Sunday, December 30, 2007

Two thousand

it seems like such a long number, such a long time, such an amount. Don't you think? Two whole thousand and then add seven. It's longer and more grave when written out. I'm sure there's some kind of voodoo astrological meaning to the 2 0 0 8, too.

Lovely dinner with Sarah and Wilfried tonight. I've been inside my mind and apartment since I got back from Madrid on Wednesday. I'm sick again. Chalk it up to smoking a shisha with the Scottish boy and the San Franciscan girl or maybe just plain and simple that I caught some very bad flu.

As a result though I've been uninspired, short of breath to even feel full of life, too tired to get beyond shower and clothes. I have made valiant attempts to leave the apartment or to leave at a decent hour, but I seem to pause and sit and contemplate and pick at and stare and catch my breath and finally only get out for a few short hours. Being short of breath has given me a new outlook on life though. This so slow walking pace forces me to look at things and let them seep in. I'm still finding it hard to adjust here. What was culture shock is simply replaced over and over again by self-doubt and tiresome fear. I wonder if I felt this way when we moved to Argentina or when I moved to Spain. Somehow I know it's different because here I have no mummy to cook me dinner, no school to provide me with scheduled activities, no guaranteed classmates to become best friends, no cushion of finances ("oh it's just their money I'm spending, not mine!"). And that big 2-year spending figure keeps creeping up and causing me so much grief. What am I doing here? What am I doing here? WHAT am I supposed to be doing? What if I don't want some stuffy corporate consultancy job? What if I'm simply not listening to the inner me? What if I should be writing books and taking a risk to get published? What if I long to be someone else and I'm fucking it all up by creating this huge grave of debt? Why am I here if I'm so miserable some of the time?

I remember that I don't want to stare at the same back stairwell that I stared at in Madison for six years. I was bored, I am not bored now. I wanted to keep doing what I was doing in my job but get paid better - I should get that after school. I wanted to leave the country and be out in a foreign place with beautiful difference, I have that. I remember writing down my long-term dream and writing minor steps to get there. This is one of them. They say life is suffering, a big fat pile of longing and suffering. I had wished it wasn't. I had wished that it would be dreamy drifts of satisfaction with a lot of painful disruptions. Who am I kidding? I knew life was sacrifice and suffering. Have I ever not complained of it? I keep trying to tell myself to forget about the money, forget about the awkwardness, forget about the deadlines. Make this how I want it to be. Be who I think I am.

This adventure has been one long fucking growing pain. I thought I was done with those when I turned 17.

But I only tell this to you, secret notepad. I am a rental clown for good times.


Madrid was. Yes, it was.

I didn't expect anything before I went because expectations aren't good. I started to slip into expectationville when I was preparing to leave. Scot boy hadn't gotten back to me with his address and directions from the airport to his place and it was the day before leaving. So, I started to toy with ideas. I let myself think things that are foreign to me. He would surprise me at the airport. Perhaps not in a loving way because that's not necessary (although one version was such). More in a polite, welcoming, caring way (because I need that sometimes). He emailed at 10pm the night before my flight with directions.

I am trying to love Paris and I do love her for certain things. But Madrid has sun and steps with spring and love in abandon. Even in line for the flight at the Charles de Gaule airport, the Spanish couple in front of me were joking and teasing, kissing, and smiling. You don't see enough of that in Paris.

The metro cleaners were on strike in Madrid. Thank god, because I didn't remember it being that dirty in the metros 10 years ago. Ten years. I had thought of making more of it. Trying to squeeze in a trip to Toledo, where I had gone to study abroad for a year. I tried to get in touch with old friends from back then - email addresses long changed. Google searches for Jose Diaz just don't help.

He said he'd meet me at the McDonald's outside of the metro Sol. I asked a teen girl if she knew where it was. Then, he texted to say he was at the KFC. I asked her again. She must have thought I was a typical American, dying for some fast food. As soon as my things were dropped down we were back out the door to find food. Grabbed a beer for 1.50E (free tapas included). He texted the San Fran girl and the Normandy girl to meet us for drinks later and I told him we'd better hurry back to his place and screw to get it out of my system. I had, in a way, been building up for it.


I'm not going into much more detail on Nuit Demonia. Cameras weren't allowed (except for press or lucky people) but if I had mine there'd be soooo many photos. God it was amazing to be in one huge pool of kinky people. About 2,000 of them I think. There wasn't a dungeon area so much (disappointing to Wilfried and Sarah), but there were random areas of play. The top floor had a diner serving Chinese food and all beverages. It reminded me of the bar scene in Star Wars - weird freaks, tattooed arms and legs, tall fake wigs, long leather limbs, necks on leashes, masks on human puppys, high heels on sculpted latex models. The floor below had a bar where most of the transsexuals hung out. I should take note from their inspiration. So many bare tits proudly poking out of tiny straps and barely-covering bottoms. I should stop being so prudish. Another level with cages and demonstrations. Some rope artists (James, you would have dug it). Some photographers and artists. A few being flogged here or there. A tent where a foot fetishist gave massages and more. Another level for the dance floor (kind of a play space behind the curtains of the stage - where there had been a fashion show). It was a huge playground and we walked up and down and around and around. But my propositions weren't all that amazing. It was simply a typical club with semi-drunk people, only the people were dressed funny and pretended to have odd behaviors. Really, as I said before, the best part was Sarah writing on me and ... well, maybe being groped. I kind of went dumb blonde. A shit grin on my face in all shyness and giddiness. I wanted to remain composed and be more picky (he wasn't all that hot, the groper), but at the same time I wanted to be read like a book and touched like an object.


A week before this I went to a birthday party at Favela Chic (favela means slum, chic you get - put the two together and it's a bit strange, but the drinks were good). There was a boy there who was at the Soiree Blanche, at which I flashed my tits in a very unflattering and unclassy way. He was actually the kid to whom I was talking when I flashed. As I recall he was commenting on how I must be knowledgeable in the ways of .... after I had commented that he was too young for me. I didn't quite put it all together, but he was also a friend of a friend who thought we were both going to see Interpol. We exchanged a few emails but he wasn't able to get to see them due to the transportation strike. So, here he was again.

We said our hellos and after several drinks, while I was chatting with someone else, his hand started to caress my side and hip. The place was crowded so it wasn't an obvious gesture but I felt like the whole world saw me jump. It came out of nowhere and I certainly wasn't expecting it. But like a kitty in the lap in the sunshine, I slowly slinked into his petting for more. By the end of the night, at 3am, I was on his lap in the cab with 2 of my colleagues back to our neighborhood. Wild and awake, I made him come check out the pool hall with me. French Julien had said it was private. Scot boy even confirmed this. But I didn't believe them. At 3am it was not private, but we did have to show ID in order to get from the outside doors into the locked doors. We were only the second couple of players in the whole place. But we were not the only people.

I went to the bar for a drink and to try to score a smoke off of the bartender but ran into a huddled group of seven or eight long-coat gangsters. No, no, not gangstas. But like, French or Russian mafia guys or something. Old guys. All standing around this one guy who was sitting on a stool. They looked at me - maybe all at once, maybe not, I was drunk. I tried my bad French "Je voudrai un.." and put my forefinger and thumb together up at my lips. "Un bisou?" the old, seated guy asked. A kiss? No, no, no, no, I laughed. I got a cigarette from the bartender.

Back at the pool game my French-Canadian date, JC, was kicking my ass. He "said" he hadn't played much before but this was lies. We joke wrestled and he lifted me up over his shoulder. Mmmmm delicious. A guy who can toss me around.

Of course, he came home with me. It was 4am after all.

And.... slight disappointment. I'll give him vigor. After all, he is 23. And I didn't chalk this night up to anything significant since we'd been drinking so much. But a tall boy with big feet does not represent what's in his pants necessarily. And I know this. As most boys who overcompensate with muscles or muscle cars often lack in some department or another, and it's usually not the brain I care about.

I saw F-C JC again. Unusual circumstances and things I'm too smart to believe but they were all minor. I had kind of saved my energy for him. He texted, I went to text back and my minutes were all gone. I thought he'd call. He didn't. After an hour I tried to work my way through the French voice mail system of my crap phone so I could pay 45E for another month of texting or calling. This took me almost an hour. So he'd been waiting, and I think in turn he made me wait. Late up to my place - blame it on the metro which can't really be questioned since there are so quite a few transport quandries, then how can one miss the fountain when exiting Pigalle metro? I mean, it's huge, it's there, it's obvious. But apparently he got lost. Anyway. We went back to the pool hall, which this time took our photos and gave us our own pool IDs - so bizarre, so legit, so mafioso.

With less whiskey dick this time - he cut us off from playing too much pool - we went back to my place. I think we woke up not only the next-door neighbors, but the downstairs, and the downstairs and the across the building and the across the street. The futon double-bed creaks and moves and he was on a jackhammer mission of some kind. We hopped over to the new single bed that my landlord got so I could host out-of-town friends in the futon (heh). The single bed is not heavy enough to stay in one place. So, ahem, hump hump hump it out of the corner and across the floor. It was a scene from a very bad comedy from Yugoslavia. (Yes, that old and that bad.)

But worse than that, because I can get so self-conscious in these situations, was that it just wasn't that good. And I'm really, really, really, no, really I mean it, really not interested in teaching every fucking person I meet how to improve their sex lives. .... or am I?


Yes, Julien drifted out. We were going to hang out one night but he texted that his ex had hurt herself and he had to stay with her. I wasn't at a loss. He did send me a Merry Xmas text the other day. I'll send him a Happy NY text in return. And I think that will be that.

I'll have to get my French lessons elsewhere.


Moon City. Seriously, judging by the website it's a scene of softcore fuzzy chested Borat macking place. And, well, a bit of him is there in every man.

My next-door neighbor told me about it when he had me over for dinner once. It's the thing about actors though, they're all false and kind of lame generally so it was hard to take him seriously. So, one night he invited me to join him. I said Monday since it was relatively free. I had drinks with my gay career counselor guy from school and then tried to beg out of going to the Moon with period as my excuse. Not that I wasn't interested in going, because I was. But I did - really - have my period and I didn't think a bunch of sex would happen, but I wanted to be free to do and be and do be do be do.

Well, next-door neighbor guy, we'll call him Actor, wasn't having any of it. Wear bikini bottoms, he said. It was actually refreshing. He didn't care what the fuck I wore or if people thought it weird. I need more of that in my life.

So we went. It was 50E for us both and Monday nights are couples nights apparently. We got two towels and two sarongs and two keys on velcro cuffs. We went up the stairs to the locker room and stripped off. I wasn't all that nervous except for the folded wad of toilet paper I had forgotten I had put in between me and my underwear. Yeah, super sexy. Sometimes I make fake pads out of toilet paper when I catch myself leaking a bit. Gross, yes. But here I was, in a fucking sauna sexy place taking off my underwear and catching this sight. I quickly folded my tong around it all and shoved it into the locker before - hopefully - anyone saw.

So, the decor. Well, it's dark as fuck inside. I mean, not dark like a haunted house, but dark like mellow so mellow and lowly lit that you could spend eight hours in there like he had told me he had. The world could turn inside out beyond the doors and no one would know. The whole place was decorated by Ms. Buddha Eastern Lady. There are buddhas and huge wooden doors and it's sculpted to look like a cave with all these natural things everywhere.

We went downstairs and took off our sarongs to get into the hot tub. Yes, people stared a bit. And we even kind of cleared out the sauna - did they think I was a cop? Did they think I had germs? I have no idea but it didn't matter to me. Actor and I sat in the corner and talked a while. The water was actually cool and I never quite got unwound. There were these thin, tiny jets shooting out from the seat level that were scorching hot and if you sat on them in just the right way with just the soft piece of thigh you'd want to scream. And after time, other couples came into the sauna and we watched them make out and touch and smile.

I wasn't nervous this whole time. Maybe because I didn't care. Maybe because of my period. Maybe it just didn't matter. I wasn't drunk. I wasn't high. I just didn't care what happened. I needed something to happen. School was sucking the life out of me and moving here has just about twisted me in on myself. I needed someone to make me, to want me, to want to corrupt me, to use me, to expose me, to try to shock me. And it just didn't bother me a bit. In fact, I thought Actor was squirming and pointed it out. He was stammering and kind of heming and hawing. Finally, he ran his hand up my leg and asked if I was getting muscles from walking up all the stairs to our floor. So lame and I laughed. But I gave him some room. And slowly, his hands rolled around my legs and slowly, we kissed. He had an interesting way of kissing without closing his lips around mine. But his fingers pinched my nipple and it didn't matter if I had my period or not, I was aroused and people in the sauna were watching and it turned me on.

He pulled me out of the water and we went around the corner to the shower stalls. I spent a good time on my knees sucking his cock. He pressed my thighs open and sucked at my clit and then turned me around and rimmed my ass. I wish guys would stop doing that. It's such a much more intimate thing for me. It's humiliating and embarrassing and I really only want to let special people do that. Those people who can ease me into it and tell me to relax. It's not like the base between 2nd and 3rd, like hum ho we lick here, we lick there. I mean, I'm not wholly complaining that half of the guys I've been with in France are into rimming. It's a nice change, but I just cringe when they do it. It's too personal for me. Hm. That might be weird.

Anyway. I felt awkward and wet and weird. Actor liked to push my head down deep on his cock and I have grown to like that but he wanted it every time and my little throat needs more deep throating practice.

We went upstairs and tried the steam room, toured the little lockable cabins where all kinds of moans and juicy sounds were coming from, and sat in the sauna a bit. We went downstairs to the bar afterwards and got waters and a gin and tonic. The key cuffs have waterproof pockets on them with condoms in them and a place for your cash. Very smart indeed. After drinks we went back up to the steam room. It smelled like toothpaste and it was almost impossible to see anyone or anything. Once you got close enough you could make out that a body was there or a wall was there but I heard a few people slip missing their seat or footing.

Actor led me to a darker, private cove in the steam / sweat room. He told me to lay down in the cove but I was kind of grossed out. It was so wet from steam dripping from the ceiling onto the tiles but all I could picture was cum. Cum everywhere and I was going to lay in a pool of 5 million other people's cum, and hair, and ... I have to stop this OCD freak-out. He told me to lay down. And he started kissing me and petting my clitty under my bikini bottoms. I couldn't help but moan. I tried to be quiet. I couldn't help but open my legs. I couldn't help but feel the heat and the wet and mist and the darkness and feel the gathering of eyes beyond. It's so anonymous and so personal. ... And I am so limited.

I got up on my hands and knees and sucked Actor off in the best possible way when completely wet and cramped on tile. He did the thing some guys do when they let go of themselves and become completely open. He started to spread his legs open wide like he wanted the world to have a view and he wanted me to get all of him inside my mouth. The world was viewing and I was taking as much as I could. And I slowly tired. It was so hot and so dripping and so cloudy in my eyes and I wanted to breathe fresh, private air. The eyes had moved over to another part of the steam room to make their own new sounds, moaning and building.

Actor took me out of the steam room and over to an open room. Two saloon-type doors that could lock from the inside but the slats let eyes peer in a bit. A platform with a plastic cushion as a bed. He put the towel down and I laid back. He slowly opened my legs and went back to my little nubbin. I grabbed his head and pulled in tighter. Fuck I wanted to screw. And then I sucked Actor off until he came with loud relief and spasms in my hand.

I wondered if it was going to be weird afterwards. I don't see him often, although I hear him and his daughters all the time as they can hear me all the time. After the bathhouse I had classes and then he was off to the Alps and I was off to Madrid. We spoke on Friday when I asked if he'd picked up any packages for me. He nicely pointed out that he had a good time the other night with me. But nothing's changed. In fact, I heard some woman moans earlier today. That's good. I don't want it to be weird. I don't want my nest to be covered in shit.


So, by the time I got to Madrid I was ready for a good, normal, sexy fuck. And my Scot came through by leaps and bounds. He does have a beautiful cock (which will be featured on flickr soon - although unfortunately only in its resting uncut glory instead of in full swing like a stallion soldier), and a lovely kinky side. For instance, back in Paris the morning after his party we were laying in bed and somehow kink came up. He said he liked a finger in his ass. Who doesn't, I say? So I brought him a thin dildo for his bum and he was quite eager to take to it. Again, I'm on top, sigh. Anyway. He's also super duper sensitive in the balls like no one I've seen before. He's all about me stuffing them in my mouth like I'm at an all you can eat diner. But he's also all about going slow on the first fuck, and then holding my neck from behind as he bounces me off his cock.

It was just a bit mixed though. We'd fuck and then he'd feel all forlorn. He didn't have to say it, I could feel it. One the one hand I didn't care because I could easily switch drawers between sex and friendship. But on the other, the 5 days together was enough torture for me. See, he's madly in love with the French girl living in Madrid - hence why he moved there (he's got disposible income). And I didn't mind counseling him or listening to his stories or feelings. In fact, I wanted to hear it. It was like a soap opera that I could understand, had felt sometime ago, but just didn't want a part of now. I do want love someday, I just don't want drama. Not on this scale. Not on the pining-for-the-girl-who-may-or-may-not-love-you scale. And after a while, even though he said he didn't feel bad, I started to feel like he was - which made me some evil lusty fucking girl who wanted to keep seducing his cock while he was partly not interested. Not so boosting to the ego.

But take me out, rent me for a good time. I have an overwhelmingly positive outlook on life. Bring two melancholy Europeans and one complaining Jew girl together and I can make them smile. And I did have a really good time. It felt a bit lonesome, but the sun was so bright and I could remember some of the places I'd been in Madrid and I could feel warm - without a jacket even! And that means more to me than some things.


So, what of this two thousand and eight, secret notepad? What shall we make of things to come? It's just another night, another day, another year to go through. The sun comes up, the sun goes down. For me, there is chance though. Esperanza.

This year has been so weird and full of changes. I made a dream and it came true. Now, what happens with dreams that are reality? Perhaps they don't live up to what we thought they'd be and so the truth confuses us. Perhaps I had too many expectations for this experience and instead I need to let go. Forget some things that mean so much to certain people (money) and just. simply. focus. on the fact that life is so damn short and if I die in poverty, at least I die knowing I wrote something in Paris. I dreamed in Paris. I cried and was awash in misery. I saw some beautiful sky and some wretched streets. Maybe that's why I'm here. Not so much for the papers or the courses or the classmates. Perhaps I'm not as ambitious and don't want to be President of Chile. (oh god then I should stop taking loans out and stop going to school....) I need to let go of fear in 2008. I need to know that I can be and do. I need to stop beating myself up for not being pretty enough. I need to stop rejecting love. I need to not be afraid to write different things, like policy papers. I need to stop thinking I'm not good enough for this program or this place or this time. I need to keep adventuring here and not be so serious. I need to relax. I want to relax. I want to find new things in 2008 that make me stronger, sweeter, better, wiser, and more humble. I want to give more and be more compassionate. I want to take more and stand on my feet. I want to get a new tattoo for courage.

Yes. 2008. It will be the second phase of courage for me.

And for you... if you've read this far.... well, I hope that you hear wonderful, positive words in your ears on Jan 1st. I hope you are healthy and filled with life in 2008.

Monday, December 17, 2007

6 Things I Owe You

In brief:
1) I still owe you info on Nuit Demonia. Basically nothing amazing came of it except I had a fun time with Sarah and Wilfried. And got to see some amazing costumes. And get hit on by a man in a wig and heels, a guy who grabbed me, and a boy in leather pants who thought rough fucking would melt me.

2) Is 23 too young? Well, he plays pool better than I do. And he's got a rough manner from being in hockey in Canada. Yes, there's a bit of a cock-staying-hard issue. But twice is okay. More.. We'll see.

3) Julien has drifted out of the picture. I think he's got issues with his ex and finding a place for the interim and he just wasn't doing it for me.

4) I just got home from 3 hours at a hamman bath house. Water, steam, sauna, naked people, and sex. I've got my period so there was no sex-sex, but there was oral. Oh, Paris you'll make me a dirty dirty slut. ... or is she just bringing more of it out?

5) I'm going to Madrid from the 22-26. My ex-neighbor man the Scot lives there now. We'll see how 4 days go. I haven't been to Madrid since 1998. I'm psyched to say the least. I hope we don't get on each others' nerves which is completely a possibility since we really really don't know each other.

6) My bottom is lonely.

So, darlings, seasons happiness and joyful tidings and all that hoopla. It's only 20F but there's no snow here which makes me a very happy puppy. I'm not pregnant - that's always great news. I'm exploring and being courageous. I have 4 big papers I have write due in January (one is on the comparison of prostitution policies in Sweden, Netherlands, and Australia - such a dirty mind). I am overly lucky and very content.


PS. I posted the outfit I wore to Nuit Demonia and a round of new birdie panties on the flickr. If you don't have access, email me.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Help! I'm trapped in a dungeon!

Ok, no, I'm not.

I'm just busy. Like, when you work M-F 9-5 you have all this extra time to fraternize, masturbate, converse, ponder, eat, drink, be merry, take photos, make life. When you're in school, classes go until 8:30pm and happen on Saturday from 10am-12pm (which means you have to get up at 8am to get there on time) and then your group from another class wants to meet to go over the project and then you finally leave, cutting them all off, at 5pm. Your free time on Monday is spent running through stores to stock up on food, drink, clothes (damn it - never wash the white bras with a new, black skirt on accident), and Xmas for the family.

With Paris as the lovely back-drop.

Nuit Demonia was great! Sarah and I had dinner and lots of wine. Wilfried came to the apartment. We finished getting dressed and they loaned me a collar so I wouldnt' look like a dominatrix. We walked and talked to a lot of people.

My list of hit-ons:

1- cross-dresser guy with a collar who asked if I was interested in submitting right there,
2- a guy with a bit of a beard and V-neck who asked me where my power? interest? desire? was and grabbed my tit and ass and coochie (through a rubber skirt - not so feasible),
3- a straight-laced guy who said his dominance was in grabbing women's hair from behind while he fucked them (boring),
4- a hot German couple who let me suck her lusciously round and full tits
5- the spanko who didn't really hit on me at all but was sweetly shy

It was a bit of a let-down but I was prepared for that. After all, it was the biggest Paris bash with about 2,000 there. Mostly I saw men as subs (in full-mask dog outfits even) or as cross-dressers or as trannys. And women as starlet models, dommes, flappers in rubber and feathers (Japanese girls). It was the everyone party. I wasn't terribly set on finding anyone but was a bit hopeful. We didn't stay all night - thank goodness because, again, I have horrible priorities called school. Sarah and Wilfried crashed on my futon (I got a new single bed!). Got up the next day and went to class at 10am.

There will be photos I promise and there will be more details. It was a fucking great night to hang out with S&W and to meet so many people and have Sarah write "submissive bitch" on my chest and "slut" on my back and have attention paid to me for that. It was great to see so many subversives and my jealousy seeped out in waterfalls. My time will come, I know this. For now, I have other concerns to prepare myself, but I'm keeping an eye out.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

ok, just a peek

I spent way too much money. I mean, way too much money. But a girl's gotta dress up now and again, right? And, then she's got to have a ball to attend. Forget the pumpkin when the party's only 2 blocks from her humble abode.

I'm only giving a preview because I don't want to spoil the surprise. (I can hardly contain myself though. It's way too much money but I think I look so damn cute, sassy, strong, spankable, unzippable, lickable, beatable, bindable, like the best whorish bottom ever in the history of slutty subs. Ok, that's a lot but damn I think I look good. And might develop an addiction to rubber and latex. Watch out world!)

Yes, well, as you can see... next week is this rather blow-out annual event called Nuit Demonia. It's sponsored by this bdsm chain store, Demonia. It's not an intimate soiree (lovely stories of these at people's houses or intimate gatherings at small clubs). It's like First Avenue on fetish crack - and only two blocks from my apartment! So, I'll only have the slow click-clack down the 100 stairs, and then the careful swagger up the hill (covered in the long coat of course), and a slight duck-and-weave around the hookers and pimps and tourists. Hm, maybe I should take a taxi. Heh. Kidding. ... La Loco.

I went to Phylea for the get-up and had a great time. I had Tuesday off so I got up slowly, got off real quick (well, it took 2 hours), ate, put on my thick thigh highs and garter, German arty skirt and lolly-gagged down the bus line to Chatlet. Walked slowly through the narrow streets I didn't recognize from when Wilfried brought me on Day One in Paris. Once there, I name-dropped Wilfried, blushed furiously, and finally broke down and asked for dressing help. I told the event, described my interest: short skirt, but modest (like mid-thigh) and a top. HA! I should have taken photos of the costumes. Seriously. Everything fell into line for me to spend too much money. The owner Henvy(?) switched the tunes over to Justin Timberlake's Bringing Sexy Back. Of course. And the dresses and compliments came flowing.

So, there was the long, black, sleeveless, zip-up dress. And a pair of 1-size-too-big, black, shiny platform heels. I loved the shoes. The dress made me think Dominatrix. Not the vibe I wanted to give off. Next was this yellow and red latex see-through skirt with 2 zippers up/down the ass/legs - revealing my ass cheeks for sure (and my garters), with a matching long-sleeve latex yellow and red top. I laughed to him that the boob line didn't match my tits and he said I had to uhm, ahem, reach in and pull them up. A ha! (Such a moron) I pulled them up, but alas they looked like fried eggs.

"Not flattering, and not modest enough for me," I told him.
"Mais non! It's good. You know, when you meet your Master you'll have to dress zis way when he says so."
"Yes, I know. But that hasn't happened yet."

I was a complete wreck trying to get my arms out of that shirt. I was already starting to sweat and sweat+latex=stick. Luckily, he was completely helpful and not at all offended by my casual nudity or inexperience. He did guffaw at my pickiness though. But I told him it was akin to my debutante ball and I wanted to look damn good. I'm wholly exaggerating here, but I've been talking about buying fetish clothes since I got here. Might as well invest in something that will last me a lifetime, or at least until I get fat or someone tears it off me.

The next offering was a black and red rubber skirt with matching long-sleeve rubber top. What's with the long-sleeves? I don't want to melt for fuck's sake. I mean, a stream of sweat is one thing but a complete pass-out melt-down - not hot at all. (hardy har har)

But there was a good ploy on his part. Keep the skirt on the girl and then throw 2 pieces for a top. Very smart businessman. Take advantage of my high and my picky and sell the whole store to me. (Sadly the heels didn't come in my size or I would have probably bought those, too.)

I walked out a bit more broke and a whole lot more excited.

So, here's a sneak.

You'll get more next week, I promise.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

The pounding

Yeah, dream on...

It's actually the pounding of construction in the flat below me.

Well, it's been a month! Dear lord... It's not that I've stopped writing, it's that I've stopped writing here so much. It's a bit hard to go from the speed, quantity, quality, and beauty I had before to starting all over again with no visuals. There is still the written word as descriptive though, and I've based so much of my life on this and so much of our relationship on this. And, now, so much of my continued relations is based in my ability to translate myself, share a little through each letter, each line, each time I log on and log off.

So, let's see, shall we? Let's see how we can continue this friendship - you and I - to see if it will sustain through the certain curves of Arial, the dry lines of Courier, the straight-forward bold face, and the pauses in commas. Can you tell it's hard to write sometimes? Can you see me log on and off and secretly wish to start a conversation, wish to say something that could reach you and soothe me? I get the updates. I know how your days move on like mine, each with its own rhythm and promise. It doesn't matter what the notions are or the reasons, each event and every minute has its own weight of busy importance. We are chameleons after all. Adaptable. Adjustable. Introduced to new scents, new feelings, new achievements, new sighs. Even if the scenery fails to change dramatically, the leaves will still fold in on themselves, the cold will still fall off the sky.

I will still wish to tell you things and dream that I could sing them or send them with talking pigeons. Could you actually see it flying over the Atlantic? Maybe it would meet with a seagull on a balanced rock in the middle of crashing, dramatic waves and confess all my secrets.

There are no squirrels in this city - only pigeons. And people tell me somewhere there are rats. I caught glimpse of one lonely mosquito looking thing trying to survive in the crowded bus. Pigeons and crows. And swallows. I do catch flocks of swallows sometimes.

The pollution has faked me out. I thought I had a sinus infection. Instead, it's the pollution from all the mass transits on strike. Too many cars, scooters, motorcycles. The price of oil has no effect on Parisians.


The Scot called me the week after I got back into town from Berlin and from playing a bisexual. (I still think of her.) He was back in town after signing over his apartment (directly across from mine in the back courtyard - 6th floor, no elevator), visiting family in Scotland, and hanging out in Madrid. We are casual which is nice. I thought we'd try a round of billiards. Yeah, James, it's billiards - not pool. There's a place by me, like 4 blocks even, but the Scot told me it's a club for members only. I'm thinking I'll join regardless. I can still hit the balls around by myself - and that always leads to a real game at some point.

I met the Scot over at his temporary residence, where he lived when he first moved to town. This gorgeous and huge and tall white apartment, owned by a flaming gay Brit guy who works in translations. Imagine huge wooden tables, gorgeous white couches, a humongous elephant ear plant ("I didn't bring it up the stairs - the movers did!"), a small kitchen ("I think the apartment was made as the city house for the working man, you know, he leaves the little wife in the country and comes to the city for work"). I didn't get to explore every room though.

We three talked politics (I explained how I had just felt my first ever defensiveness of my country and the Administration at a lecture by a young woman from The Arab League - it wasn't what she said as how she said it so much), travel, the Brit's amazing black and white photos, children's books, and films until the Scot spilled his wine on the white couch. It had to be stripped, the Scot apologized in only a way that a guy who had lived a long time on these white couches could - nonchalantly (whereas I'd freak out apologetically). The Brit got his coat on, reminded me to come to his hedonistic party, we did the French cheek-kissing and off he went.

Of course, it's too early (my 2nd 'date' with the Scot) to just say, "Let's skip the obligatory pretense -- kiss me." So, we made the obligatory chat and somehow got the tv on and caught some softcore. Really, this part is irrelevant to the story but I had to throw it in there. First, tv - which I haven't seen since god knows when. Second, soft-core is soft-core in any country. Parts are shown parts are hidden and bad music plays as actors pretend to lick and kiss. We chucked the tv - I think it was originally to find some music station or something... And, again, he said - as he did the first time - that he had the feeling he'd like to kiss me, would that be alright? Yes, this sounds very upright and proper but throw in a bit of s slur, laid back attitude ("I don't like girls who wear very much make-up.. or any at all really"), and kind of a half-hearted let's skip the obligations but I don't want you to slap me. And, again, I climbed on top. And, again, the kisses were soooooo full-lipped and soft and luscious and wet and relaxed. A fat, suckable tongue. I would imagine his whole mouth stung by a bee so huge and juicy.

And my shirt off over my head ("I hardly recognize you with your short hair"). Let's go to the bedroom. It seems the same as the last one, bare, no closets (these strange old apartments), all his earth-tone corduroys and pants and shirts on an open rack. The bed has metal frame and all I can think about is - someday I want to be tied here. Kisses and slow sucks. He wants to eat me and it's too soon to tell him I get all squeamish when he wants to lick my ass - despite the fact that I made cautious steps (making me late to meet him) to shave clean everywhere. He tells me to lay down and he eats me again, coming up for a drunken breath, "You should call me - anytime - anytime - you want your pussy eaten. God it's so good." I dream of trying to enjoy it. I dream of letting go. I try to suffocate him on my juices and shove him up inside me. But I am still tight as a ball inside. This is not how I play. I want to be down there, on my knees, between your legs. It took how many years just to relax into James or Andy?

He climbs up on top of me and slides slowly - I push his belly, "Slow... slow... it's been a while." It's exactly what I needed. The whole week before I was tense, angry, short-tempered, so angry at the world. This is what I needed. Like I need my daily vitamins I need my screws. He won't cum. He says he can't. Wino-dick? Pee-dick? Who cares dick. I got off. And he says he's fine. And he asks if I'd stay. It's the first time I've stayed since James stayed at my parents with me, since the hotel in Milwaukee with Andy - and before that months and months when James lived on the west side. Would I stay? Well, considering the mass transit stopped running and it was warm and he was already half-drunk asleep. I guess so.

Morning was awkward in tenderness and hesitation but ended up in my squinted eyes panting biting my lip looking up at him. He still wasn't going to cum. Now I'm not sure why. But I rolled over and did the trick that seems to work almost every time. Wrapping my wet mouth and hand around his cock. Cum so diluted it barely had a taste. I'm sure it worked, but I'm not sure how it worked. We're not at that stage to discuss.

After all, after sex in the night I asked - why do I do this? - about his other lovers. We had already established on our first visit that I was just interested in a friend with benefits and he offered as much. So, there's a girl in Madrid who had a boyfriend while she was in Paris so they never got anywhere. And now she's free in Madrid but there's something uncomfortable still and she wore so much make-up to meet him (hence the comment on make-up). They met twice for drinks and dinner and she invited him up for tea. She laid back on her bed - open. And still he couldn't seem to go in. I think it's a case of 'want what you can't have' but it's too new for me to tell him.

He made me coffee and toast while I showered - short hair benefit.


A few days later Julien was calling. Ugh. I wasn't sure if I hadn't mixed up pent-up frustration for PMS but I was late a week. Seriously, I should invest in pregnancy test companies. Negative. Yay. Where the hell is my period? So, I wasn't bleeding and I wasn't PMS'd and I might as well keep Julien in the mix. I mean, I do like him. He's sweet and great company for dinners and he's my French boy. But there are so many things that demagnetize me from him. He brings me beer when he visits. I'm not a cheap whore, thank you. And he hasn't brought condoms or lube - the former of mine that we've been using and the latter he keeps hinting he'd like to fuck my ass. I have secret feelings that he's not really breaking up / broken up from his girlfriend - though I care less about this except to save face if something ever comes up. Funny though, the Berliner subculture friend of mine at school showed me pics from a goth party he went to in Paris and in the background was Julien. Very funny. More funny because he was making these kind of "oooo, look at you" eyes to this saucy brunette. So funny.

Regardless, just like a visit to my family, I dread the event before-hand and then feel all warm and fuzzy afterward. He likes pulling his cock from my mouth and rubbing it on my cheek. He likes squeezing my small tits around his cock and asks me if I like it. (?) He loves how I suck his cock. He fucked me from behind and I tried not to make too much noise for the neighbors. And afterward, I feel all woozy and delighted and dreamy and sleepy.


I did indeed get the period.


Tonight, I'm going to see Interpol over at Le Zenith. I was picturing a huge concert hall like the Target Center (18,467 seats), instead it's like 5,830. Nice. And the tickets aren't sold out yet. There's some guy who's interested in going and wants to go with me. He lives in the dormitories with some of my colleagues and I think he was the kid standing next to me when I flashed my tits at the Soiree Blanche, but I could be wrong. Doubt anything'll happen there - I've got an early class tomorrow.

This Saturday is the hedonistic party mentioned above. It's perfect timing as the independent winemakers festival is this weekend so I'll pick up a couple of bottles for the party. Not putting any high hopes on sexy there either as some of the Scot's "people" will be there - not sure what that means... but I'm grown-up enough to know how to figure it out. Although I had a dream of me, another girl, and him deciding who gets the middle place in the bed. Why should he be so lucky I ask?


Oh, and hello to my new reader, Mr. Spanko.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

latest photos and girl love

I posted the humiliating photos from Lola's flash at the Soiree Blanche. It wasn't like it was some professional party, but it probably wasn't completely appropriate for me to flash my tits. You can see this in my friend's look of horror captured at the same time. Then again, I wasn't caught naked with someone not my husband like some others were. These photos have given me pause to wonder if I should just keep the 32-year-old tits inside my bra. Maybe I'm too old, they're too old.

I also posted copies of a polaroid I found pre-move to Paris. I'm twelve years old and posing in an -ahem- provocative way. It's 1 of a series of me and my girl friend. By the fireplace I can tell we lived in Texas at that time. It wouldn't be appropriate for me to post the polaroids of her. I guess we were just playing dress-up for the day but this one came out rather, well, telling.

I'm also about to post some from the other night in Berlin. A few of us students went up there for a conference and stayed for vacation days. We joined our colleague to go to a goth party. He'd attended the Berlin Masters program and then transferred to our Paris Masters and I guess he'd extended the invite to his other colleagues and they never joined him to a goth party. Perhaps we're a bit more adventuresome. I have to admit I hesitated, wondering mostly if I'd / we'd 'fit in' at the scene. I remember becoming extremely fed up with the punk scene in Minneapolis - they were supposed to be punks who accepted and embraced any people of alternative life choices/styles but instead it felt more like a constant judgement of who was more punk. Bleh. The goth party was quite the opposite though - at least, I didn't feel judged in any way. Although I did feel drunk and wild. At one point I chatted briefly with 2 women in the bathroom since English is the universal language of choice - a German woman, a Polish (I think?), and me the American. (In Paris, all would have been forced to use French - a slight difference between the French and German cultures.) So, somehow this lovely German woman asked my colleague/the host about me and somehow she and I ended up making out the rest of the night, which felt like 70 hours but was probably just 3 or so.

It's funny, I had a variety of reactions to this whole hook-up. I was pretty drunk since I chose to drink whiskey on the rocks (always a bad idea, I know I know). But I was also in vacation-wild mode where anything can go. At points I felt like I had to be the masculine half of our duo, and the top half as we both identify as bottoms (this I learned from my colleague who basically translated the whole night for us). At points, when she'd go off to the bathroom or something, I'd half freak out to my other colleagues there that I really wasn't sure what I was doing, etc. The last time I had a girl make-out was probably about 5 years ago during the waiting tables at the Orpheum / pdh relationship / Jen Bunny wildness. Or, maybe it was at the spin-the-bottle portion of bd's party in '03/'04. I didn't really make on chicks while James and I dated.. did I, honey? Pipe in if I'm wrong here.

A part of me thinks I look less feminine since I cut my hair. It's not that I'm afraid of being bisexual or afraid of making on chicks (though you all know I'm totally not into going down - a bit more whiskey that night and I very well might have just for old time's sake), but I am absolutely terrified of losing guy possibilities if they peg me as solely a lesbian. And I certainly don't want my colleagues boxing me into that category and since they don't know me well, I felt I had to clarify a bit in my drunken state. So part of me freaked out. And part of me loved her lips and her hips and her skin-tight dress and biting her bottom lip and pinching her nipples and god, she smelled exactly like my old ex-girlfriend the stripper. [I can't link to this story right now, sorry, but briefly: 1999, last year of college I dated a stripper and her husband, we went to Vegas on a trip, played around with bdsm, he started to want to see me more than I felt was a good idea, she wanted to do more girlie things than I thought were a good idea so we broke it off.]

The cute German and I made out a bit, I got a bit wild on her, she was a bit shocked, we danced, I bought her a drink, I danced with my colleagues, and it was like 4am and we had to leave. She wanted my contact info and I kept pointing to my Berlin colleague that he had it and saying I'd love to go home with her but I had to go. There was just no way I would have been able to go home together, waking up next to her would have blown my mind more than I could handle at that time. I went to get my coat from the coat check and found she had followed me there for one last dramatic kiss. Oh, right, by the way, she was 23 so maybe that explains quite a bit about this whole story. Me, feeling like the old, experienced, dyke chick and her as the young, eager, experimental bi girl. Yeah. I had to go back to the hostel with my colleagues.

Right. So, those photos will be up in a little bit. I thank my Berlin colleague tremendously for even taking photos because, you know, I had beer goggles on and really wasn't sure the next day if she was hot or not. The photos prove it. Quite the night for sure. Quite the night.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

fastest update in the EU

-Julien and I have fucked twice more. I've taught him how to say "screw" when he wants to do it. I'm also slowly teaching him not to massage my tits like a 15-year-old (sigh) but to play with the nipples. He's over-joyed by either my cock-sucking skills or by the fact that I do it period. He wants to fuck my ass. I also taught him that I call it bummie. What have I gotten? Rather reliable fucks? A nice, decent-sized cock to fill my oral fixation. Tequila beer one night and Chinese beer the next. Laziness in that he climbs up to my apartment and I don't have to go to his (because he still lives with his ex - a nicety for me).

-Too bad the Scot and I haven't been able to hook-up again. I think he's left for south France.

-I'm having horrible fantasies about fucking the old director of our program. He sent me a couple of photos he took of me (actually, photos of another colleague taking photos of me at the castle we stopped at over our weekend retreat). I'm not sure if he did that for all the students or if it was a gesture of him knowing I was a photographer and wanting to show me his 'work' as it were. Not sure there, but I felt very flirtatious at our one-on-one meeting at the department. Each student had to meet with him to give kind of an overview in addition to what was on our CV or application. The info goes to all the professors to get a better idea of who we are. Needless to say, my 'interview' was fun, a bit nervous, a bit giggly, and a bit flirty. I have no idea if he engages this way with all the female students. I know it's completely inappropriate and he's actually not hot in any way and is actually a bit un-charming. Either way, I was very sickly/absurdly excited when I found out today that he is my academic adviser. Soooo naughty.

-I went to the 2nd S-Munch and it was better than the first. I was a bit more relaxed and the group was a bit smaller. My French is definitely improving and I found it highly amusing to listen to older women dominatrixes explain how they felt about "La Dependance: Excitante ou Dangereuse." One of the new men at the meeting sat by me at one point and found it interesting that in the 1-1/2 months I've been here I've been to two S-Munches. I don't think he was hitting on me since most of the men at these events are subs and the women are dommes. I told him it was because I knew Wilfried, but there's more to it. I really want to meet a dom. How badly though? Not too badly yet. As I said before, it'd be nice to fulfill my basic needs first so I'm not so sexually frustrated and can actually concentrate on submissiveness.

-I think I'm too old to be flashing my tits anymore. Or, maybe I need to lay off the wine at soirees. Granted, it was a soiree with all the program students who are generally in their mid-20s - not a serious Frenchy soiree. Still, I think the tits have lost some elasticity and really shouldn't be popping like that. Oh well.

-I also need to remember to eat before going out. I could have fucked a couple of young men at the party but ended up really drunk in a bed with another girl colleague and a gay colleague talking about who knows what and not getting laid. Focus, woman, focus!

-I think the new haircut makes me look older. I think I need to deal with getting older and enjoy it. I can't play a teenager anymore. It looks pathetic.

-I'm going to Berlin tomorrow for 6 days. I would love to end up back at the Kit Kat Club or the other sex club that pdh and I went to years ago but I don't think that will happen. I'm not sure how to make things happen right now. I need to go shopping. I need to forget the budget and lay some bucks down on latex, leather, heels, and such. Europe is a lot about dressing up, costumes. I'm not so much like that. I need to let Halloween be every day.

-It's that time of the month again where I skipped French class today and instead played with myself all day. But I have to leave now. Things to do. I feel incredibly guilty about making puddles in my panties and not being responsible. I need to stop freaking out about that.

Monday, October 8, 2007


It sounds like "fee-nahl-mohnt" and it means exactly what it looks like.

Well.. well.. well... heh wink wink nod nod the Lola-caper strikes again! I remember Andy saying that he was jealous of the guy walking around Paris, oblivious to what I'd do to him, oblivious to what was coming.

Well, I was supposed to meet Julien on Friday night and we were supposed to go to a punk rock indie lesbian show at La Fleche D'Or (thanks to Wilfried for the link on the show, thanks to some random Parisians on the Siene at sunset who gave me the first hint to the place). But I had the opening welcome with cocktails for my program at 5:30pm and then we carried the party out. We went over to the student director's apartment - this flaming Indian guy who laughs like silver and stinks like earth, who has the best edgy, crazy, border-break-down-insanity personality. So, I made a big deal (to myself and Julien) to call him and apologize for ditching last minute but this was a unique opportunity. Well, I thought it was. It was the first party time that 1st and 2nd year MPA students would hang out. 2nd years are like oysters, they have rich information about 1st year (if they went here and aren't dual-degreers from Columbia NYC or London LSE or other places) and they're delicate to pry open. So a bunch of semi-toasted 1st years hopped the metro - with our school books, bookbags, and boring cocktail attire - and headed over to the party. We bought crap wine on the way over (it's ironic, but there is crap wine in Paris - the 4E slightly bitter wine from cornershop groceries .. which I hear are called "Le Arab" because they're almost all run by Arab folks. This doesn't mean only Arabs have crap wine, mind you. It's just what I heard the cornershops are called.)

Mingle mingle with the students and then Colombian Ana shows up with 2 of her Egyptian friends. You see, there is literally an Indian CEO of software company in my class, Korean journalist, member of the Ministry of Finance of Japan, etc... Colombian Ana was a marketing specialist of some kind who travelled all over and made friends all over. So, Egyptian guy is an illustrator/comic book guy and he's hot. We make conversation in the kitchen and I get swept away with the Egyptians, Ana, and a couple of other colleagues. I ditch my bags at Gay Indian's apartment and only leave with my wallet. Egyptian boy starts chatting up Iranian girl (who is in a steady relationship) and gives up on me. Whatever.

We end up at some tiny, smoky dance club in the 5th neighborhhood. We get in and go upstairs for our bigger group. The waiter/server is only wearing tighty whiteys and some kind of gripping surfer shoes. He gives us menus, comes back and goes around the table one-handed unsnapping each girl's bra. He then climbs over the table, over to me, pulls the straps of my bra out of my sleeves, down my biceps and over my arms and then crawls up on my chair and pulls the bra out of the of top of my shirt. I guess there are photos - which will for sure be here when available.

The kids go downstairs and dance it up. I'm feeling overly tired and decide to head home. Only, I left all my things back at Gay Indian's, including my map. I have no idea where I am and it's 2:30am so the metro has stopped running. I have no idea how far I am from home so I don't want to hail a cab. I start walking. Guessing a direction and heading in it. I'm tired, a bit depressed, a bit drunk, a bit lonely. I stop at the bus stops and try to ask people if the Noctillen (night bus) runs this way to my neighborhood. No one seems to know. So, I keep walking, realizing luckily I'm on a street that I know.

Ok, so it was only 2 miles or so, but I was starting to feel the cold, tired, desperate, lonely side of Paris. All the cabs - even when I realized it wouldn't be that far or that expensive - were full. Not a single one empty. It is not like NYC at all where you can walk a foot and hail one. So I kept trudging along. I was about to cry. I tried to call people. I didn't want to have walk the whole way. Whine whine.

Anyway. Here's my walk. I stopped after befriending some fashion model boy from Faith who explained that it was Fashion Week in Paris so, of course, there'd be no taxis. But if I waited in this line for 5 minutes (ahem, 30) then I'd get a cab. When I got one I invited him in thinking that I could do him a favor to get him closer to his destination -- no, not that I'd get in his pants. I'm sure he was gay.

So, relief. At like 4am.

Saturday day I walked around in lovely strength. You know, challenges just make us stronger. Friday night I was alone and tired, cold and weary, all I wanted was to get home and had to walk this long, strange, dark way home - feeling rejected by every cab and more alone in this huge city. But I remembered to befriend myself and was able to turn a dragon into a princess. (Thanks to Andy for the reminder.) So Saturday was full of sun and made for living contentedly. I went down by the Hotel de Ville where they were showing the rugby game on big screen (just like this, but less people and more sunlight).,

Saturday night Julien and I met up and had a beer. He invited me to go to a friend of a friend's birthday party and then do the Nuit Blanche tour. I'm starting to understand more about this boy. The birthday party was of this lovely Iranian goth chick in her boyfriend's place. Only about 10 people were there so it was nicely intimate but I did not have the best time of my life. I'm really not into goth so much. Hell, I'm not into dressing up so much which seems to be the way that Europeans celebrate their subculture. I'm not saying it's bad - I mean liked to dress up a bit for Halloween or for a bdsm event but even that dressing up was minimal and really only consisted of throwing on a corset, a stripper latex skirt, fishnets, high heels. I barely wear make-up and I'm not hiding a closet of kink anywhere. It's just a different culture so I keep thinking how I need to go out and buy outfits and get some crazy make-up so I can make the most of the bdsm events -- which are more called s&m or fetish events. I'm learning a lot.

Anyway, after all our SMSing (not texting here), and all the playing hard to get, Julien came up and we talked shyly until we finally got to the futon.

I realize I really don't miss bdsm so much when my basic needs of sex aren't met. It's only after I can be fulfilled in the most basic, boring way do I note the craving for kink. Submissiveness and bottoming is always in my soul and I know it's yearning and starving and craving, sadly unfulfilled. But so is my lil devil cunnie, trapped inside dying and hungry for touches. And, usually the latter wins out as the more important necessity. So, I crawled on top of him and undressed him and gently bit his nipples (sigh - total wuss, too, I mean I wasn't even biting it was like pressure not even a nibble). I haven't given head to an uncircumsized cock in a while so that was an interesting twist under the influences of drinks and excitement. I put the condom on. I sat on top and took my own slow pace to break my 1-1/2 month virginity as he said, "Gho slohwleee Looolaaaa.. gho sloh."

It wasn't fulfilling in the least, but it was a Big Mac with no meat and a side of fries when my sugar level drops and I go slumming. Ok, ok, it wasn't that bad either. He was very nice and it was kind of sexy. I was just .. I guess so built up with desire and he'd played hard to get so I was expecting a bigger cock (I've been spoiled) and more interaction. Instead, after we came, I curled up and tried to explain how I was more like a man than a woman in that I could totally go to sleep - while he stared longingly at me.

[insert throwing up sounds]

Sunday I meant to go do the walk against breast cancer, but that just wasn't going to happen this year. Cheers to Wilfried and Sarah who did I'm sure. Instead I lazed and did laundry and read 100 pages of homework on the balcony while I peeled off more and more layers during the nice sunny day [finally in my bikini top and boy shorts].

A week or so ago the neighbor across the hall, Eric, was hanging out the window into the courtyard chatting to a guy across the way. Eric gave me his wifi password at that point and I met the Scottish neighbor. A few days ago when my landlord came to take me to Castorama (essentially a Home Depot, but picture it in an old building, expanding into the basement to seem huge) to buy bar stools for the kitchen, we ran into the Scottish neighbor. "I'd like to invite you over for a glass of wine," he said to me. A guy about my age, about my height, nice jeans, nice smile, short blond hair and short close-cut beard.

We finally arranged that Sunday at 6pm would work. After all the laundry was left hanging to dry, I headed over to the Scot's - literally my floor (6th) up all the stairs across the courtyard. I wasn't sure what to wear. It was like, hm, maybe he'll pop his girlfriend out or maybe he's gay, maybe it's just a friendly glass of wine, or maybe I can get some tail. So, I went with jeans, a black low-cut tank, and black Converse no socks (Converse are a total fashion item here for some reason).

We chatted nervously for a while until the wine took hold. He's been in Paris for 3 years and remodeled his apartment to put in a -gasp- bathtub (a rareity in these parts) and expand the bathroom and kitchen. He was a software designer in Edinburgh and ditched it to live here after he'd grown up rather transient. He's headed off to the south of France where he bought a barn and is going to convert it into a house. So, we're on a short time which is always refreshing. No commitments, no holds barred.

After our second bottle of wine and lubricious talk of French lovers and independent fucking, he offered to be my neighbor-of-need in case I wanted and then suggested perhaps he should kiss me now. He put his glass down and took mine, leaned in and two lush, full lips slowly peach-kissed me.

Again I found myself rolling over to straddle him on the couch. His hands pulled my tanktop down and lifted my tits free. Back into his bedroom I slipped him out of his pants and inwardly sighed - yes, I have been spoiled by many but at least he was a mouthful! Such a delightful surprise when men are trimmed, too. Smooth balls I put into my mouth and in a wine haze I remember "God, my prick is so hard... Yes, yes, god that feels so good...." and moans. I love vocal lovers. He pulled me up and over and forced me into a 69. I wasn't sure he wanted to be there really - it's my own insecurity. So I lifted up from his cock and stared at the darkness around us. "Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, do you like doing that?" I peeked down between my legs at his chin and lips. "Yes, I want to do this! And later I'm going to eat your ass!"

Pudding heart, taffy knees.

When I crawled off him, he told me to turn around. I got on my hands and knees and asked for a condom. He put it on and grabbed my hips slowly sliding in from behind. Ohmygodyes. The slow pick-me-up rhythm, that slight friction from being lapped up dry, the re-start of sex drool all over his cock, the expanding and contracting as his cock slid in and out, arching my back and looking upward, leaning my face downard into the bed, reaching back and finding my clit, looking back over my shoulder, his hands on my hips, his hands on my ass, his hands on the small of my back, "God you're so fucking sexy... fuck your skin is so soft..." And then the pace picks up. His fingers tighten around my hip bones using me like a handled lovetoy. His smooth balls slapping the tender, sensitive V of my lips, sliding my hand under them. I know I could go on and on like this tonight. Take it from behind and above and backward and over and over again, but I say the magic words, "Fuck I'm going to cum all over your cock!" And I grabbed the bed in my left hand and push the clit button with the right to speed up and get there.

I don't have to ask him if he came like I did to Julien. I can tell he's fucking cumming over and over by the way he gives the last grasps and pulls me hard into him.

We lay down and he doesn't peel off the condom, but we lay and breathe and wish we knew each other last week. It's 1am and I have to get up in 5 hours for my first French class. There are more soft, jello, suction kisses and a walk to the door. It's too bad I've had too much wine to climb over the rooftop so I go back down and back up to my apartment. He waves from across the way.

I accidentally set my alarm to 6:30PM and scramble out of bed when I realize it's 7:20AM and I have to take the bus which takes 25 minutes and I have to make coffee and shower and brush my teeth. I make it 25 minutes late but get to speak French without a hangover and make it all through my day until 5:30pm (with one 15-minute lunch break and one 1/2 hour break).

I'm hoping I get to see the Scot again before he leaves for the south. Aside from the sex, he had some great suggestions of places to go - like Hotel du Nord, rue Cail for curry, metro Barbes for wonderful fruits and veggies, and rue de la Goutte D'Or for food.

Finalmente, indeed. I have popped my Paris cherry and am so much happier and nicer for it.

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

can't get no...

So, I met this guy around the block at a kind of punk/metal/goth bar called Katabar. He wrote in my Moleskine and finally I had bad words in French. We stayed out until 3am and I drank weird anise drinks that were not absinthe. He walked me home.

We met again at the bar and he was sitting with a friend - they both met as regulars at the bar. We all laughed and when the friend left, Julien and I made out. His touches felt electric and I fell bashful. Kissing and thigh rubs.

"What do you want to do now?" he asked.
"Well, we could have another drink here or somewhere else or you could come up to my apartment or we could do something else." I said.
"I want to get to know you better," he said.

Ok. I have nowhere to go on this one so I'll play with him while I keep my eyes open. It's not as easy as being home where I can walk into a bar, know the language, look the look, hit the pinball, and know who won't mass-murder me if I bring them up -- let alone who will want to climb 6 floors to hang with me.

We go out again to a fucking awesome bar/restaurant The Black Dog, run by an Argentine punker. We eat with Julien's friend. I laugh, we have fun. Julien goes to a metal/electronic show at a club. I go home because I have to be on a bus for the weekend retreat at 9:30am.

I've told him I'm not patient. I've told him I'm not a good girl - as in, I'm not very good at being a girl.

We go for dinner last night around the way and celebrate him signing the papers to own a studio/shop to convert to an apartment.

I guessed right. (Maybe you did too?) He just came out of a 5-year relationship and is still sharing a living space with his ex. ... So that's the reason, but what reason is that shit? Why not take me at my offer. Which is loud and clear. And stop text msging me "I want your skin close to me Lola" This is playing hard to get, I tell him. This is teasing.

In the meantime I keep my eyes open while I let my lips wander a bit on his, coldly retreating my hands from his reach across the table - I am not here for romance and Paris love, I am not here to hold hands and have him loop his arm through mine down the street. I'm not a cold fish, we know this. But I am determined in what I want.

Three-quarters of the students in my program are in serious relationships and like they say don't shit where you sleep. Or is it,don't shit where you eat? Anyway... I'm still wandering out by myself to see the world out there and put myself out there. A neighbor across the way is Scottish and has invited me for wine at his place. I'm hopeful but totally low-key - if it turns out his girlfriend also invites me for the wine, well so be it.

Yes, yes, I'm on the red-light strip but it's a very strange red-light. It's 3 blocks of dirty and touristy. I wouldn't fuck anyone off this street. I've got a bit of class. .. Now, would I work in it? Dance? Not sure yet. I need to figure out my class schedule first.

Oh, yeah, and that idea to be a mistress? Ha. I'm not classy *enough*. The women in Paris are amazingly stunningly sexy. A man with taste could easily find a mistress. Sigh. It's not even been a month. Give it time, Lola darling. Yes, yes.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

The latest and greatest

Nothing xxx-rated, kinkified, worthy-of-CDOAv3 has happened lately. It's all been bank accounts, varnishing, grocery shopping.

I did get an afternoon of jack-off with the free wifi. And, I did have a lovely time last night at the munch with Wilfried. But telling about that will have to wait (and it's not xxx-rated in any way).

First day of class tomorrow. Yay!

And, don't worry, if you asked for the G-rated blog -- it has yet to be revealed to anyone. And, don't worry again, I'm sure I'll be in the swing of naughtiness shortly so you won't be left in the desert wondering.


Saturday, September 15, 2007

Eye candy

In the meantime, I got some photos up to Flickr - check the "Bangles night out" and "w. Andy" folders.

If you can't view them all here then you need me to invite you. Just drop me a line that you want in and you'll be good to go.


Thursday, September 13, 2007


My internet cable comes tomorrow and then there will be no hesitation about "Should I start a blog entry only to not be able to publish?" I've also been perplexed about how to start it, how to tell this, what to say and yet be able to include enough and not too much that I could post it on the family-friendly site, too (which I haven't figured out yet so fret not).

I started with this on Tuesday night:

The French invasion

of big bellied men, men in kilts with pheasant feathers in their caps, and a small, sleepy girl

Rugby World Cup 2007 or "Coupe du Monde de Rugby 2007" has invaded Paris.

My biggest suitcase weighed in at 70lbs, and I paid $50 for the 20 extra lbs. Not bad, as I was having nightmares about something closer to $500 and having to fling it open and start just tossing random clothes - so neatly, tightly rolled - to my parents, standing aghast in the middle of the check-in at the airport.

From there was a 52lb, a very heavy carry-on, and a laptop/backpack contraption.

Mom and dad drove me down and waited at the nearest corner to the security lines to wave me through all the way. Through the 100+ people removing shoes and checking boarding passes. The flight was harmless with a lucky viewing of " "Away From Her" (apropos with things happening in my family and discussions between relatives of the impending old age). A bit of sleepy-time drugs and I was off to cramped wonderland.

Of course, I could go on and on about the people on the flight. But I'll keep that to myself for now. Details not so important in the scope of things.

The transition from airplane to apartment went slowly as I adjusted to being awake and foreign. If I can come away with one thing from any of this, it's that the French are not at all in any way rude to foreigners. That is, if the foreigner is not rude to them. I try a bit of French all the time - at the get-go - and it might get me in trouble (the person thinks I speak more than I actually do and continues the rapid French conversation) or giggles ("non, c'est bouteille no c'est pas BOAT"). But everyone seems a lot more receptive to a try than an ignorant "you must speak English, my language, because it is the language of my country and the WORLD!"

So, I was able to use a cell phone in the airport instead of having to buy a 20E phone card offered by the rip-off currency exchange folks. And I called my new landlord to let him know I was on my way. A few snaps from the back seat of the cab of the way in - the futbol stadium which announced the Rugby Cup, me following my map and making brief chat with the cabbie (again, no, not rude, just not bothering to struggle to carry on conversation with a girl who can't speak well anyway and he knows no English).

The landlord, Fabien, who is about my age who is an owner of an art gallery and a dealer in art, a bit of a scruffy 8 o'clock shadow, all black clothes and flat, fashionable, black Addidas. He's leaning over the balcony way up to wave to me. As I get all the suitcases out, he opens the door and helps me in. Jetlagged, sleepy, overwhelmed. Process process whirrr whirrr goes the brain.

So far I count one lie. It is not on the 5th floor, but perhaps the 6th floor with 2 flights between each floor in a tight, narrow, turning staircase - not the wide, ample, slow, big-footed marble I had dreamed when thinking how to get the suitcases up.

He helps me get each bag up the stairs and I am out of breath at the top many times -- despite my days in the gym. His English is perfect as he had a girlfriend who was from Seattle who went to school in Emory, and he does business in NYC. So, I barely speak French which is good because my hair is matted, my face shiny, my teeth scruffy, and my brain still sleep-drugged.

The apartment is exactly how I imagined it from all the photos - except better. It's real. And it's still in rehab, still being converted, still so many things Fabien wants to do and I'd like to add. I'm rather happy he's a welcoming type and is interested in working with me on it and I completely understand that it's going to last beyond my years so it needs to be an investment.

Our conversation flowed from closets to the balcony to the new sink to the water heater to how the stove works to an art opening in his gallery next week to me getting a cell phone to him buying an antique round table to the futon and new sheets to towels and a shower to me brushing my teeth while he cleaned out the closets.

I think it's a perfect fit and I don't think he wants anything in return but someone to actually take care of it - polish the wood when needed, keep clean to keep pests out, water the plants to keep them alive.

ravioles de cepes au coulis de crustaces [what I had for dinner]

But things have gone and moved so rapidly since then. There are still kilts all over this area and big bellied beer drinkers at noon with crazy cock-eyed accents.

Wednesday I walked around a bit in the morning - trying to find a way to eat and drink without sitting down isn't easy. I haven't got a working coffee press yet (the pressure coffee maker furnished with the apartment is missing its handle - broken by the previous tenant / friend of the landlord's) and I can't seem to find a Starbucks -- kidding!! I mean, I would like to keep on with my regular fast pace, grab a coffee and keep going, but I guess this city is telling me to slow the fuck down, sit down, drink your espresso in the sun, etc.. I think I'll buy some oven mitts and try to make this one work though. (If anyone has better instructions than this, let me know!) Coffee before leaving the apartment building just makes more sense to me.

I grabbed a veggie sandwich on fabulous baguette for lunch y'day though it was a tad weird - I think there were like steamed noodles put on it or something. Anyway. Everything I could think I'd need is just outside the apartment - either 1/2 a block away or a bit of a hike (Rue de Lepic) so I won't be going without in anyway.

Then, at 2pm y'day Wilfried came by. I was all nerves when we first met up and we were deciding where to go (silly bottoms - you decide; no, you decide). But soon we were off and about hiking through the gentrified 18th Montmartre. Apparently the cafe where Amelie worked is right on rue Lepic and I hadn't even known! I have a list a mile long of places he recommended and/or pointed out from the swingers club Le Sultana to the lesbian cabaret Chez Moune to L'Art de Rien small gallery to the bdsm shops like Demonia (mainstream) and Phylea (boutique owned by a perfectly charming and biting man).

We ended our 8-hour hang-out at one of his favorite restaurants, talking over wine (and my coughing - man, Madison has spoiled me and my non-smoking lungs!) about the philosophy behind bottoming and the similar characteristics between tops and bottoms, slaves and masters, etc.. Of course, there was also talk about who we are, where we've come from, what we've done, but I am still jet-lagged and not quite aware of where I am or who I am or what I want yet. It makes me a good listening partner right now. Soon I'll come out of the closet and start conversing like a regular person.

So, anyway. There you go for now. You know more than my own family does.

Photos from way back to last month to yesterday will have to wait until I have some more time. Maybe I order in a pizza tonight, buy a nice bottle of wine and use the most of this little hotspot I've found in the apartment.

But first, off to open a bank account and fill it with loan money. Then, to figure out a cell phone!

Oh, and my aunt called it a "mouth organ." I imagine my grandpa called it that, too, but I'm not sure I could. Harp doesn't sound right either. Someone's gotta know a hobo who knows a good name.


Sunday, September 9, 2007

Leaving on a jet plane

Well, I have not died or fallen off the earth. Since my last post life just got busy. Today I'm spending my last day in the Driftless Zone packing and re-packing (because a girl *can* have too many shoes and not enough room for underwear). Tomorrow my parents drive me over to Chicago. I'm hoping to have some time in the airport during which I could plug in and start dishing a bit more of what has happened in my life over the last few hectic weeks. If not then, I'll have time while I'm hooking into wifi in Paris from my apartment and trying to acclimate to the new timezone.

I'm excited and terrified. The stress got inside me again and I got another sinus infection (the last one right before I left Madison for my parents). That's a story in itself. I'm between health insurance (the previous job's insurance and the Frenchy one) so I went over to the free clinic.

It's a big leap and I'm ready but I'm also starting to find myself thinking "What am I doing?! What was I thinking?" Still, there's that automatic tug pulling me down the line to get on that plane.

So, when you come back next, you'll find (hopefully) the beginnings to my weekend with the girls in Madison, the date night with Andy (photos to Flickr will have to wait), the week in Minneapolis (strange sexual activity with old high school friend), and all the commotion emotions for this big adventure.

My family's been so amazing and supportive. My grandmother - 82 years old - is sending me off with an old cowboy belt buckle of my grandpa's, a charm bracelet that we think we gave her from Argentina, and my grandpa's old harmonica. Every time he went on a long trip for the military he learned a new instrument. It's my turn now.

As I've said lately to others I love, See you soon!


Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Quick and dirty

The weekend was a bit difficult because I felt rather self-inflated. Why should I - a beautiful, sexy, ripe, kinky slut - be trapping myself indoors out in the suburbs while I could go hit the local yokel bars downtown? Sure, I could have but I felt a bit lazy, a bit wary of the drunk drive back to the 'burbs (too many 20-year-old memories of that), a bit penny-pinching, a bit too-good-for-your-hick-town, a bit insecure, a bit conflicted. I know what would have happened if I went out drinking, too. I was feeling very wet and wily. If I had gone out I would have put a few drinks back, found a pinball table, and suggested heavily to the first co-ed that we find a place to fuck: my car, his car, the alleyway, wherever. Not that this would have been bad form, because you all know me to shun criticism when it comes to standards. But it would have a) wrecked my anonymity, b) tarnished my nouveau virginity, c) made me feel a tad empty and slimy for stooping to either Billy College Boy or Jack Hick Redneck or Mike Hippie Tiedye, and d) done me in enough to stumble loudly back to my parents house in slight disarray and guilt.

So, I opted to stay in and catch up on geeky things like fixing my ipod nano and building a good workout playlist. I sorted paperwork and made lists of "to do." It's strange out here in suburbia and semi-retirement land. Days bleed with no punching-in the clock and no internet 24-7. Is it Tuesday? Is it Saturday? What time is it? So far, time is sectioned by the phone alarm at 9am, the hour I take to wake to the cheerfulness of my parents, the 1/2 hour walk/run on their treadmill, the 1/2 hour with my mom's 5lb weights and crunches (honestly, exercise does stave off the starving horny inside me and makes me a more agreeable person), maybe a lunch if you want mom to make something because she's already pulling something together for dad, the errands (more boxes into storage, a visit to grandma, groceries with mom, free stuff to goodwill, 2-3 hours at the wifi coffee shop), the dinner (I've been crowned the Salad Queen), the dinner in front of the TV with a bottle of wine (I've been drinking more consistantly here than I did in Madison), the hour of cable (okay, okay, "Weeds" is cool), and then 2 hours messing around in my bed while the Tylenol PM kicks in.

Where the hell does time go? Where has it gone? I've been a week here and only have 2 weeks and 5 days left.

Yesterday dad and I went up north and east by about 2.5 hours to see some land they bought. They're moving finally after 16 years over by the Mississip. My military-retired dad is contracting to have a house built by eco-friendly builders and is considering a huge vegetable garden, growing some out of control prairie restoration patch, and wants 2 solar panels on his property for all their energy use. My military, strict as a ruler father is turning hippie. He even mentioned perhaps growing a beard and a ponytail!!! Apparently my mother is going along with it willingly and enthusiastically and is learning about canning and how to have a fish pond.

Things are a bit weird up here. But it hasn't been nearly as horrendous as I thought it was going to be.

We all got a bit stressed out this morning though and dad decided to storm off to see about fixing the air conditioner in their house and mom stomped off to see about some groceries. This gave me a quick sneak upstairs alone. Finally, after a week. Alone! And long enough that I could justify pulling out my little naughty bag, popping in a couple of batteries, firing up the erotica stories. I thought I'd be able to sit back, spread wide (even though on the edge of the bed with the laptop on the bureau beside me), and enjoy a slow-building, body-shattering cum. Interesting, it took about 2 paragraphs of naughty older men touching juicy girls and I was buzzing in my panties. Literally about 2 minutes. Good lord! A premature ejac! Quite the first. But understandable no doubt. I took a quick shower (this was after working out and hauling 6 boxes by myself to the storage room) and noted that everyone was still gone. Yes, the little hungry piggie, I sat on the edge of the bed again, laptop in front of me, egg down the thong, and again about 4 minutes this time. Trying to hold off but indulging all the same.

I'm running around like cold barbed wire rolling up my back and cherub cheeks flushed from need. It's impossible. Waking up with wet dreams and ideas of fingers walking down my thighs, wet lips on my belly dimples. It's one eye open and a forced mental block. Push it down. Ignore it. Lock it away.

Meanwhile, Andy and I are making ticklish prep for this Saturday. He asked me via email if I wanted to know the itineray and I thought he was talking about his work schedule that weekend for our out-of-town rendezvous. I guess he meant our itinerary which includes an official, formal, out-in-the-open dinner date - including reservations!

(Taking liberty and posting what I want:)

Me: A real date sounds like a lot of fun... it's not a pity date for your mistress who you haven't ever taken out in public is it?

Anyway... off to use an electric saw on wood pallets between the rains. Man, I can't wait to get my own time and freedom back.

Don't be surprised if I jump you this Sat btw, I've got constant wet dreams right now and am waking up grumpy and frustrated.

Andy: So after about 2 weeks in Paris I wonder if this phrase will come back to haunt you, "Man, I can't wait to get my own time and freedom back. "? I mean I know you'll enjoy the private space and time to keep your sexual sanity, but I'm betting you'll miss some of those demands on your private time as well (like me, I hope).

< and now for some whiplash subject changes! .>

The date is not pity, no. Atonement, maybe a bit. Last chance, most definitely. I'm very much looking forward to it... as in scary, weird, heart pounding, sweating palms, deliriously looking forward to it way too much. My chance to show you what you've missed. What I've missed.

Me: RE: Coming back to haunt me: I'm sure it will. The grass is always greener, right? I know what homesickness is. But, honestly, I think I've grown to become pals with homesickness b/c I've never really had a 'home.' What is it that my myspace page says again? Home is where I rest my head. I'm a more frustrated and affected by loss of freedom/solitude/personal space/privacy. I will most definitely miss certain 'demands' although I never looked at you, or other playmates, as demanding of my time. You were someone to look forward to, and perfectly timed usually. I realize that I probably masturbate 3-8 times a week and have actual physical contact 1-3 times a week. Without either for a month is frustrating and not having that privacy/space to even get off is insanity-driving. I know I'll at least have the latter in Paris, but my wonderful lover(s) will take a lot more work. It's almost like we've built a very reliable but spontaneous connection and that will be hard to find again.

Atonement is an interesting word to use. I am not about to read into it. ... I've been thinking and daydreaming about it. First, I woke up thinking that your wife would come down to surprise you and there we are, in the lobby, small overnight bags. We'd chat and then you'd walk in and be a bit taken aback. We wouldn't get any time together and you'd have to rush to hide the condoms. Then, there's the other spoiler where the US military plans a surprise and it's been hurry up and wait and then is all cancelled. Then, there's total heart pounding, wondering what we would actually do together while dressed with time to converse (does the whole dynamic get squashed when we realize we aren't good conversation partners or does it all improve by 200%), excitement, already running through my closet in my head (ball gown like I'm a princess, secretary wear like you like, a casual dress and boots, underwear or no underwear), how long will we be able to stay dressed and in public - after all, we do have time but not too much time.... all these things. ... What have we missed? I can't wrap my head around it.

Andy: Ok. Atonement. Our... umm.. relationship/affair/tryst thing has been wonderful (what the hell do we call this thing?). But I can't help feeling that I've somehow marginalized you, or just not given you the attention and affection you have so richly deserved. (And I suspect that you feel that by my giving you no strings attached, good sex, that you've gotten what you wanted. But from a guy's perspective that just seems way-too-good-to-be-true.) I just want to make that up to you in some small way. To atone for every second I may have taken you for granted. Not much else to read into it. You don't know what you've got until it's gone...

[complications addresses]

Conversation: Are you kidding me? A little bit of nervous banter, yes. But we're both talkers. And incurable, incorrigible flirts. This will be fun.

Wine: [reminding me] Your bottle of Spatlese, the note and the wine glasses were at the height of my infatuation with you. V1.0. You were on webcam with me, drinking a white wine from a tumbler and I had to chastise you. Will the pallets and woodchips be protecting those glasses?

Ugh: I sometimes snore. Sometimes not. Please think of it as cute and endearing, and not a stain on your memory of me.

Morning: I anticipate needing to leave the hotel by about 7:30 to 8:00. You'd be free to stay until checkout which I think is at 11:00. We can have breakfast sent up if you like.... although I think I recall your not being much of a breakfast person? Too bad we're 12 blocks from the lake... it'd be nice to take a walk on the shore at sunrise....


It's sure to be a delightful evening and morning. Although, we will be skipping the early AM walk, I'm checking to see if he'd enjoy an early quickie instead with some room service on the way.

And for some of those reasons I'm glad I skipped going out this past weekend. Sometimes the wait is worth it -- granted, not like a virginity pledge wait, of course. But a little bit of romantic, sexual, sensual tension inside me and outside in the air between the Mississippi and Lake Michigan might end up just raining a bit of desire across this wet state.

Friday, August 17, 2007

The bluffs of the driftless zone

Well, here we are, kids. 45 minutes ticking down on the free wi-fi access code countdown at the Caribou Coffee shop on County Road PH. It sounds all hick like, but I'm actually staring at a Famous Dave's sign just stretching up toward the furry, green bluffs beyond the parking lot.

So, really there's no reason to cry for me.

I wrote the slumber party entry on Monday night. Tuesday morning I stripped and sold the mattress and boxspring. I had pretty much cleaned as much as I could and as much as I had to. The new tenant had revealed to me that she was coming from a 6-person house where the toilets had to be flushed by reaching a hand into the tank to jiggle the lever/flusher. So, my apartment - with a few smudges or stains or burns - would be a paradise in her perspective. It's all relative, isn't it?

With the cleaning slowing down I had time to email back and forth with Andy. In the middle of vacuuming the closets I realized, if he had this much time to chat back and forth for an hour he must be in town. What the hell? So, instead of grabbing lunch, he grabbed me a bit over his lunch hour. It was rather high school with a bedspread on the carpet and 2 couch pillows. But my how I needed to get fucked and how I needed his cock fucking me. He spent a good 20 minutes making me cum over and over again by sucking on my clit and licking me between my legs. I got the royal fucking, wondering if the next door neighbors could see us through the curtainless window. A last one for the road.

I was out of the apartment by 3pm. Who gets to hug their landlord? I loved that guy. We found Ze dead next door. He let me be 5 months late on rent, and let me catch up on my pace (with James's help). He fixed things when I needed them fixed and didn't say a word about the 3 eyelet holes in the baseboard (where James and I drilled eyelets for rope for the head of the bed).

Stopped by the old office, grabbed the girls for a beer, and hit the road to the west. I haven't really let myself stop going going going since.

Wednesday I went through boxes to re-pack for storage permanence, parental use over 2 years, donation to Goodwill, and onward to Paris. Yes, it took a day. Thursday dad and I went to a big box store and got 4 bags of cedar chips and dried them out on a tarp in the driveway. If you know my military father, you will understand this. If you don't know him, but know a retired military man or someone with a bit too much aim for perfection, then you can understand the drying of the cedar chips. Meanwhile, we got the electric table saw out and tweaked the 4 pallets he got from the local co-op. You know, items in storage for 2 years - pallets to lift the boxes to avoid flooding, cedar chips between the pallets to ward off the bugs. I looked pretty hardcore with ski goggles, ear plugs, and the saw going off. Then, the work colleagues came to town and picked me up to go leaflet around a bad legislator's neighborhood - guerrilla warfare by freaking them out that we've flyered his whole district when really we just got the 4 surrounding blocks. Then, an evening work meeting for supporters in the area.

Today is a lot more mellow. Lay the pallets and cedar out, stack the boxes. Dad has earned the nickname Tetris - I need to show him the game so he gets more appreciation. He told a neighbor, as we were packing up the Uhaul to bring my stuff out here, that as the oldest son of 4 kids in a military family (his dad, my grandpa, could be a dick back then) it was his job to arrange all the suitcases in the station wagon for family trips. Now, he's an expert at fitting squares together. How that applies in retirement, I have no idea other than to help his daughter move.

We drove out to a small town to have lunch. Then, I got the skinny on bike trails and costs. There are a few nice ones along the Mississippi that I'll go for - good 10-25miles one way if I choose.

But it's a bit frustrating now. It's been years since my hormones have had to be inconvenienced. Wet dreams are starting and I'm waking up a bit frustrated. With both parents retired there's not a lot of private time at their house for me. I've noticed that they kind of bounce between the upstairs office/computer, the living room/reading, the kitchen/eating, the downstairs/tv, and mom into her "Ebay room." They are hoarders and it's getting a bit out of control so I'm not letting them keep much for the next 2 years. Nothing I have they really need or have missed. I was up late on Wednesday night watching their millions of cable channels (it's hard to skip the softcore porn - I want to watch b/c it's funny; or the Real Sex on HBO - I want to watch b/c it's interesting -- but my parents are right upstairs and despite the low volume anyone can make out moaning). All of a sudden a brown mouse ran out in front of the floor and ditched back into hiding.

Too much junk in their house. Too many boxes. Too much stuff.

And then there's me. I'm just trying to make it all work. I'm not junk yo. I'm temporary. This is all temporary. I can handle this. Repress the surge and swell of hormones in my brain working their way down to my young body. I'm too young and pretty to let a month of ripe sexuality and eager sensuousness go to waste, but alas, I just don't know how to go about scoring the quickie in a small town. I suppose it is Friday today.... Yeah, but how cheap am I?! After all, if I can wait just a little bit, Andy and I will rendezvous in a week and a day. All I have to do is repress and suppress. And, then, after that, all I have to do is wait 4 days for Minneapolis. And then after that, just a wait for Paris. And, let me tell you, I will be quick for finding there. But if I've not landed a bedmate, at least I'll have private time to wank myself off as I wish.

Things are good in semi-retirement land. There really are no complaints. The town is small but I'm not entirely bored. My parents aren't totally driving me crazy and I don't think I am them either.

I'm running low on time here in the wi-fi. I think I'll make it a habit to stop here though. Get some free space, some juice smoothie, some breathing space.