me just bored

me

world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world

T

me world sex world worlD sex world worlD worLD sex world worlD worLD woRLD wORLD WORLD

methesis-meapplications-mejobsearch-mework-mehouse memom-methreesome-meeaitchpeevee-mehim-meyou-melove-medeath

panicpaininchest





\/

panicpaininchest -----> me <------- data-blogger-escaped-div="div" data-blogger-escaped-panicpaininchest="panicpaininchest">

/\

panicpaininchest



me doesnotequal sleep



me

tear me

no tear me

tear me no tear

me tear me no tear

me tear me no tear me

tear me no tear me tear

me no tear me tea me

no tear me tear me

no tear me





me <--> world

me <--------------> world

me <----------------------------------------------------------> world

me <-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------> world

silence silence silence

s silence i silence s l e me i

n l

c e

e n

silence

silence c

e



s il e n c e s i l e n c e s i l e n c e

s- i- l- e- n- c- e

poof!

T tells me he has been talking to a girl online for some time.

It is different from the other girls he has met online. She is mentioned separately. In a clause of her own. In a whole new tone.

She’s from *insert a city from the tiny country I grew up in*. Well, but she’s traveled around a bit in other countries. She is just.. has ...the sweetest, sexiest... I’ve ever.. I mean.. wow. And picture after picture, I couldn’t believe it was her. Some candid too. But just so real too, not, you know, perfect. Just so...yeah.


He sounds quite smitten.

That her and I have lived in the same place makes me laugh. It is an unnecessary twist in the story. For her to share even the smallest thread of me makes me strangely happy. (breaks my heart)

I should show you photos, he says. I almost don’t want to. Hell, it’ll probably turn you into a lesbian. You’re gonna forget about me. Feel kinda jealous. I mean... she’s just... so much prettier than me.

We laugh.

Yes, well, I reply. I don’t think I’m going to be the one talking to her so...

I am laughing (crying) inside at this attempt of his to make light of the facts. I know he is trying to voice my own jealous fear in his round-about way, consciously or not.

How... insensitively sensitive.

The idea of this casting off of someone for another is not a pretty one to bring up.

As much as I knew that is how it would likely be.

Maybe I have waited too long to write this and now need to jump to conclusions.

But like I've said, it doesn’t matter, her, another, now, later.

And it is not like I will be replaced, no. It is worse.

A replacment I could try and chalk up to a general restlessness, out of my hands.

But no, she will probably be given what I have never been offered, whether I wanted it or not.

(sometimes i did, sometimes i didn’t)

(sometimes love wanted naught. but then sometimes I could never love you enough if I couldn’t love the way you loved me too.)

(there is no real bond without it. in limerence , you’re just a strainer for the kinds of loves-- the ones that have an actual flow the way you know deep-down they should--to slip away. everything falls in, welcome, everything falls out, gone. you’re left holding nothing in the end. you’re left fingering the now drying debris fondly.)

(convoluted, forced metaphor for such an obvious thing)

(really i haven’t a clue. )


Thing is I know he would not do it abruptly, cruelly. No, he would be smooth. There would be a morphing, a thoughtful pause in between, phase out me, phase in her. He is probably even doing it now already, easily.

Because the thing about charming people is... they know. They know how to do it.

It is a large responsibility, to know what effect you and your wants have on others. I know he knows this. Most prefer to remain clueless; it gives you more fuzzy freedom. And it is not manipulative or demeaning I think with him. I think he knows each person decides in the end what to do.

Just this weight to his interactions, an awareness of his own momentum.

If he told any lies, it was to be kind. I wonder if sometimes he lies to himself, is kind to himself, convinces himself what he feels is his duty is the same as how he really feels.

But only in small ways. Just in the way he will know when to call, when to apologize, when to ask how you feel, at what point to bring things up, what to hold back, what to tell, what to tweak first a little bit away from the truth then tune a little bit towards until the time is right, what best version of the story of his feelings to present, where to put the emphasis so it comes out just right.

He gets what he wants in the end. Nothing is truly denied. It is just that the picture is tidier. There is less drama along the way. Everyone comes out less scathed.

Am I the one like this?

I am being cynical I think. He is just cautious, cares. Actually it makes his occasional spontaneity all the more charming.

Even that he’s got down. (the bastard.)

What more can you ask from someone?

( a lot)

Yeah, it doesn’t make it that much better, does it?

(nope)

The way that it is done does not change certain things.

I want him to be happy. I know I mean it.

(if she turned out a freak there’d be relief.)

Maybe what I fear the most is to be forgotten.

Or the reasons why I might be.

But then I think, why does it matter? I’m me. I know who I am.

God damn. I know who I am.



(sometimes always too much, sometimes mostly never enough)

Sugasm #51

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u wanan cybr?

I hate technology.

I am fiddling with the microphone, speaking into it, but T just cannot hear me. He can see me through the web-cam, but he cannot hear me. We cannot figure out why.

I have worked up the courage to type to him just how horny I feel. How I am filled with an urge to just be mauled and fingered and fucked and kinda... used.

Kinda, because, well, you know... How used can it be, when I want this so bad?

”What are you going to do about it?” he wanted to know, when I told him how I felt.
“Just sit here and tell you about it apparently,” I quipped. We laughed.

Or um, lols were exchanged.

“Well no, I’m going to cum. Soon. Probably now.”
“I want to hear it then. A recording, maybe even a video with sound...I’m bossy today...”

But I want him to see me right then and there instead. And anyways, my video recording software does not work properly.

But then apparently, neither does my microphone. Or it’s his speakers. We’re still not sure. We finally decide to use the phone for sound instead.

We say hi again on the phone. I am shy all of a sudden. I have a black strappy cotton nightie on with a cartoon pink flower splashed in the middle. My breasts are swollen and round because I am about to get my period. My hair is in a bun, and my glasses are sliding off my nose.

“What are you thinkin?” I ask, a bit tritely, biding my time.
“Hmm? Oh, I am thinking.... I’m wondering why I can only see you up to your elbows. I am thinking that I need to see cunt.”

I breathe a nervous laugh.

“Maybe later,” I say, lowering my eyes, my voice dropping to a quiet whine.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing...” I have already moved to adjust the camera, grinning.
“Maybe later my ass,” he snarls.

I angle the camera down so it looks straight between my legs. I have black panties on. I feel very quiet. Just breathing. My joking demeanor gone. I get up so that my mid-section blocks the camera’s view, and slowly slide my panties down. I sit back down, but I cannot help pulling my knees up in front of me. I touch myself a little, as I think of where exactly to put the camera.

“I can’t see your face, hon.”
“Yes, I know... I ..”
“You need to move back.”
“Yes.”

I try to get it right for what seems like forever. I am so horny. I do not have any mind to move either my camera or myself properly. I do not want to reason it out and do it slowly. I just want to throttle my web-cam, give it a kick or two so that it does what I want. Now. The damn pivot of my web-cam is loose, and keeps jostling back and forth. He jokes about getting motion sickness. I joke that I could never be a live chat girl.

And then finally, in one simple maneuver that I should have been able to get all along, I am there. I am sitting on my creaky orange computer chair, a meter or so from my computer, and on my screen is me, from my head down to past my knees. If I part my knees, you can see into my legs.

“Is this good?” I ask, looking up.
“Yes,” he says. “Very good in fact.”

I smile.

Now if I could just part my knees. I am struck into dumb timidity by how it looks. It is not something I see every day: the little triangle of bare, shaved skin below my hiked-up nightie, that curious hint of a slit. I keep moving my hands in front, like a serpent-tricked looking for a figleaf or two. I wonder if it arouses him to see me struggling a bit like this.

“I... feel suddenly reluctant, to show you...my...cunt...” I confess.
“Why?” he questions, both concerned and amused.
“I dunno,” I say stubbornly, with an exaggerated, childish shrug.

He laughs.

It is a ridiculous time to want to be demure. I lift up my chin, and part my legs determinedly, stretching my back up. I seek out my clit with my fingers and sigh.

"Remember," he reminds me, "to tell me when you're going to cum."

"I can make you cum any time I want." he adds off-hand. "But today I want it up to you."

To that, I have nothing to say.

The heated tension between my thighs, waiting patiently throughout the technical and personal difficulties, begins to infuriate me. I want to shake it off into pieces, like a terrier with a chew toy. Just gneah, now, be gone. My fingers speed up, urgent. I groan. My image groans.

The screensaver comes up.

“Hmm.. screensaver's popped up... Do I want to see myself?” I ponder to him out loud.

“I don’t know, you tell me. Do you like to watch yourself?”

“I guess that’s a yes,” he says, as I lean towards the mouse to move it.

It is. I put my hand back. Now, now, now.

“I want to cum,” I pout, after a couple of minutes of frantic strokes and sighs.
“Cum then, babe. What’s stopping you?”

Good question. I go back to it. I begin to build, but too fast, not right, like my insides are coiling too loosely. Or like I’m running with a drink, spilling it all over the place. I am just about to get there, but it’s not quite the there that I want, and I force myself to pull back, stop, panting.

My mind races as I try to figure it out. Performance anxiety? Camera-shy? The position?

I figure I might as well try to finger myself instead. I slide a finger in, pleasant and smooth.

“Need to go slower,” I admit to T.
“Why?”
“I...lose ...some of it ...sometimes...when I go too fast. I don’t wanna-"

My finger has started to feel surprisingly good, good enough to forget about discussing the hows and whys. I slide smoothly in and out, my hand contorted like a rocker’s at a concert, blocking and unblocking my cunt in a lazy flow.

I begin to just explore, all over, at a relaxed pace. Taking my fingers out, stroking my cunt lips upwards to nudge my clit, moving back down in another wet stroke, pushing back into my hole, and then back out to begin again. I do this for a while. So does my image.

It looks rather hot. It feels rather good. I can hear T begin to breathe harder.

As I go on, my eyes avert inadvertently from the screen, only glancing occasionally to make sure I’m still there, still in his eyes. My lashes begin to flutter down. I keep the phone to my mouth, moaning at the sweet, sliding, shivering feel, so capturing.

I am conversely completely relaxed and utterly excited out of my brains.

I feel I am alone. I feel him watching me.

He is watching me as though I were alone. He is watching me be watched.

Like the path of an infinite Mobius strip, I find myself- through the one straight line of my actions- slipping amongst the many red-blue sides of loopy perspectives.

All past awkwardness seems to have disappeared. I am just so buoyant and free. I am pulled equally in all directions, my whole being bobbing up and down, as my hand moves still faster, in and out, in and out, in and out.

I am thinking about fucking him, but even in that, I am rolling back and forth, never fastening to a moment, yet entirely held in each and every one. He is the fantasy, his cock head engorged inside, dipping into my hole, his shaft as my hand, my hips sliding down to meet his thrust, greeted with our grunts at each end. And then I am the fantasy, the woman with the cock inside her, being fucked by him. I am the woman with her hand jammed up her cunt, fucking herself. I am the woman fucking herself as she thinks of being fucked by him. And then he is the fantasy, watching the woman fuck herself, perhaps knowing she is thinking of fucking him. And then I am the fantasy again, the woman beginning to lose it, as I groan harder and harder, and then he is, it is him all along, breathing along the whole while, it is all beginning to merge to its pointed end.

The force of my soaked fingers increases, and I slow again, lifting up my ass, long in, quick out, long in, quick out. I am moaning very loudly now. My cunt begins to stun me in every slippery thrust, like liquid electrocution.

I remember that I must tell him. I remember that the phone is still held tight to my ear and mouth. It is time, not time yet to tell him. I open my mouth to say it. I close it again. I am closer. I am hitting closer. I whimper. I must say it. I spit a letter out, ah, I pull back, mm. He is hearing me as I roll close and pull, aghm, roll closer and pull, roll closer and closer and closer, stutter a, stutter a and pull, the sweetest sensation, over and over, tighter and tighter, so close it hurts and then pull, goddamm goddamm, fuck, fuck, fuck, sohorriblywonderfullyclose, and then I must say it, finally, even if it is too soon, I do not think I will be able to speak at all soon. So I stammer it, mmgoingtocum, I let it out, and I let myself go, my neck stretches back, the back of my computer chair screeches with the weight of my back on it, hammering my fingers one or two more times in to me. I feel my cunt clench, my fingers suddenly sucked further back, like a trapdoor opening below my feet, and I- just-scream.

Split as I am in this alone and not-alone, it as though I have caught him alone too, as I have imagined before; I have caught him listening to a recording of mine, and I get to hear the way his cry breaks as soon as mine does in my final release. But then in catching him, he is not alone anymore either.

My hand and hips wriggle for some time, in, out, around, feeling my drenched insides shudder, sighing and laughing and gasping it off, before finally slouching limp.

My head sags down, weak. My knees bow out. I try hard to catch my breath. I hold my fingers inside me.

“.... so... soaked...” I whisper.

I foggily hear him telling me, lamenting to me, how much I have turned him on, how badly he would like to fuck me. If he could just fuck me, maybe it would be ok with a condom, so tempted to just fuck me, but he is still not sure. His voice is panicked, hard and cold and loud in protection of his vulnerable need. The extent of his arousal has overwhelmed him for just a second, his control slipped for just a second from under him. I feel pain and pleasure all at once, my heart leaping into my mouth.

He tells me he will call me in a few minutes; he needs to cool down just a bit first.

I know he does not like to stay with me when he is like this. I wish for a moment he would. I wish he would break completely. I wish I could goad him, take him just a little bit further, his ejaculate on his surprised fingers like a hormone-soaked teenager, the irreversible mess on his chair that would just not do. I can’t help it... I will always want that power too. I want him opened up to me and entrusted into my hands.

But I am flung like a knitted throw over my computer chair, unable to move or talk either. And I am happy.

I smile ruefully after he is gone. I know he will cum when he calls back, and I will too again, with him. I see my smile on the screen.

I wonder why my screensaver didn't come up again during.

I love technology.

Note: I have an interview with Jericho to finish and friends to write to, but I just thought this place needed a bit of a pick-me-up.

do it like they do on the discovery channel

Dear World (the one that is not enough),

I wish I were on some kinda mind-debiliating drugs so it'd feel more acceptable to be scratching my head all the time and saying 'Ahm just so confused'.

Ahm just so confused.

*reaches over for her rum milk punch spiced with cinnamon instead*

Does that count? Is a midnightcap excuse enough?

It's full moon time again goddamn.

Kind of time where I tell himI feel restless, pent-up. Like I could fuck for ten hours.

He types that he is sorry, and he feels my pain.

But tonight I woulda just preferred a longer time between the time for him to go and the bye , longer time between the bye and the going offline.

No matter.

My face is flushed, heat all around my eyes.

I act strong to feel strong and I feel weak for it.

Again with the strength thing?

I haven't cried in someone's arms in forever.

Nor have I let myself.


P.S. Nor do I have any clue what the title has to do with anything.

P.P.S. But I do know you and me baby we ain't nothing but mammals.

P.P.P.S. No, I wasn't drunk writing this. At least... not enough.

detached

Why am I telling this story backwards? Because I can. Because I need some kind of device to keep me writing at all.

(Sorry for lack of spaces between sentences, Blogger just keeps swallowing them and I can't figure out why

Afterwards, we sit side by side on another couch. His one hand is on my legs again, below my skirt. I finger the cold metal of his bracelet, complimenting him on it. He tells me where he got it from.

There are only a few minutes left to sit like this.

“It is too bad, you know…” I say, starting off brazen and losing ground fast, “…that we are all about the… pure.. fucking.”

“Well,” I hesitate, “at least, has always been like that for me, from the beginning…”

There is nostalgia in my voice and it embarrasses me.

“Yes, I know.” he mumbles. “It’s just.. something more intense …”

Neither of us bothers to finish our thoughts. He says it might not be insurmountable yet. It is too soon to decide.

I talk about my parents, about how they want me to leave here, want me to ‘find someone’. I’m not sure why this is what I bring up.

He says the pressure must be difficult but I shrug it off. I say I am used to it. I am. There is nothing more to say about it.

I know that once the excitement fades, the bitter after-taste of dissatisfaction awaits me. I do not actually see that there is any hope that we will ‘surmount’ this.

It doesn’t seem to matter right then. The flush of our bodies’ orgasms holds us siege, forced into relaxation.

I trail the icy braid of his bracelet with my scented fingers, round and round.

dessicated

I've talked of something like this before. I'm a Bitch err Dog: I can't help the obsession with the olfactory.

Hours later, entering a friend’s washroom, I swear I suddenly sense the scent of T’s cock in the air. And with it the secret, fresh memory of having just held it in my hands. Of having breathed onto it, taken it into my mouth, felt its warm skin on the wet inside of my bottom lip, heard it gurgle for a moment against my trapped tongue. Of having laid my body flat and rubbed it in my fist with his pushing body above me, let it spurt into my palm, wiped the residue off, brought the tip of my fingers to my nostrils to smell it still…

But not on my hands this time. In the air. Pervasive. Close to me.

Impossible.

Reaching over to turn on the tap, the scent only seems to intensify.

I spot the clump of roses and sprays of babies’ breath, dried, all in a pearly vase next to the sink.

I lean over near the wheat-colored, paper-curl edges of the rose petals and take a whiff.

It is not just my imagination; sweet with a uric edge, a note of his announces itself through the mix like a brass bell, clear and compelling. Cloying and concentrated.

Persistent and preserved.

tidbit

My mood is pretty low right now and it be draggin.

Sentences are draggin. And words are draggin. And spaces are draggin. And so on. I will drag out whatever comes to me, the way I guess I always do.

But your comments and e-mails were heaven-sent really. I've answered back below and I hope to get back to you privately soon too. Thank you again. It makes me feel so lucky to have you. I do not have too many I could share this with otherwise.

I meant to post again sooner, because I didn’t want anyone to come out of reading the last post thinking that an ASCUS diagnosis after a pap smear is some horrible calamity. It isn’t. It really, really isn’t. In the whole schema of life thingies, it is actually quite a minor life thingy. An itty bitty thingy even. But a thingy nonetheless.

(It is harder than I thought to write about life thingies as they are happening. That I used ‘thingy’ in four sentences right now should attest to that.)

I also meant to write up a short summary of cited facts I gathered about ASCUS and HPV, but I really don’t feel up for it now. I probably will later because I want to make a small contribution in this way for anyone who hits my site through a search engine. I’m discouraged by the ignorance I’ve encountered. Some from people I have tried to trust too: my doctor, the nurses, T.

Many of my angsty antics surrounding this are just me. It is just the same inner hell I take the steps down to, every so often, like a dutiful Dante. This has just been the lastlastlastlast straw in a general year-round feeling of coming close to something and then never reaching it. Of picking up and then losing it.

I am not really worried for my health because there is only so much I can do for it at this point. Cancer development from HPV, if that is what I have, is typically very slow, from 5-10 years. The most I can do is take better care of myself, eat a varied diet, exercise, keep stress levels down, continue getting my cervical cells monitored.

I am not doing a very good job of the low-stress thing right now. But it has begun to inspire me to do better in this respect. I have started to see a counselor again. There is a doctor I will see. I have changed my project to one I like better and though the lost time is stressful for me, I feel hopeful that it will be better, and it will get done. I have thought a lot about teaching and the more I think of it, the more it has excited me as a future career.

I have always known what a risky business this living, fucking, eating, drinkin thang is. My aunt from my mom’s side has struggled with breast cancer for years. People have died in accidents. Heart attacks and brain strokes. Floods and earthquakes. It’s all out there, I cannot pretend to fully understand why. Well I will get to that later.

No, what bugs me, and I know it is short-sighted of me, is T and I. I want to fuck him. The way the news came, right before a plan to meet him, has me caught up badly. I want to fuck him. I don’t want to talk about. I don’t want to weigh risks. I want to fuck him. I want this to continue for me. I want it. Want. Want. Want. I’ve wanted like this past the point where I can feel normal about it. I cannot even wax poetic-like about it anymore.

I’ve had to push this all back and give him the facts, and in my attempts not to sway him one way, especially the way I want, I’ve had to grit my teeth and not leave a thing out. I hate to say it, but it has really tested my morals in a strong way. I've done my best, I've told him over and over to go read about it himself.

I’ve had to ignore the voice in the back of my head that laughs at how I had to cancel plans with T once before the doctor’s call. How we could have fucked then but didn’t. How I probably got it from him anyways. How he probably has it anyways because it is so common. How he cannot get tested for it. How other girls before me might not have bothered to tell him about something like this. How even my doctor told me I had no obligation to tell him of it. How I had to research and ask about getting an actual DNA test done to confirm whether or not I have HPV at this current point in time, and how the doctor knew nothing of such a test. How he was staunchly against my taking it, since, in his words, it would open up a whole can of worms needlessly. How he also told me not to take on the responsibility of the world. How I've wished I hadn’t fucked N because it would have simplified my decisions. How I had to ask N about his partners and, as luck would have it, how he mentioned someone in his past who had a history with dysplasia. How even if I got it from my two times with N, T and I have already fucked once after that and he might have caught it already then.

I know these are irrelevant. I will be taking the test this week I think. I have to pay for it and I can ill-afford it right now. Then again, I can live off of my pantry for a while. It's been done before. Knowing for sure is a scary thing. That ASCUS can be caused by other things and is over-diagnosed is annoying. That a good chunk of the infected population will never have to know whether they have it or not- since they will not get the symptoms and healthcare does not screen for it- is annoying. But it does not change what I feel I should do, in light of this shadow of doubt. I feel obliged to inform him the best way I can. Since HPV is thought to often clear up on its own within 6 months to two years, I would probably get the test again in 6 months to see if this has been the case.

We were not sure whether to wait for the results or not for a while, in view of how common and usually harmless it is. He has a whole stretch of two weeks completely free, which happens to be exactly how long getting the results of the test will take. After that, he will only be free for a couple of hours here and there.

But talking to him this morning I felt that I want to wait. I would feel weird not to. We would at least know exactly what we we are dealing with. What kind of strain it is if it is present. And there is still a significant chance that I am clear, and that too would be good to know.

He admitted too that though a part of him wants to just forget about it, he knows it will still be hard to completely look past.

So we are still working out what to do after the test, if it comes back positive.

In a talk, he fucks my mouth, deep-throating me, keeping his fingers in my cunt. It is hot. His domination of me is very complete in that moment. I mewl and sigh and gasp as he drags it out, describing it down to the last detail. I am taken over once again in the sketch of his words, in the heat of his growing arousal. He keeps me at edge until his cum runs down the back of my throat. I scream when I cum, a high-pitched yelp, so edgy and frantic am I from waiting for him.

But later I wonder if this is the possibly less risky option he is thinking of, if I am tested positive. I wonder if he will ever fuck my cunt again. I wonder how long we can keep this up, with the thought of this risk in our minds. I wonder how I would feel if, Chaos forbid, something came up in his life related to this. How much of the responsibility I would feel, how much I should feel.

The decision to have sex had been a newly established one, but something that made me happy. Now we have to reexamine it, look again at where we stand. This too, I guess I will talk more of later.

I have felt horny and sexy, but then from time to time, when I am tired of trying to figure this out, I have wanted to give it all up. Sex seems pointless. It’s a bother. I am afraid of wanting something that I might not get for a long stretch of time. I wonder if I should move on. I think maybe this is just a direction my life needs to take for a while. Celibacy. Scary. Interesting. Scary.

But I miss fucking him so badly. I miss everything. I miss writing to him in a frenzy of lust. I miss feeling clean and excited and clapping and happy about this.

The most of what I felt in the hours after I found about it was a huge anger. Looking back on things I’ve written here, I realize I mention this kind of anger a lot. It surprises me that I haven’t noticed this fully. It turns out that I’m an angry girl. I don’t look it, I don’t act it. But I am.

I throw tantrums in my mind. Childish, whiny, useless ones. Fuckin world just fuckin work the fuckin way I want it to. I am angry because I’ve been trying to do my own thing, and I’ve been trying to fight a lifetime of sexual oppression , and there is a part of me inside that churlishly demand I be ‘rewarded’ for my efforts. That it be easy. That I be right. That I not be ‘punished’. I know the way this Chaos works, or rather I don’t, but sometimes I just want to be Master of it.
I am angry because it seems I have been fed great truths with little lies mixed in, and great lies with little truths in them, and the result has been one great big lie I am always having to unbraid and try to extricate reality from with shaky, uncertain tweezers.

I am angry because even knowing this, I cannot shake the "I told you so"s that taunt me always in the back of my mind.

A lifetime of sexual oppression is a cliché perhaps, and though I have not suffered any great harm to myself, it is still not something I can say with any levity.

I grew up in a country where, if not completely segregated, boys and girls had to sit on opposite sides of the classroom, where the principal peered from the classroom window and motioned for the gap in between the two sides to be opened just a little more, where the discipline supervisor questioned you if you sat alone talking with a boy for too long. Where some families did not let their daughters ride bikes for fear of tearing their hymens. Where you couldn’t walk down the street alone without being followed and taunted, usually by rich, privileged boys in their flashy four-wheel drives, who would not be tried no matter what they tried. Where being gawked at and leered at wherever you went was a matter of fact to be put up with, no matter who you were, no matter how you looked. Where rape was quite simply never mentioned in the papers. Where nipples on breast examination pamphlets and art books got slashed out with permanent black markers. Where the government blocked internet sites about how the female body worked. Where my male biology teacher smirked in the one class where sex did actually come up briefly. Where french kisses got cut out of movies.

(Picture, for your amusement, a Sound of Music where the Captain and Maria can't kiss; they look at each other all fuzzy-camera like under the moonlit tree and you feel tight inside and Maria has never been further from being a nun and then they do an odd shudder and it is over and you know what they've done and you are still tight inside and you will vaguely and wondefully imagine all that went on in this lapse as they go on to sing, "...perhaps I had a wicked childhood, perhaps I had a miserable youth, but somewhere in my wicked, miserable past, I must have had a moment of good...")

The way I sometimes like to put it to people who have grown up here is that I am a woman in her 20s who grew up in the 50s.

I’ve got to where I am by trying to do what’s moral to me and what's natural to me and what makes sense to me. I have tried to stay kind and keep an open mind. I hate that where I am is this.

You see, I haven’t wanted to write of this, my struggle right now with a sexually-transmitted infection, because I guess I already had a story in my head about how me and T would go and it was goddamn beautiful. Righteous even.

When that word comes up is when I know I must step back and start again. Look at the world, take the facts first, form a tentative belief, look for negations, reform the belief accordingly. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. There is of course a heart of belief you must start with first, and that is my question always to the world. What should I believe in first? What will send me the right way?

I have had thoughts on this but they are too convoluted for me to make full sense of. I thought I had a real inkling in a manic mind-torpedo of thought the first night after I found out. It started with whether viruses are alive or not, and just grew from there. I started looking up terms and ideas, and things began to connect from unanticpated directions until I wanted to throw up with excitement. I knew-- even that crazed night-- that I could never quite piece it together, but somehow or the other, something did emerge and it made me feel quite okay.

I must have worked myself into quite a frenzy, whatever it was. I was worn out and content when I went to bed that night. In my dream, I was in T’s arms. He held me to him gently. He was kissing me but it was in a flurry of comforting affection, rather than the passion of want. He wasn’t even kissing my face anyways, just the side of my shoulder where he held me tightly, big, sheltering, smacking kisses, muah, muah. Maybe later, he kept saying, maybe later. Overwhelmed with this shower of affection, just this wrapping weight of his regard and comfort, I beamed with gratitiude, my whole body relaxing. I woke up.

I woke up and it was morning and it was all lost. I had no such T. (Though he has comforted me somewhat since. As have greatly your comments.) But when I woke up then, I just had the paper where I had scribbled all the thoughts that had come my way the night before. I could not make head or tail of it. I felt hopeless and dejected again.

I still can’t understand really. Well, I can a little, but it doesn’t quite come together. Maybe I will bring up some of it later on.

But all that is important for now is that I realize I cannot pretty-up or ugly-down sex for you or for myself. I know those of you who read here are mostly my friends. I am glad for it. It is just the audience in my head I cannot shake off that jeers at me sometimes, the social conflicts that keeps me wanting to fight . I have to keep remembering. I don’t want to be anyone’s poster child. I am not an example. I am not a cause. I have no agenda but to learn.

It’s just a story. My story. If it does add to the overall puzzle, it’s not in as pat as a way as some might think.

Rant over.

How’s that for a tidbit?

and back

I’ve missed writing here. Well, I’ve missed the desire to write here.

I told myself I wouldn’t come back to write here until I went ahead and got at least three things done on my important-things-to-do-if-I’m-going-to-make-it-in-this-world list. I’ve done five, though one of them was not so significant. It was just doing my laundry.

Yeah I know. And there is still much more to go. But I did something productive at least. Five things even.

Still, getting back here is difficult.

Talk to me three weeks back and you would have talked to someone who felt, for a moment, cautiously happy. I had begun to figure out how I could sort my masters out. My family was all gone. T was on holiday but he had left me a promising and exciting message about how much he looked forward to his return. We had made clear our desire to meet and fuck once he got back. I was excited.

It’s been nearly six months since I’ve had sex. With plans on the horizon, the anticpation seemed a sweet pain in my life once again. Time seemed to come alive and stuff. I sang yearny songs. I hummed while naked in the mirror. I got the occasional body shiver. I smiled to myself. I waited.

A week later I got a call from the doctor. The pap smear from my physical had come back mildly abnormal. ASCUS to be precise. Atypical Squamous Cells of Undetermined Significance. Meaning: we haven’t the faintiest, but come back in six months and we’ll try and tell you.

ASCUS. These five letters have turned my plans-- and for some reason, my world in general-- topsy-turvy.

I have been through hell and back in these past two weeks. I mean both the hell and the back part. I have lost hope. I have felt filled with optimism. I have cried until my nose and lungs begged for reprieve. I have then blown my nose, taken a deep breath, paused for a moment thinking I’m done, and then gone right on crying. I have researched until my brain was black and blue with the constant punches of information from every corner. I have felt staunch and fine and calm and ready to deal with all that comes my way. I’ve wanted to do the right thing. I’ve wanted to weasel out and flake. I’ve been philosophical, I’ve been whiny. I’ve been mature and logical, and then I have wanted to be held in someone’s arms like a baby and scream. I have thought several times that I have come to major decisions in my life and views, and then they have seemed to all vaporize in the next moment’s caprice. You get the idea.

I have gone through these cycles sometimes over a couple of days, sometimes over a day, sometimes a couple of times over a day, sometimes within an hour.

I am not completely sure why this has elicited such a wide range of strong, rapidly fluctuating responses from me.

I’ve a lot to say on this, much to get out, to explain just why I’ve been so all over the place. But for now I just wanted to touch base again. I think I will feel less overwhelmed if I just let it out in as many tidbits as I need, whenever I can.

If anyone's still around, good thoughts are welcome.

something

"Say something..."
"Something."


I feel strange yet again. Writing feels impossible.

My real urge right now is to continue not posting at all, or just keep posting a series of dot dot dots.

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Much more honest. The only real feeling seems to be in silence. Everything else is just forced and fake.

Why am I here then? What voice to use now? Cheerful one? Despondent one? I don't seem to have an actual voice. My thoughts/feelings/whatever all feel like options, and after some analysis, I find I can only chose from them arbitrarily . And then when not analyzed at all, there is nothing really left behind. Listen to your heart, bullshit; it’s not calling for me. Close my eyes and what do I really feel? Despair, I guess, would be the closest approximation. To say you “feel” numb is dumb.

Tired too, but then I'm tired of being tired and you must be tired of hearing how tired I am. Let’s move from these things.

I know I have painted myself into a corner on this blog regarding T. I spent a couple of days thinking again of the mismatch between my tone when I speak to ‘him’ here, and that when I actually speak to him on the phone. There is truth in my letters and other pieces. As I have said before, all the events recounted here are real. But I cannot shake the feeling that my retrospective interpretation of them is distorted. I am writing to someone else. There is fiction here too. I feel I do love the real T in my mind in a sucker-punch kind of way, like a I would an older brother. (Holy incestuousness, like I didn’t get enough ‘incest’ hits already from mentioning my mom and sex in the same blog…) But then I love the imaginary T too like I would a god, with terror and hope and awe. And then the truth lies somewhere in between, or they are all lies, I am not sure, because the two- the real and the dream- do share quite a few similarities, they do sometimes overlap, they do sometimes bump into each other in my thought-bubbles and then disappear with a pop.

Sounds crazy. Yes.

But realizing this, I stopped caring about it really. I gave up on it. So I wove a free little story, drawing threads from T, who cares? Maybe it is just a writer’s thing, who knows? As long as I could realize this, I was ok, right? Until T asked me why I’d stopped sending him pieces from my blog, said he could remember a time when I did. And then asked me if I could start sending him the parts that I could, so that he would feel a little less curious, not worry about what frustration I may or may not be venting here. (The whole issue of him possibly reading here is finally settled by the way. He was clearly not. I don’t really feel like going into it, it’s too long and boring, but suffice to say, I was justified in believing that he was, but am also justified in now believing that he isn’t. Just one of those things. Trust me. Blah.)

Looking over there is scarce little I want to send him from since the last time I sent him anything. A currently misplaced part of me deep down knows I should be
horrified. What happened to the heated fantasies, what happened to the excitement, what happened to being open and sharing? Some of it is to be expected with his break-off and the difficulties of a threesome and talk of my own struggles which he cannot expect me to share all of, but some of it is not. Some of it is just melodramatic bullshit that I want to be gone. How do you explain it to a friend anyways? Listen, there’s these letters you see, there are these entries, they’re about you but they’re not really about you. I love you but I don’t really love you. Listen, it’s not important, you don’t have to worry, you’re the inspiration, but you’re not the source, it’s crazy me, there are just-dreams you know, there are just-thoughts, they can happen to anyone, not that you’re not worthy of it, quite the opposite, but honestly, I know how black and white and ugly these words look here, or maybe it is the opposite, maybe you will read more in between the lines then is actually there, either way, just forget about it, these words, these thoughts will pass, they all pass, it was my mistake to put them on record at all.

It's gone on for so long too. So I do what I must. Dash out of the sticky painted room, leave the corner unfinished, hope not too many telling footprints are left behind. How much of my back-track is real? How will I know?

I have always been a bit like this, utterly fantastical in my mind, horribly realistic in practice. Sometimes, I think this is an ok way to be, but it’s that goddam balance thing again, and it is still hard to continue to make the distinctions and still feel like you have an ounce of integrity.

Bah, I don’t care. Why am I even talking of this? Distract, detract, hide.

I have never spent a summer like this. This inside freeze feels so incongruent with my sunny, balmy surroundings. Quite irrelevant to any one specific thought, I’m not all there right now. I have that feeling again. You know that feeling? When you send a wind-up decoy of yourself to pretend to plod along the safe, flat, normal path of your life, while the reality is, you are bit by bit driving yourself off a cliff.

Dramatic? Yes. I can't help it. I feel I am waiting for it all to explode, all to fall apart. I suppose that I will be relieved if I can ferret my way out, come bobbing to the surface once again. But I will also feel a little sick.

My parents are finally gone, though there is some more family still around. I try to comfort myself. Or I think I do. I tell myself all the things I can do now and how great those things are. I know that I will do them, and I will probably even do them with a smile. I’m pretty sure we will go swimming or something, some amusement park or the other, meet with friends blabla, fuck T at some point of the summer, even retry the whole threesome thing yadayayada. Good things, I tell myself, things I would have enjoyed, things I will still probably enjoy somewhat. I will do them out of obligation to myself, out of fear of missed opportunities.

It is strange to feel obliged to your own life. When you stop feeling obliged is when death-like thoughts come in. But I only think of death twice every twenty-four hours: once when I wake up, the second when I try to fall asleep. In between is not so bad. Once again, if you feel worried, you shouldn’t be. I’m not. Failed atempts have permanently botched whatever desperate, ridiculous courage I have ever even slightly had. But to say I don’t think of death wouldn’t be the truth.

You learn to leave thoughts where they are. You remain silent. It’s not so hard. Something lives.

Gah, I don’t want to keep writing this same old crap. Aaaaaaaaaaa.

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T once told me once that it is ok to wallow in a dark mood. That there is something to be gained from it, once you let go to it. That he cannot think of one song he has written that does not draw a little from a dark patch like that. I wouldn’t have really trusted him if he said it like he was trying to romanticize this for me, but he didn’t really say it like that. He said only that I shouldn’t worry about it too much when it comes. And that much makes sense to me, that if I don’t panic and just wait, I can let it pass and come out strong. The problem is I don’t feel I have the luxury of crawling into a hole and disappearing time and time again. Already I am living off the back of others, and there is this panic right now of wanting to start up my life on my own, get somewhere somewhat stable first. I feel like all these setbacks come at the wrong time and will cost me the rest of my life. But that is bullshit, there is never a ‘right’ time for this, I don’t think.

Again, I know I’ve said this before. (And I’ve definitely used the word ‘again’ too many times here.) A year now and this same worry.

Clearly, this is the part of my recurring narrative where I have my so-called revelation that I am truly not well, that I need to do something right now or something. Or that I am well and I can do it on my own or something, Both would be a bit of a lie. When I have said either in the past, it has been a bit of a lie too. No such revelation is really forthcoming. I don't know what all my"or something"s are.

When reasoned out, I figure medication would be my wisest choice right now. But the secret is I have never “come to grips” with taking them and I feel so utterly trite saying that, and wish I could argue it properly, the whole my-existence-extent of outer dependence-definition of self- brain-nerves-body- mind-soul-identity under whose control- etcetera -thingamabob-schpiel. But I start and then I want to stop immediately, it is just too much and too much has been said and I am bored and uncertain already and scared and fuck but I hate the look on a doctor’s face prescribing them to me after a five minute talk, or their damned look when I look at all hesitant about taking them, that kind of ‘get with the new millenia’s enlightened program already’ look that pisses me off. And I know it pisses me off because it is my own defensive interpretation of their look. But really my resistance is there, it is just this gut queasiness I cannot shake off no matter how hard I try. The thought of taking anti-depressants is just depressing. You feel a little better and then you feel worse for having got better. There is no way around it and I hate the contradiction and I hate that I feel that way but I don’t know what else the fuck to do.

I keep finding things I wrote from a year ago. This is around the time when I began to feel much more alive and hopeful last year. It’s difficult to look back on it when I feel like this. I feel like I’ve accomplished nothing if I am here once again like this. I tell myself I’ve accomplished this blog; it is something concrete. But I hate its recursions, I hate its glimpses of ugliness, I hate its fantasy flights. I know I have felt differently about it sometimes. I stop to add to a list of the things I know I will do at some point. To do: celebrate a year of blogging. But I leave it for later again, when and if it can be unspoilt by this mood. Will you trust me when I do it, will you believe that I truly celebrate? Can I trust myself after up and down swings? I try, if there is one thing I think I try-though I can’t be sure- I try to commit myself to brutal honesty in the moment. It’s fucking difficult. And actually it’s quite pointless.

I just remembered how T also told me once that although it sounds horrible, he found that sometimes to survive, you have to lie to your 'heart'. What do you think? It’s not a new idea, and it has come up in different ways over here, and at different times of my life before. Though I can see the validity, I guess the problem is that it makes me question again the value of survival. Oh I don’t know, I’m sorry, I can’t believe how stupid that just sounded again. This is difficult… I need to read, think more and I’m dumb, and not enough time, ever, to decide.

Where now?

PS. I am sorry to all I have not written to or responded to. I do hope you are all doing well and thanks for keeping in touch.

tired

I'm tired. Posting these letters in a relentless array has been strangely tiring. Day after day spent with my family tiring. Trying and failing to to time any sneaky contact with T tiring. And my libido feeling somtimes just about shot anyways. (I wish my mom would close the door behind her once she's done barging in to wake me up in the mornings.) I'm reading furtively though and loving it all still and it is good to see my bloggyworld soaring along nicely, even when I cannot.

I think I will just sit back and watch for a while. Be sexy as always for me, will you?

10. when we can- begin

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.