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.

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.

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.