The order

Andy's lucky because he's reliable and I enjoy fucking him - so he comes first.

My dad talked me out of buying a laptop back when I bought this Dell desktop. I could have been outside on the back stairs typing this with my unhealthy smoke and the cool breeze. Behind the back door, the stairwell light is lit all the time. There is now a web, or many, filled with trapped small bugs. I watched the lady spider clean her house as she crawled about gathering and clipping off the weighted dead bodies. I don't think she would have stopped had I been directly beneath her web. So, I have to walk through clumps of dead tiny bugs. It's a graveyard. And I thought it was apropos to my way of ensnaring lovers, sucking them dry, and releasing them, but now I think it's just regular old housekeeping. I wish my landlord would send someone to clean it up and turn off the light.

I've overbooked myself and am trying to ignore the brink. The thin line where I could fall over into PMS and lose the raw, obsessive horny I felt earlier today. While I am not expected to put out at every date, I want to retain that feeling. The feeling of taut wire to dynamite. Of "take me out back and fuck me in your car."

The cold sore is healing over and now it's a scab on my lower lip. A small scab that color-blind James couldn't see, but that I feel is like the Titanic. I'm trying to avoid picking at it like all my knee scabs or elbow scrapes. Picking is fun. I'm trying to be good.

I've called in sick tomorrow. They pay out for vacation time but not for sick time. I have too many hours accumulated.

Friday night I'm taking Phillip for a ride at a local bar. We've been flirting after knowing each other in professional circles for a while. I wouldn't have pegged him for nasty, dirty but he very well might be. I've been no-holds-barred with my conversations lately as I don't care. I could ditch someone or take them but I'm not schooling anyone or helping them catch up. He's showing a bit of advancement, but being in the same space after our dirty thoughts have been fleshed out will be the real test. Too bad I can't show off my sucking skills right now. He's 48.

Saturday night, "no name" and I will go see "Je t'aime Paris" [Coen brothers] at the new Sundance 608 theatre. Of course, I'm in heat and have senioritis at work so I spent all day emailing the various lovers. He revealed an urgent desire to forcefully fuck me - call girl picked up on the street and taken to a dirty motel or exchange student Lola alone and teenager in Paris raped by an older stranger. He asked if he could stick his cock in my hole tonight. I was brief and said no.

Sunday I will rest in the lap of the Lord.

Monday this new guy wants to see me. The Lolita lover journalist. We chatted on the phone a bit while I was in post-coitus bliss. At times I felt overrun in conversation and like I was trying to get a word in edge-wise. He describes food like it's erotic fucking. Tomatos split open, lasagne that will get him laid. He doesn't want anything serious and he knows I don't. He's 43.

Conserve my energy. When it rains, it pours. I'm keeping Andy in rotation because we're very compatible playmates and we're infrequent enough to make me desire him deeply. [Don't think me a cold fish, Andy. You know what I mean.] I think "no name" has to go. While he's sweet, and if a chick asked me about him as a reference I'd give good reviews, there are too many ticks that drive me away. He does this weird stammer/breathing thing right before he says something out loud. It's like I know he's going to speak every time he goes to say something. Like he's testing the waters. Plus, [as James and I laughed hysterically] at one point toward the end of vacation I was packing and pulled out my heart monitor that wraps around my chest and he asked what that was - in a tone of curious giddiness. I told him and he said he thought it looked like a whip. We were both sunburned naked bodies packing and I joked that yeah, it looked like it and he jumped up on hands and knees on the bed and stuck his ass out like a gay boy wanting a lashing. I was aghast but tried to - unenthusiastically and clumsily - hit his ass with it. I laughed half-ways and said, yeah... uh... I'm just not good... uh... yeahhhh... he went to sit back down grinning, and I jokingly tried to strike again and he hopped up into the same position. I almost wretched. I almost puked. And it was at that moment, like a culmination of little annoyances, that I realized I just couldn't go on. James sent me the pic of Costanza - hilarious, yet mine was worse. I know.. I know.. I'm being horrible, but really. I've been so brutally honest that if he acts like a moron there's nothing I can do.

I'm peeling and my face is breaking out. Sun really isn't good for skin. I am starting to feel ugly although wearing a too-mini-for-work skirt today helped. Conserve the sex-ergy. Stay afloat in horny land. I don't want to leave just yet. I love feeling obsessed and distracted. I love feeling on fire.

Next weekend I'll bleed and find respite and alone time. Turn everyone away. Stay inside myself. Stay inside the apartment. After all, I installed the mini air conditioner today all by myself - trying to remember how James and I did it last year. It was manly and I sweated causing my tan skin to blister. I'm a big girl now.