare ass lay sidled against your arm and I did not move it, moved it, did not move it, kept it there, then not there, then there again, as I started to wake up.
And you fucked me after all didn’t you? You rolled me on my stomach suddenly, snarling something about your soft ass on me, such a tease.
I was deleriously glad in my drowsiness, my heart pounding out of control.
A sample, you joked, to help you decide. I’d never been fucked like that before. In full knowledge. In complete control.
Were you attempting to protect me from this the night before, from where we are now? From the way I write to you now?
It’s ok, it still doesn’t matter.
10. when we can- hesitate
Dear T,
You asked me if I was sure too the first time we started to touch, as your hand moved down underneath my panties. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, is what you said. I wanted to laugh, the recurring nightmare of hysteria bubbling at my throat again.
You could not even fuck me later on that night, could you? You couldn’t get it up, to put it bluntly. I’m sorry, you said, I just- every time there’s a pause, I keep thinking of our history, our letters, I don’t know, I guess I feel protective of you, I want to be sure you are going to be ok, that this will be good for you.
I stared at you, unable to let the comprehension that you did not wish to continue alight. I felt appallingly thick, like a dumb animal in heat, blazing between my legs, reaching out to your cock.
I wanted to help you. You wanted none of it.
Sweet of you to try and help, you said stiffly, smiling nervously, and obviously you are not quite as shy as you seem.
You too? But you said it so nicely, with no derision. I understood because I had acted very foolish moments before, very awkward and childish, unwilling to face up and talk about where this was going to go. You were right, I was new at this.
I looked up to you so I could deal with your patronization. Though you reassured me again and again that you knew I was an adult, could make my own decisions.
Just until the next time we meet, you said, to give you time to think about it.
I understand, I told you finally, though my body doesn’t.
Let’s just sleep. I said. I figured if we were going to fuck, waiting until next time wouldn’t matter.
I was already pretty convinced that there would be a next time.
You asked me if I was sure too the first time we started to touch, as your hand moved down underneath my panties. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, is what you said. I wanted to laugh, the recurring nightmare of hysteria bubbling at my throat again.
You could not even fuck me later on that night, could you? You couldn’t get it up, to put it bluntly. I’m sorry, you said, I just- every time there’s a pause, I keep thinking of our history, our letters, I don’t know, I guess I feel protective of you, I want to be sure you are going to be ok, that this will be good for you.
I stared at you, unable to let the comprehension that you did not wish to continue alight. I felt appallingly thick, like a dumb animal in heat, blazing between my legs, reaching out to your cock.
I wanted to help you. You wanted none of it.
Sweet of you to try and help, you said stiffly, smiling nervously, and obviously you are not quite as shy as you seem.
You too? But you said it so nicely, with no derision. I understood because I had acted very foolish moments before, very awkward and childish, unwilling to face up and talk about where this was going to go. You were right, I was new at this.
I looked up to you so I could deal with your patronization. Though you reassured me again and again that you knew I was an adult, could make my own decisions.
Just until the next time we meet, you said, to give you time to think about it.
I understand, I told you finally, though my body doesn’t.
Let’s just sleep. I said. I figured if we were going to fuck, waiting until next time wouldn’t matter.
I was already pretty convinced that there would be a next time.
2. when we can- relax
Dear T,
You have been calling me still to come together with me. You call me and it is the same still. I forget to close my door fully as I rush to lie myself on my bed, ready to hear you.
You need the distraction. You feed off of women, you have admitted it yourself. I know this already, know it is precisely this fetish of yours- to bring about and to hear and to feel a woman’s orgasm- that makes you so addictive. A detached part of me thinks it unfortunate. What will you do when alone? What about that imagination of yours? Will you have to flit from woman to woman as you yearn for the one to devote yourself fully to? It seems a shame.
But for now there is me, and you are comfortable with me.
I don’t even know what there is to tell you anymore. Tell you not to call? Tell you to keep on calling? I can say neither. I just wait. We will live out the limbo. I fill it with our orgasms, and the rest of the time I fill with blather and jokes.
My family will be visiting soon anyways, and that will give us a month to be truly cut off from each other. From then on, I’m sure it will be easier to move on. Either that, or we will be back where we started. Honestly, who cares?
The temptation to call you and ask for "just one more" visit is huge. I haven't had sex in months. I miss you. I feed off of you too, though I can manage alone. I try to resist.
I feel strangely relaxed. It is such a desperate situation that it leaves me calm and bare.
You have been calling me still to come together with me. You call me and it is the same still. I forget to close my door fully as I rush to lie myself on my bed, ready to hear you.
You need the distraction. You feed off of women, you have admitted it yourself. I know this already, know it is precisely this fetish of yours- to bring about and to hear and to feel a woman’s orgasm- that makes you so addictive. A detached part of me thinks it unfortunate. What will you do when alone? What about that imagination of yours? Will you have to flit from woman to woman as you yearn for the one to devote yourself fully to? It seems a shame.
But for now there is me, and you are comfortable with me.
I don’t even know what there is to tell you anymore. Tell you not to call? Tell you to keep on calling? I can say neither. I just wait. We will live out the limbo. I fill it with our orgasms, and the rest of the time I fill with blather and jokes.
My family will be visiting soon anyways, and that will give us a month to be truly cut off from each other. From then on, I’m sure it will be easier to move on. Either that, or we will be back where we started. Honestly, who cares?
The temptation to call you and ask for "just one more" visit is huge. I haven't had sex in months. I miss you. I feed off of you too, though I can manage alone. I try to resist.
I feel strangely relaxed. It is such a desperate situation that it leaves me calm and bare.
Monday, June 12, 2006
1. when we can- love
I am going to be busy in this coming month. But after a while of silence, I have suddenly came up with a long, long series of posts. 28 to be precise. Ouch. It is kind of my way of trying to tie up as many loose ends as I can. The only way I can really begin clear my head and take stock. Remember this was all written in a very short amount of time. And my titles suck because I don't have time to think of cool ones. And much of this will be long past by the time I finish posting it all. It might even change.
But in the very least, this place will not be abandoned.
Dear T,
When I can, I tell myself I shouldn’t write letters to you in my head anymore. There are very few to whom I do this. I think of how that was always the biggest sign that I loved you more than I cared to put into words.
Loved my version of you that is. I am not fully blind to that. (Though telling you I see it is a weak form of insurance.)
Love is a strong, mysterious word, and semantics is a game I cannot play, though the gods know I’ve tried, and too many posts where I have have gone unpublished over this year. But I am afraid now as I write this, because all other words -and arguments for these words- begin to look like cop-outs, escapes.
Love. It is not so hard after all, for all the hoopla.
But in the very least, this place will not be abandoned.
Dear T,
When I can, I tell myself I shouldn’t write letters to you in my head anymore. There are very few to whom I do this. I think of how that was always the biggest sign that I loved you more than I cared to put into words.
Loved my version of you that is. I am not fully blind to that. (Though telling you I see it is a weak form of insurance.)
Love is a strong, mysterious word, and semantics is a game I cannot play, though the gods know I’ve tried, and too many posts where I have have gone unpublished over this year. But I am afraid now as I write this, because all other words -and arguments for these words- begin to look like cop-outs, escapes.
Love. It is not so hard after all, for all the hoopla.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
erm
Much to say but all my mind can manage is 'ahhh bu. bu.. bu. ummm.. hmm'
Oh well.
Around the corner.. it's coming.. I swear.
Oh well.
Around the corner.. it's coming.. I swear.
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