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.


a said...

This was a real pleasure. Thanks, L.


Monster said...

To read you is to know you, to know you is to love you, and that's about all there is to it.

Rid yourself of fear and desire, says the Buddha. I say, if one can manage that, then one's experiences will be their most valuable, their most visceral, their most obviously exposed and raw and rich.

I like that theme here - insight between worry, clarity between lust, growth between definition.

You've got as good a chance as anybody, and my money's on you.


Anonymous said...

ditto on monster's comments.

plus, i really wanna lick your sweet thang.

'cuz i've seen pics, and i can tell it's delicious.