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.


Yello said...

Gosh, Who's that spankin' new reader ?

The kind of mustach guy who'd like to get a munch of whiskerless pussy ?

Trouble bubble.

Andy said...

Lola > Ether
a MUSE of Ignition

darth sardonic said...

amazing. i have said it before, and will say it again (and again, and again), you are an incredible writer, and should be getting shit published (so should i, apparently, but i am lazy). the first few paragraphs, about writing and communicating, were worth the wait. the rest of the paragraphs, your usual artful yet base erotica, a wonderful and tastey icing on the cake. keep it up whenever you can, i will keep coming back.