Nothing at all interesting is happening.
Christmas Eve, I slaved and made 2 apple pies (which I keep automatically typing applie pies) and 2 vegetarian stuffings (which I am still eating since there were only 7 of us, and not 15 like I had dreamed). Great dinner with new and old friends. Lots of drinking and one embarrassing fart at 3am. I'm trying not to remember it.
I have left my apartment, since Friday 19th, a total of 3 times. Once to see the Italian. Once for Xmas dinner. Once for my friend's birthday out on the town. The rest of the time I've forced myself to at least take a walk around the block or do grocery shopping. I'm turning into Jabba the Hut. But seriously (which I've learned is spelled "srsly" in the www), my staycation (which I've learned is vacation-at-home) has been editing and uploading photos, acquiring new music (mostly from emusic.com, such as Pas Chic Chic, BBC Music Magazine Sampler, The Walkmen, Rodriguez, Bonobo, Heart, Ida Maria, The Pretenders, Pawel Osmolski, Black Mountain, Flying Lotus, The Cinematic Orchestra, Santogold, The Beatles, Lou Reed, Mr. Scruff, Kanye West, Télépopmusik, etc), watching movies (Contact, Virgin Suicides, American Beauty, Y Tu Mama Tambien - in Spanish without subtitles, There Will Be Blood), and then realizing that I have five papers due at the end of January, which should all be written now. So, I pushed one out over Saturday and Sunday and started on another today. I think my ass is taking on the form of the crap chair I sit in.
Friends have called to go out and I've been recluse and bored. A bit of depression for my manic. Yes, the internet has been my world of late. Rather pathetic, and really not a good use of time. I should be job hunting and networking and researching. Not goofing off and Tumblring and Facebooking. Sigh. The internet is my enemy.
In preparation for the new year and my annual superstition that I need to be doing something positive at midnight, I'm going to take a nice, long walk tomorrow in no direction whatsoever. Then, I'll work at least several hours on the current paper. I'm eating a fresh salad and will allow one jack off. And I'd like to drink a nice Pinot Noir if the $ to E hasn't hit 1.50
And you? Got any plans of preparation for your new year? No, no, don't tell me. I don't need more distractions... Ok, well, email them to me instead. My naughty lola inbox has been very, very quiet since all the boys left town.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Vitamin D
Riiiiight. Why am I complaining?
I'm lucky enough not to have to get up at 6am for my job at 8am.
I'm sitting in front of my laptop at home - and could wear pjs if I wanted to.
It's not snowing.
It's warm out.
I am on vacation.
I am healthy with all my limbs and loves.
And, this was my view 5 minutes ago. (So I retract any depression and am upping my Vitamin D cod oil pills.)
I'm lucky enough not to have to get up at 6am for my job at 8am.
I'm sitting in front of my laptop at home - and could wear pjs if I wanted to.
It's not snowing.
It's warm out.
I am on vacation.
I am healthy with all my limbs and loves.
And, this was my view 5 minutes ago. (So I retract any depression and am upping my Vitamin D cod oil pills.)
Thursday, December 18, 2008
I feel funky
The Filmmaker came over last night. I was planning for a nice night at his place with whiskey and smoking in his room. Instead, he came over to mine and we had bottles of wine and smoking.
I told him, because he's the one I feel most comfortable talking truth, that I've felt funny lately. It all started when I woke up just before Thanksgiving weekend to Charlie Brown's Christmas song on Radio K.
I haven't been depressed in a while. For a long time it was rather predictable. Every three months I'd hit a low and curl up with movies and whiskey, a blanket and myself. I'd have to look back in the posts from France to see when the last time was I got blue, but I think this is what it is. I feel Charlie Brown-est.
Thanksgiving was great. The weather here is cold, but there's no snow really and it's not even that cold. The City of Lights has come out in lights to remind us all that tis the season. ... In the States I'd know it was the holidays by the snow. In Spain by the holiday religious songs pumped out through loud speakers on every major walking street. But here, I've forgotten it was holiday season. I got into the Tumblr Secret Santa and even bought holiday cards when I went out for the TSS gift purchase. School is ending tomorrow (technically today) for vacation time. I have like 4 papers all due in January so I'll work over the holidays like I did last year. I won't travel, I don't think. I just don't know where to go or why. Plus, the papers.
TV Producer will go to Israel. The Filmmaker to London. Tall Tom to the USA. The Italian to Italy. This will leave me with the Butcher or the Spaniard, both of whom I haven't seen in a while and don't know what their plans are. (Although, upon sending an email to the Butcher to let him know I was finally uploading the photos from our trip to northern France this summer, he emailed back that he'd look tomorrow as tonight he is drunk drunk drunk and will puke before bed in order to wake up better tomorrow. So not attractive at all.)
A couple of out-of-town girl friends are in town. I expect Adam to return soon - although when he left 2 weeks ago ... way before the period or the real PMS - I wasn't sure he'd be returning.
I feel weird. Even my period was weird this month. With a bit of a showing on one day. Then nothing. Then more showing the next day. Then major cramps, which is highly unusual. Then a torrent. And even during my period the past months Adam kind of stuck around and surprised me with the urge to get off despite it.
I don't want to be depressed over vacation. I don't want to feel lackluster or so tired as I have lately. I'm taking the Vitamin D's to try to keep a sunny balance in my system. But nothing is kicking it.
Sigh.
I told him, because he's the one I feel most comfortable talking truth, that I've felt funny lately. It all started when I woke up just before Thanksgiving weekend to Charlie Brown's Christmas song on Radio K.
I haven't been depressed in a while. For a long time it was rather predictable. Every three months I'd hit a low and curl up with movies and whiskey, a blanket and myself. I'd have to look back in the posts from France to see when the last time was I got blue, but I think this is what it is. I feel Charlie Brown-est.
Thanksgiving was great. The weather here is cold, but there's no snow really and it's not even that cold. The City of Lights has come out in lights to remind us all that tis the season. ... In the States I'd know it was the holidays by the snow. In Spain by the holiday religious songs pumped out through loud speakers on every major walking street. But here, I've forgotten it was holiday season. I got into the Tumblr Secret Santa and even bought holiday cards when I went out for the TSS gift purchase. School is ending tomorrow (technically today) for vacation time. I have like 4 papers all due in January so I'll work over the holidays like I did last year. I won't travel, I don't think. I just don't know where to go or why. Plus, the papers.
TV Producer will go to Israel. The Filmmaker to London. Tall Tom to the USA. The Italian to Italy. This will leave me with the Butcher or the Spaniard, both of whom I haven't seen in a while and don't know what their plans are. (Although, upon sending an email to the Butcher to let him know I was finally uploading the photos from our trip to northern France this summer, he emailed back that he'd look tomorrow as tonight he is drunk drunk drunk and will puke before bed in order to wake up better tomorrow. So not attractive at all.)
A couple of out-of-town girl friends are in town. I expect Adam to return soon - although when he left 2 weeks ago ... way before the period or the real PMS - I wasn't sure he'd be returning.
I feel weird. Even my period was weird this month. With a bit of a showing on one day. Then nothing. Then more showing the next day. Then major cramps, which is highly unusual. Then a torrent. And even during my period the past months Adam kind of stuck around and surprised me with the urge to get off despite it.
I don't want to be depressed over vacation. I don't want to feel lackluster or so tired as I have lately. I'm taking the Vitamin D's to try to keep a sunny balance in my system. But nothing is kicking it.
Sigh.
I blushed
As an aside, I need to clean up the links on the right. Some I don't read anymore. Some are out-dated. Some are lame or gone.
Anyway.
I went to the Gotan Project show on Monday night and it was fan-fucking-tastic. Took Tall Tom with me. Probably annoyed the old French lady next to me as I was dancing in my seat the whole time. You know, that toe-tapping and upper-body dance that one does while forced to keep the ass in seat. She was all like "Oui!" when they asked if we wanted more tango dancing. I was all whistling and clapping and rapping to the more dance songs. It made me miss the Beekeeper so much. When I sent him photos from the show he wrote back how wonderful and that he remembered our Gotan-sexo. Yes. To me he is glory. Me to him is sexo. It's completely expected and real.
After, Tall Tom and I went to dinner at a cozy little place and I caught a taxi home. He SMS'd me after I got home that I should go to his place for sex. Instead, we made a rendezvous for Tuesday night. Over dinner, in another very hip place at Parmentier, after the bottle of wine was almost gone, he commented on me faking orgasms.
I like Tall Tom enough. He's funny, too young for me, totally filthy rich from two years working for an evil financial consultancy (as I can tell), a great storyteller, has crazy piercing eyes, and is great in the sack. But that doesn't mean I'll tell him my deepest secrets. One being, that I really don't orgasm.
I know a few lovers from Christmas past read this blog. And they know what I mean. I cum with some and not with others.
But what I immediately thought, as I turned beet red and tried to feign falseness, is that I never orgasm. I'm not sure why I thought that because later today I pondered on it and realized that I do - but with certain people and at certain times. And that I've developed a habit of the way I fake it such that I'm not really faking it but I am. This sounds horrible.
If anyone really wanted to know, I'd certainly show them the true-cumming-of-Lola. But yes, it has nothing to do with being with another person. ... In fact, later Tall Tom commented that I have intimacy issues. Good lord. He's too young to even know what he's talking about, and if I do, it's really the last thing he should be interested in. We are part-time lovers. We are not psychoanalyst daters.
I did blush though, over wine and being called out. I had no idea what to say because he hasn't earned any brownie points for my secrets. So, I lied. Which I rarely do. Very rarely. Because the truth is always more interesting than lies - especially if it's a hard truth. And the lie was horrible and I know he knew and I know he knew I knew.
Later, he took me back to his place - his new place - on the almost-top floor of a fabulous building in the 20th over-looking a reservoir with too much space for one boy. He wants people to like him - and he's throwing a fun party in January to assure that we all do. Halloween fun party wasn't enough. He's buying an ice sculpture for this one. He plugged in the lights and showed me how they look like water but with colors. And when he ran off to look at other places for the lights, I fell asleep on the couch. And I was impenetrable after that. Granted, Adam has been replaced by period Cecilia. So, he pushed me to bed - in an infantile way - and I slept all night and longer into the day than him.
It was a strange evening and day. He likes me. And I find this odd.
Anyway.
I went to the Gotan Project show on Monday night and it was fan-fucking-tastic. Took Tall Tom with me. Probably annoyed the old French lady next to me as I was dancing in my seat the whole time. You know, that toe-tapping and upper-body dance that one does while forced to keep the ass in seat. She was all like "Oui!" when they asked if we wanted more tango dancing. I was all whistling and clapping and rapping to the more dance songs. It made me miss the Beekeeper so much. When I sent him photos from the show he wrote back how wonderful and that he remembered our Gotan-sexo. Yes. To me he is glory. Me to him is sexo. It's completely expected and real.
After, Tall Tom and I went to dinner at a cozy little place and I caught a taxi home. He SMS'd me after I got home that I should go to his place for sex. Instead, we made a rendezvous for Tuesday night. Over dinner, in another very hip place at Parmentier, after the bottle of wine was almost gone, he commented on me faking orgasms.
I like Tall Tom enough. He's funny, too young for me, totally filthy rich from two years working for an evil financial consultancy (as I can tell), a great storyteller, has crazy piercing eyes, and is great in the sack. But that doesn't mean I'll tell him my deepest secrets. One being, that I really don't orgasm.
I know a few lovers from Christmas past read this blog. And they know what I mean. I cum with some and not with others.
But what I immediately thought, as I turned beet red and tried to feign falseness, is that I never orgasm. I'm not sure why I thought that because later today I pondered on it and realized that I do - but with certain people and at certain times. And that I've developed a habit of the way I fake it such that I'm not really faking it but I am. This sounds horrible.
If anyone really wanted to know, I'd certainly show them the true-cumming-of-Lola. But yes, it has nothing to do with being with another person. ... In fact, later Tall Tom commented that I have intimacy issues. Good lord. He's too young to even know what he's talking about, and if I do, it's really the last thing he should be interested in. We are part-time lovers. We are not psychoanalyst daters.
I did blush though, over wine and being called out. I had no idea what to say because he hasn't earned any brownie points for my secrets. So, I lied. Which I rarely do. Very rarely. Because the truth is always more interesting than lies - especially if it's a hard truth. And the lie was horrible and I know he knew and I know he knew I knew.
Later, he took me back to his place - his new place - on the almost-top floor of a fabulous building in the 20th over-looking a reservoir with too much space for one boy. He wants people to like him - and he's throwing a fun party in January to assure that we all do. Halloween fun party wasn't enough. He's buying an ice sculpture for this one. He plugged in the lights and showed me how they look like water but with colors. And when he ran off to look at other places for the lights, I fell asleep on the couch. And I was impenetrable after that. Granted, Adam has been replaced by period Cecilia. So, he pushed me to bed - in an infantile way - and I slept all night and longer into the day than him.
It was a strange evening and day. He likes me. And I find this odd.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
I am smart
I'm not afraid of saying I'm wrong when I'm wrong. Not afraid of bad guesses or failure. But when I'm right on something that could have been wrong, I'm happy.
So, I had extensive email exchanges with the French dom guy because I came away from our date feeling like I was being rushed into something, feeling like I didn't have full disclosure - and wasn't giving enough disclosure, feeling like something was missing. My intuition is finely tuned and strong and I trust it more than I trust facts. Certainly, I base my decisions on a combination of both, but this time there was something in the facts that made me unsettled. It wasn't that he felt like a freak killer. It wasn't that he felt like a madman. Wasn't that he felt like a poseur, because I don't believe that the case. It just felt like he ... well, wasn't "right."
For our playdate tomorrow, I was supposed to wear no underwear, wear garters and stockings, walk in without a safeword but play a "joker system" (I refuse something, we don't do it, but next time I have to do something he chooses and I *have* to do it), and he had hoped I'd be able to be waxed. He had offered cab fare there and back so I wouldn't be wetting myself on the metro. But because of the "feelings" I had, I asked that, instead of having the playdate, we have another public meeting to discuss a bit more. Submissiveness is not a toy. Sure, I might be a pragmatic, practical, over-analyzing American, but I'm not a risk-taker in bdsm. I am a treasure, a sublime sub, and I'll give and take anything once I trust the dom. (Although Sir K did confirm my statement that I'm not a pain slut, and therefore have many limitations.)
So, tonight I got an email from the French dom (and sent one similar, although shorter, back):
Finally recovered all your mails, the latest one had just, for unknown reasons, been directed to my spam box…and only this morning…..!
I've thought quite a lot about the situation; we spent two and a half hours together discussing things openly, intelligently and in quite some details.
As you admitted yourself, you have a strong tendency to "top from bottom" and then you obviously tend to be very analytical about every single issue.
You're a charming and interesting as a person and I would have loved to train you, but I am far too experienced and sure about the way I should handle things to consider one second being "topped from bottom".
Also, I think that if in over two hours, I did not manage to create some feeling of trust, than I'm really very bad at proving who I am or at least could be.
So, I don't think another two or three hours of discussion will change anything, and in fact the simple idea of that bores me to death...
Sorry to be so frank, but we'll leave it here and I wish you an enjoyable stay in Paris, full success at school and a lot of kinky fun ;-)
Kiss
%%%%%%%%%%
I thanked him for his frankness, because I prefer it over bullshit. Wished him well in finding the sub he is hoping to find and thanked him for his time.
Interestingly, at our date, I told him I had topped from the bottom with several boyfriends since I was, in essence, dating vanilla men and showing them bdsm / asking for and demonstrating what I wanted from them. The French dom obviously was not listening to me at all. I love that discussion "bores him to death" - what a moron.
This is a perfect reminder for me, and a perfect lesson for newbie submissives who are dying for domination, who are so eager once they have found bdsm and that it resonates so deeply in them that they want to do *anything* for *anyone* to satisfy the craving. Thing is, it's *our* gift to give. Not that we're "holier than thou," but that we're the ones giving up control, losing ourselves, abandoning rationalization in a scene, and, desiring to please - in any way possible - our dominants. But those doms need to earn that freedom, need to prove their trustworthiness, need to demonstrate composure, compassion, knowledge, control, and an understanding of what submissives are offering. No, this is not a "top from the bottom" idea, this is about safety, trust, compatibility, equality, understanding, open communication, and mutual respect. Once a submissive and dom have established that kind of relationship (not meaning one of love or dating or whatever), then, fine, let all things go - including safewords if it's appropriate. But before that, it's a hazard waiting to happen.
I'm much too proud of who I am and what amazingness I can offer to just give it to anyone. And the French dom wasn't willing to even respect me enough to have a coffee and explore. His loss. Poor bastard.
So, I had extensive email exchanges with the French dom guy because I came away from our date feeling like I was being rushed into something, feeling like I didn't have full disclosure - and wasn't giving enough disclosure, feeling like something was missing. My intuition is finely tuned and strong and I trust it more than I trust facts. Certainly, I base my decisions on a combination of both, but this time there was something in the facts that made me unsettled. It wasn't that he felt like a freak killer. It wasn't that he felt like a madman. Wasn't that he felt like a poseur, because I don't believe that the case. It just felt like he ... well, wasn't "right."
For our playdate tomorrow, I was supposed to wear no underwear, wear garters and stockings, walk in without a safeword but play a "joker system" (I refuse something, we don't do it, but next time I have to do something he chooses and I *have* to do it), and he had hoped I'd be able to be waxed. He had offered cab fare there and back so I wouldn't be wetting myself on the metro. But because of the "feelings" I had, I asked that, instead of having the playdate, we have another public meeting to discuss a bit more. Submissiveness is not a toy. Sure, I might be a pragmatic, practical, over-analyzing American, but I'm not a risk-taker in bdsm. I am a treasure, a sublime sub, and I'll give and take anything once I trust the dom. (Although Sir K did confirm my statement that I'm not a pain slut, and therefore have many limitations.)
So, tonight I got an email from the French dom (and sent one similar, although shorter, back):
Finally recovered all your mails, the latest one had just, for unknown reasons, been directed to my spam box…and only this morning…..!
I've thought quite a lot about the situation; we spent two and a half hours together discussing things openly, intelligently and in quite some details.
As you admitted yourself, you have a strong tendency to "top from bottom" and then you obviously tend to be very analytical about every single issue.
You're a charming and interesting as a person and I would have loved to train you, but I am far too experienced and sure about the way I should handle things to consider one second being "topped from bottom".
Also, I think that if in over two hours, I did not manage to create some feeling of trust, than I'm really very bad at proving who I am or at least could be.
So, I don't think another two or three hours of discussion will change anything, and in fact the simple idea of that bores me to death...
Sorry to be so frank, but we'll leave it here and I wish you an enjoyable stay in Paris, full success at school and a lot of kinky fun ;-)
Kiss
%%%%%%%%%%
I thanked him for his frankness, because I prefer it over bullshit. Wished him well in finding the sub he is hoping to find and thanked him for his time.
Interestingly, at our date, I told him I had topped from the bottom with several boyfriends since I was, in essence, dating vanilla men and showing them bdsm / asking for and demonstrating what I wanted from them. The French dom obviously was not listening to me at all. I love that discussion "bores him to death" - what a moron.
This is a perfect reminder for me, and a perfect lesson for newbie submissives who are dying for domination, who are so eager once they have found bdsm and that it resonates so deeply in them that they want to do *anything* for *anyone* to satisfy the craving. Thing is, it's *our* gift to give. Not that we're "holier than thou," but that we're the ones giving up control, losing ourselves, abandoning rationalization in a scene, and, desiring to please - in any way possible - our dominants. But those doms need to earn that freedom, need to prove their trustworthiness, need to demonstrate composure, compassion, knowledge, control, and an understanding of what submissives are offering. No, this is not a "top from the bottom" idea, this is about safety, trust, compatibility, equality, understanding, open communication, and mutual respect. Once a submissive and dom have established that kind of relationship (not meaning one of love or dating or whatever), then, fine, let all things go - including safewords if it's appropriate. But before that, it's a hazard waiting to happen.
I'm much too proud of who I am and what amazingness I can offer to just give it to anyone. And the French dom wasn't willing to even respect me enough to have a coffee and explore. His loss. Poor bastard.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The French Dom
He works in finance. He's barely younger than my father. He used to be assistant deputy to the Prime Minister. He drives a Smart car. He wanted me to eat at our date. He is mysterious and his version of slave/master is different than I know it. We'll see how the date goes.
From Tumblr:
Me: many questions
the French dom: You're smart and you're certainly deeply perverted or "pervertable" ;-)
the French dom: Stop pondering! It's a huge waste of energy at the stage you are at. You will be trained to serve not because of an "ability" but because this is what you desire, and you just have to admit it and be shameless about it.
the French dom: Story of O, the beautification of a woman totally helpless in the firm hands of a ruthless, but kind in depth, master
the French dom: I want you to serve me to perfection, to learn, know and want to please me however difficult this may be for you and to know that this is not only your duty but your pleasure
the French dom: All form of trousers are strictly forbidden, so skirt or dress. All underwear is strictly forbidden, including hiding it in your coat or handbag ;-). You will wear stockings, preferably black, but not the self standing ones, those you need a garter belt to hold them up, and this garter belt has to be as simple and sleek as possible.(you have an unlimited budget from me for this)
Me: ... always liked an unlimited budget. And just so you's all don't freak out. A woman totally helpless and serving to perfection as duty - well, you gotta brush up on your bdsm knowledge and knowing that this is actually total liberation as in Women's Lib circa '70s, except reinvented for the '00s. Just as a man CEO can go to a dominatrix for ball-crushing release, so, too, can a successful woman go to a dom for breast-crushing freedom. I do have a deep desire to learn what it's like to be completely submissive, but I'm finding it's harder to imagine than it was before. Not so much for safety sake, but control factors. I'm so in control these days and haven't had to let much go - not with the Beekeeper, not the Filmmaker, not the TV Producer (I directed the spanking, not him), not the Spaniard, not the Italian. So, is it possible for me to let go entirely and be a subject? Hmmm interesting personal progression.
From Tumblr:
Me: many questions
the French dom: You're smart and you're certainly deeply perverted or "pervertable" ;-)
the French dom: Stop pondering! It's a huge waste of energy at the stage you are at. You will be trained to serve not because of an "ability" but because this is what you desire, and you just have to admit it and be shameless about it.
the French dom: Story of O, the beautification of a woman totally helpless in the firm hands of a ruthless, but kind in depth, master
the French dom: I want you to serve me to perfection, to learn, know and want to please me however difficult this may be for you and to know that this is not only your duty but your pleasure
the French dom: All form of trousers are strictly forbidden, so skirt or dress. All underwear is strictly forbidden, including hiding it in your coat or handbag ;-). You will wear stockings, preferably black, but not the self standing ones, those you need a garter belt to hold them up, and this garter belt has to be as simple and sleek as possible.(you have an unlimited budget from me for this)
Me: ... always liked an unlimited budget. And just so you's all don't freak out. A woman totally helpless and serving to perfection as duty - well, you gotta brush up on your bdsm knowledge and knowing that this is actually total liberation as in Women's Lib circa '70s, except reinvented for the '00s. Just as a man CEO can go to a dominatrix for ball-crushing release, so, too, can a successful woman go to a dom for breast-crushing freedom. I do have a deep desire to learn what it's like to be completely submissive, but I'm finding it's harder to imagine than it was before. Not so much for safety sake, but control factors. I'm so in control these days and haven't had to let much go - not with the Beekeeper, not the Filmmaker, not the TV Producer (I directed the spanking, not him), not the Spaniard, not the Italian. So, is it possible for me to let go entirely and be a subject? Hmmm interesting personal progression.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
French Dom date
check the Tumblr
omg
am I ready for something so serious?
Not like everyday 24/7 slave thing, but pretty much otherwise if you subtract the 24/7 part.
Serious old school dominant - is how he comes across. We'll see I guess when I show up on Saturday for a session.... er... training.
omg
am I ready for something so serious?
Not like everyday 24/7 slave thing, but pretty much otherwise if you subtract the 24/7 part.
Serious old school dominant - is how he comes across. We'll see I guess when I show up on Saturday for a session.... er... training.
Friday, November 28, 2008
New photos and words
There are new photos over on Flickr, including the sets:
One-night stand via taxi
"Slut" by flimmaker
The Spaniard 1 and 2
Halloween night and the day after (featuring Tall Tom and a few drunk kids, as well as a few glimpses of school-girl Lola)
Spanking with the TV Producer
Italian playboy
It's Friday and I don't care that it's a weekend because week days have been weekends. I'm home, laundry is drying, and I'm catching up on relaxation, photos, writing, chilling.
I'm not sure if it's that I'm fiercely independent, or so content where I am right now, or that I just don't miss my immediate family, but I saw some photos of Thanksgiving and it looked like snore-bore and yawn and tension - and I didn't feel like I missed anything. I had a half-hour Skype with them before they had to cook the turkey and I ran off to have pasta al dente with the Italian. It made me cringe. My sister has such an expertise at retaining unhappiness and being passive-aggressive. My mother is clearly drowning in suburbia and has no idea how to help herself. My father looked perpetually bored and regretful. And this was just a half-hour, from across the pond, through a video stream. I do love them. I do. But I just can't stand to be with them very much. My dad and I get along the best because we have a knack to cut through bullshit and talk politics, real life, and can be honest with each other. But even he's a fucker - not so nice to my mom always (but they're going on 40 years anniversary so it can't be that bad). And, I'm certainly not perfect in the mix. I only wish I could know what they honestly thought.
I haven't seen the filmmaker in a month. He's out at a 1920's party tonight, to which I was invited and forwarded to him. I need to see him again, but in moderation. There was so much whiskey and crazy Lola.
The one-night-stand guy keeps SMSing me about when I want to hang out again. Ugh. Not with a dude that shows up at the door in his boxers and tee-shirt, with the TV blaring. Yucky.
The Spaniard sent me a short story about him emailing with a chick who wanted him and her boyfriend to fuck her. He ended up meeting the boyfriend, going to the same bathroom stall in a restaurant and jacking off together. He moved further across town so it's not as easy to see him.
Especially when the Italian lives 10 minutes walking distance from me. The only thing is that the Italian seems to be on a rampage. Free from his 3-year relationship (the last 2 years he cheated though), he says he's "experimenting" right now. I'm not sure where I fit into that experimentation, but he fucked a virgin midget. Yes. He told me the whole story after he said he was "experimenting." He fucked a teacher. He fucked a married Mexican woman, taking her ass virginity. It's strange to see myself in a mirror. Although, I know I'm a MUCH better kisser - after the first night I came away with chin rug burn from his stubble. I'm also more interested in finding a rotation of reliable lovers, whereas he just seems to be out to fuck all the women in Paris. He's had at least twice as many lovers as I have in the past month. It kind of makes me feel dirty, which makes me think about my own lifestyle. .... But then, he pulls out the olives, bread, homemade guacamole, wine, and makes pasta al dente. And in the morning he pours perfectly strong coffee, serves small chocolate croissants, and homemade tiramisu. This morning he had to leave super early for work and SMS'd me: "Buongiorno bella, whenever you wake up there is a tiramisù waiting for you. I made it for you, don't disappoint me... baci"
On Tuesday night, Tall Tom took me to dinner. A kir royale to start. I had escargot, he had funny mashed potatoes. Then, he had the veal and I had the salmon. We shared our desserts and had two bottles of wine. 80 Euro dinner. He's very sweet to me, which throws me for a loop. He calls me, tenderly, "silly Lola" and is treating me so nicely, almost like a girlfriend. I'm not sure how I like this. I like the secrecy part of it, as he attends my program, but just started this year so we don't have any classes together. But then, in the morning, he wants me to pet his head and body and wants to roll me over into his arms, resting my head on his chest. I told him it felt awkward.
Strange.
Strange things.
School is fine. It was quiet for the past 3 weeks, which was totally needed. Now, I'm seeing the finish lines for papers and need to get working. In my small group, we've finally figured out what our final project will be, which will involve a multi-national corporation, a European Union directive, an emerging economy in EU, and making an enterprise risk management toolkit to integrate into their plans for expanding their markets into this country. Should be fun! Some travel, some interviews, some work. Meanwhile, I'm also starting the job search. ... Know anyone hiring? I'm really good at ... um... well.. heh.. No, I won't do that. Silly!
Look for my expanded entry on my trip to Bahrain. My bag searched in a Muslim country, me working for Euros, the ex-pat party with gay Saudis, the flight over Iraq, the thousand men and one woman, the camels, etc...
One-night stand via taxi
"Slut" by flimmaker
The Spaniard 1 and 2
Halloween night and the day after (featuring Tall Tom and a few drunk kids, as well as a few glimpses of school-girl Lola)
Spanking with the TV Producer
Italian playboy
It's Friday and I don't care that it's a weekend because week days have been weekends. I'm home, laundry is drying, and I'm catching up on relaxation, photos, writing, chilling.
I'm not sure if it's that I'm fiercely independent, or so content where I am right now, or that I just don't miss my immediate family, but I saw some photos of Thanksgiving and it looked like snore-bore and yawn and tension - and I didn't feel like I missed anything. I had a half-hour Skype with them before they had to cook the turkey and I ran off to have pasta al dente with the Italian. It made me cringe. My sister has such an expertise at retaining unhappiness and being passive-aggressive. My mother is clearly drowning in suburbia and has no idea how to help herself. My father looked perpetually bored and regretful. And this was just a half-hour, from across the pond, through a video stream. I do love them. I do. But I just can't stand to be with them very much. My dad and I get along the best because we have a knack to cut through bullshit and talk politics, real life, and can be honest with each other. But even he's a fucker - not so nice to my mom always (but they're going on 40 years anniversary so it can't be that bad). And, I'm certainly not perfect in the mix. I only wish I could know what they honestly thought.
I haven't seen the filmmaker in a month. He's out at a 1920's party tonight, to which I was invited and forwarded to him. I need to see him again, but in moderation. There was so much whiskey and crazy Lola.
The one-night-stand guy keeps SMSing me about when I want to hang out again. Ugh. Not with a dude that shows up at the door in his boxers and tee-shirt, with the TV blaring. Yucky.
The Spaniard sent me a short story about him emailing with a chick who wanted him and her boyfriend to fuck her. He ended up meeting the boyfriend, going to the same bathroom stall in a restaurant and jacking off together. He moved further across town so it's not as easy to see him.
Especially when the Italian lives 10 minutes walking distance from me. The only thing is that the Italian seems to be on a rampage. Free from his 3-year relationship (the last 2 years he cheated though), he says he's "experimenting" right now. I'm not sure where I fit into that experimentation, but he fucked a virgin midget. Yes. He told me the whole story after he said he was "experimenting." He fucked a teacher. He fucked a married Mexican woman, taking her ass virginity. It's strange to see myself in a mirror. Although, I know I'm a MUCH better kisser - after the first night I came away with chin rug burn from his stubble. I'm also more interested in finding a rotation of reliable lovers, whereas he just seems to be out to fuck all the women in Paris. He's had at least twice as many lovers as I have in the past month. It kind of makes me feel dirty, which makes me think about my own lifestyle. .... But then, he pulls out the olives, bread, homemade guacamole, wine, and makes pasta al dente. And in the morning he pours perfectly strong coffee, serves small chocolate croissants, and homemade tiramisu. This morning he had to leave super early for work and SMS'd me: "Buongiorno bella, whenever you wake up there is a tiramisù waiting for you. I made it for you, don't disappoint me... baci"
On Tuesday night, Tall Tom took me to dinner. A kir royale to start. I had escargot, he had funny mashed potatoes. Then, he had the veal and I had the salmon. We shared our desserts and had two bottles of wine. 80 Euro dinner. He's very sweet to me, which throws me for a loop. He calls me, tenderly, "silly Lola" and is treating me so nicely, almost like a girlfriend. I'm not sure how I like this. I like the secrecy part of it, as he attends my program, but just started this year so we don't have any classes together. But then, in the morning, he wants me to pet his head and body and wants to roll me over into his arms, resting my head on his chest. I told him it felt awkward.
Strange.
Strange things.
School is fine. It was quiet for the past 3 weeks, which was totally needed. Now, I'm seeing the finish lines for papers and need to get working. In my small group, we've finally figured out what our final project will be, which will involve a multi-national corporation, a European Union directive, an emerging economy in EU, and making an enterprise risk management toolkit to integrate into their plans for expanding their markets into this country. Should be fun! Some travel, some interviews, some work. Meanwhile, I'm also starting the job search. ... Know anyone hiring? I'm really good at ... um... well.. heh.. No, I won't do that. Silly!
Look for my expanded entry on my trip to Bahrain. My bag searched in a Muslim country, me working for Euros, the ex-pat party with gay Saudis, the flight over Iraq, the thousand men and one woman, the camels, etc...
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
This week
Monday and Tuesday
the New Italian and Tall Tom
over on Tumblr for now
sigh. such a damn lucky girl.
the New Italian and Tall Tom
over on Tumblr for now
sigh. such a damn lucky girl.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
A nice reminder
Because I was just re-reading my Alt.com profile and wondering if I'm turning into a spanko.
My Testimonials
SirKeithD
Apr 2, 2007
lolita is totally beautiful on so many levels that it's difficult to use only words. She is more physically beautiful than her pics suggest, more insightful and intelligent than her profile suggests, has an especially sexy voice, smells great and tastes delicious!!
She's honest and considerate, and appropriate (i.e., a Lady when called for, and a GFE just when you hope so).
An exhilarating woman for any man to know, especially the more so for an experienced Dominant jaded by the vacuousness of so much of cyber.
This woman is not for the amateur, if your ready, she is that higher level that is calling.
Five stars.
My Testimonials
SirKeithD
Apr 2, 2007
lolita is totally beautiful on so many levels that it's difficult to use only words. She is more physically beautiful than her pics suggest, more insightful and intelligent than her profile suggests, has an especially sexy voice, smells great and tastes delicious!!
She's honest and considerate, and appropriate (i.e., a Lady when called for, and a GFE just when you hope so).
An exhilarating woman for any man to know, especially the more so for an experienced Dominant jaded by the vacuousness of so much of cyber.
This woman is not for the amateur, if your ready, she is that higher level that is calling.
Five stars.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Spanky bottom
Sorry, James, but even a spanking is better than workout at the gym.
If Sir K reads this, I'd like him to know that I miss his flogging tremendously. It was better than a gym workout and better than the massage I had in London.
But tonight came very very very close to both.
A half-hour of catching up and and then 2 hours of pure spanking and fondling. Granted, I wish my cock-sucking skills weren't what they are, because men seem to call me back specifically for that talent. Still, he spent more time on me than I did on him. And, man, I feel relaxed as if I'd been to an all-day spa with pedicure, hair cut, deep Swedish massage, and a healthy fruit drink at the end.
He showed me the new art piece on his wall that he'd re-acquired from his ex wife. We were standing in the living room, after wine and talk of our vacations. I asked him to take it off the wall - an intaglio print (I may have impressed him). He put it back on the wall and reached to my sweater, unbuttoned it, and started pinching my nipples gently. "Harder," I whispered. He reached inside my shirt, pulled my tits out from my bra, and pinched them harder through the flimsy blue shirt. I kept my head down. He turned me around and bent me over the back of his couch. His right hand on my right cheek. Slapping then rubbing and then fondling me through my girl panties.
Pigtails, a school girl skirt, boots, and my girl panties. He knew I was coming over for this. It was no surprise. But I think we both thought it wouldn't be so prolonged. After a long while of interchanging his hands and my cheeks he pulled me up, changed the CD from classical to modern and lowered me onto my knees in front of him.
He helped me keep the rhythm with my hand and would lift my face forcefully to look at him. "Ask me to have more." I wanted to suck more because I wasn't sure my hand could last or that it'd get dry. And I wanted him in my mouth. He smells so sweet, so soft, so clean, so fresh, so pure and what I do to him is the complete opposite of this. "C'est bon ça." He says this and it reminds me of the Economist Beekeeper. I'll forever think of him when I hear those words. And, now I will think of both the lovers. "Je viens." He had my tits open and surrounding my hand on his cock and my mouth barely touching him. He wanted to move me so I wouldn't be assaulted by his cum, but I stayed and sucked and licked and chupa.
And then I showed him the toys and he wanted to try them out.
You can see some of the night over on Tumblr, where I posted some pics.
More will be over on Flickr soon. If you want to see them, let me know.
Somewhere between finger fucking me and spanking me at the same time, I decided I wanted to come home and be alone to sleep. I've slept better with Tall Tom than with the TV Producer. But more than that, I just wanted this moment with him. Not a full date. Just this needed moment.
God it was lovely.
If Sir K reads this, I'd like him to know that I miss his flogging tremendously. It was better than a gym workout and better than the massage I had in London.
But tonight came very very very close to both.
A half-hour of catching up and and then 2 hours of pure spanking and fondling. Granted, I wish my cock-sucking skills weren't what they are, because men seem to call me back specifically for that talent. Still, he spent more time on me than I did on him. And, man, I feel relaxed as if I'd been to an all-day spa with pedicure, hair cut, deep Swedish massage, and a healthy fruit drink at the end.
He showed me the new art piece on his wall that he'd re-acquired from his ex wife. We were standing in the living room, after wine and talk of our vacations. I asked him to take it off the wall - an intaglio print (I may have impressed him). He put it back on the wall and reached to my sweater, unbuttoned it, and started pinching my nipples gently. "Harder," I whispered. He reached inside my shirt, pulled my tits out from my bra, and pinched them harder through the flimsy blue shirt. I kept my head down. He turned me around and bent me over the back of his couch. His right hand on my right cheek. Slapping then rubbing and then fondling me through my girl panties.
Pigtails, a school girl skirt, boots, and my girl panties. He knew I was coming over for this. It was no surprise. But I think we both thought it wouldn't be so prolonged. After a long while of interchanging his hands and my cheeks he pulled me up, changed the CD from classical to modern and lowered me onto my knees in front of him.
He helped me keep the rhythm with my hand and would lift my face forcefully to look at him. "Ask me to have more." I wanted to suck more because I wasn't sure my hand could last or that it'd get dry. And I wanted him in my mouth. He smells so sweet, so soft, so clean, so fresh, so pure and what I do to him is the complete opposite of this. "C'est bon ça." He says this and it reminds me of the Economist Beekeeper. I'll forever think of him when I hear those words. And, now I will think of both the lovers. "Je viens." He had my tits open and surrounding my hand on his cock and my mouth barely touching him. He wanted to move me so I wouldn't be assaulted by his cum, but I stayed and sucked and licked and chupa.
And then I showed him the toys and he wanted to try them out.
You can see some of the night over on Tumblr, where I posted some pics.
More will be over on Flickr soon. If you want to see them, let me know.
Somewhere between finger fucking me and spanking me at the same time, I decided I wanted to come home and be alone to sleep. I've slept better with Tall Tom than with the TV Producer. But more than that, I just wanted this moment with him. Not a full date. Just this needed moment.
God it was lovely.
You think you surf anonymously
But you don't.
Just to remind you again, Mr. Prairie du Sac, that this isn't the only information I get on you when I look at who my visitors are...
Domain Name norlight.net (Network)
IP Address 209.83.88.# (Badger Internet)
ISP Norlight Telecommunications
Location
Continent : North America
Country : United States (Facts)
State : Wisconsin
City : Prairie Du Sac
Remember when you got banned last year, sweetie? I have no problem doing that again. In fact, I'm kind of fed up with the dumb way that Blogger manages comments anyway.
I'd also like to remind readers that it's probably best not to surf my blog, most of Tumblr, and really half of the internet world from your workplace. The IT guys collect that info. So, unless you're the head boss of the BMW store near Stony Brook, NY, I'd suggest that you be careful what you visit during the business day. Please stop by another time, when you're safely alone at the cyber cafe, at home, or at your mistress' apartment.
Just to remind you again, Mr. Prairie du Sac, that this isn't the only information I get on you when I look at who my visitors are...
Domain Name norlight.net (Network)
IP Address 209.83.88.# (Badger Internet)
ISP Norlight Telecommunications
Location
Continent : North America
Country : United States (Facts)
State : Wisconsin
City : Prairie Du Sac
Remember when you got banned last year, sweetie? I have no problem doing that again. In fact, I'm kind of fed up with the dumb way that Blogger manages comments anyway.
I'd also like to remind readers that it's probably best not to surf my blog, most of Tumblr, and really half of the internet world from your workplace. The IT guys collect that info. So, unless you're the head boss of the BMW store near Stony Brook, NY, I'd suggest that you be careful what you visit during the business day. Please stop by another time, when you're safely alone at the cyber cafe, at home, or at your mistress' apartment.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
If I were to get a job with the Obama Admin
To: Those who have access to CDOA and other, more family-friendly places
RE: Please contact me
Subject: How much of a bribe do you need to be quiet?
RE: Please contact me
Subject: How much of a bribe do you need to be quiet?
The birth of Adam
Seriously, I can’t remember when it happened, but I’m pretty sure it was somewhere around … no wait.
I had my first free, alone apartment when I went to Spain in ‘97, I was 22, and yet I shared a bathroom with a Colombian woman. I had snuck some pot in my bat box, covered it with perfume tear-outs of a girlie magazine, wrapped it in toilet paper and had in a plastic bag. I was obviously not thinking properly that I’d fly from Minneapolis to NYC to Amsterdam and would be groggy when passing a drug-sniffing dog. But I passed through and smoked a little bit over the year I lived there. I still didn’t know how to touch myself. But I had freedom from living with 6 or 10 roommates.
When I moved back in ‘98 I got my first solo apartment and spent too much time discovering the internet and dialing 1-800 hook-up-sex lines. I had a couple of those guys over but still didn’t know how to touch myself alone. I moved again, into Sheila’s old apartment. She was like 10 years my senior and taking photo classes at my uni. She left me her full couch and brought me as her photo assistant to Paisley Park to photo a guitarist - and we ran into Prince. It was in this apartment that I accidentally stumbled into bdsm online, when some 44-year-old guy from NJ mistook me for another girl on chat and over the days on his phone bill tried to entice me to pour candle wax on myself. I realized that I couldn’t do this kind of torture to myself but deeply wanted someone else to do it. I bought a pair of painful metal handcuffs, a ball gag, and a rabbit vibrator with a full body dildo and wiggly ears for the clit. I scared my then-boyfriend with the fact that I didn’t want just straight sex but wanted to be tied up. Still, I didn’t get off with the rabbit and didn’t know how to touch myself.
When I moved to Madison to live with a lover - which failed - I moved out, got my own place, on my birthday. Sometime around then, 2001, when I was 26, I was wandering drunk on State Street and ended up in the State St Arcade and was perusing the porn mags.
Porn stores are not women-friendly. Despite the fact that pdh and I fucked in one of the cabins, while some stranger guy jacked off watching us - before they closed the cabins down and shut the whole shop up - it was still not a welcoming place for solo chicks. Even A Woman’s Touch felt foreign, with their uber silence and origami waterfall zen atmosphere, showcasing all the dildos and vibrators and toys and books and lingerie like they knew better how to cater to chicks. It didn’t do it for me. Nor did the Arcade, where the gum-snapping college kid who cared less about you but still looked at you in disgust would run your dirty items through the check-out scan, give you free batteries and roll their eyes as they said thanks. Neither of these places made me feel very free to find myself. Still, I felt more pressure in the Arcade to buy something and try something - because I was a woman in a man’s store, because I was daring, because I was drunk and seeking. Where the Touch store made me feel like I should KNOW what I want and want what I KNOW.
In the end, I grabbed a couple of toys to try and when I tried the Doc Johnson’s egg vibrator, I was hooked. There’s no rabbit, no whirls or zings or big fat cock-wannabes, no zaps or pain or hums or whirrs. I just had to place it in my undies, turn the porn on, or select an erotic story to read, and went off. Yeah, yeah, men fear the clit factor - that they’ll be replaced by clitoral satisfaction or a girl who doesn’t need a dildo inserted is some kind of lesbian wannabe. So not true. I need men and I need male parts and touch and testosterone on my skin, but there’s really no comparison between a fuck orgasm and an alone vibrator orgasm.
The Doc Johnson, which I refer to as the egg vibrator, doesn’t burn out after a quick or long use. Actually, it depends on one’s usage, but mine lasted a pretty long time until I either burned out the batteries or broke the wire for bending it in certain ways for long hours in my pants.
But even in 2001, it wasn’t yet Adam time. It was just me, joyous and Christmas day happy that I’d found a way to get off when I wasn’t able to get off with a date. A completely new idea, a new feeling, and god I felt so late in the coming of finding it.
But when I did… well, it was certainly my drunken girl phase, when I was a waitress at the local historic theatre/restaurant/bar, fucking boys in the theatre after-hours, serving under-age kids, tossing shots, and sliding fancy food onto big payers’ tables. Around this time, I also registered to be a certified, ordained marriage official. I filled the boxes online, printed the certificate, and could marry anyone who asked. So, I married me to myself. I also fooled around with the Ouija board - not too distant cousin from the marriage officiator - and made my own board when alone and asked my own silly questions.
When the strangers came knocking on my door one night and asked if I’d seen my neighbor in a few days, and then we called the landlord to bring us the keys to his apartment, and when the landlord couldn’t open the door for fear and I did instead, and found Ze dead on the floor, well, it kind of signified the drunk world colliding with the dead world. I freaked out. And realized that yes, I do see dead people. And, yes, perhaps I should stop fucking with the Ouija board.
But it might have been too late.
I think that if I had to pinpoint, it would have been that time that discovering self-pleasure coincided with Adam’s incarnation inside me. After those days, I’d have no problem with taking vacation time to stay at home on a Thursday or Friday to extend the weekend, holing up with frozen pizza, Maker’s Mark, cigarettes, and the egg vibrator. My viewing became progressively naughtier. Porn stars fucking on couches, amateurs in beds, some chick and a dog, the cartoon Simpsons making on the Flintstones, and then… and then… breakfast of cereal at noon, whiskey at 4, coming 6 times before the sun set.
And it hasn’t stopped since. Only, it’s changed. I brought an egg over from the States and it recently died on me. Paranoid I wouldn’t find a replacement, I went in and out of sex shops at Pigalle, finally finding its cousin in a store overwhelmed with hookers and gigantic cock dildos for gay men or vacuous women. It used to be a span of 5 or 10 days that Adam would inhabit my life and disrupt my work pattern. Now, it’s almost guaranteed that he’ll visit on the last day of my period and stay for at least two weeks.
I’ve got a bit better handle on it. Employment affords daydreaming and who cares reports. But grad school requires late night research and 50% of a grade on class participation. I might show up to class in a low-cut hussy shirt and short shorts, but at least I’m able to discourse about the change in regulation of financial institutions and the shrinking of the state.
But, still, here I am, on one of two working days off from scheduled class, when I could be using my time wisely for research or tying up loose ends. Instead, I’m perusing the You Porn, posting horrible ads on Craigslist and AFF, eating chips and chevre, drinking the last of my grappa. Good lord.
I do have to say though, that I hope he stays around for a bit. I’m not at all excited by the prospect of menopause, drying up, or feeling less sexy. I actually prefer this strange fight of feeling like a dirty 18-year-old boy inside a 33-year-old woman’s body to being a tired old hag.
I had my first free, alone apartment when I went to Spain in ‘97, I was 22, and yet I shared a bathroom with a Colombian woman. I had snuck some pot in my bat box, covered it with perfume tear-outs of a girlie magazine, wrapped it in toilet paper and had in a plastic bag. I was obviously not thinking properly that I’d fly from Minneapolis to NYC to Amsterdam and would be groggy when passing a drug-sniffing dog. But I passed through and smoked a little bit over the year I lived there. I still didn’t know how to touch myself. But I had freedom from living with 6 or 10 roommates.
When I moved back in ‘98 I got my first solo apartment and spent too much time discovering the internet and dialing 1-800 hook-up-sex lines. I had a couple of those guys over but still didn’t know how to touch myself alone. I moved again, into Sheila’s old apartment. She was like 10 years my senior and taking photo classes at my uni. She left me her full couch and brought me as her photo assistant to Paisley Park to photo a guitarist - and we ran into Prince. It was in this apartment that I accidentally stumbled into bdsm online, when some 44-year-old guy from NJ mistook me for another girl on chat and over the days on his phone bill tried to entice me to pour candle wax on myself. I realized that I couldn’t do this kind of torture to myself but deeply wanted someone else to do it. I bought a pair of painful metal handcuffs, a ball gag, and a rabbit vibrator with a full body dildo and wiggly ears for the clit. I scared my then-boyfriend with the fact that I didn’t want just straight sex but wanted to be tied up. Still, I didn’t get off with the rabbit and didn’t know how to touch myself.
When I moved to Madison to live with a lover - which failed - I moved out, got my own place, on my birthday. Sometime around then, 2001, when I was 26, I was wandering drunk on State Street and ended up in the State St Arcade and was perusing the porn mags.
Porn stores are not women-friendly. Despite the fact that pdh and I fucked in one of the cabins, while some stranger guy jacked off watching us - before they closed the cabins down and shut the whole shop up - it was still not a welcoming place for solo chicks. Even A Woman’s Touch felt foreign, with their uber silence and origami waterfall zen atmosphere, showcasing all the dildos and vibrators and toys and books and lingerie like they knew better how to cater to chicks. It didn’t do it for me. Nor did the Arcade, where the gum-snapping college kid who cared less about you but still looked at you in disgust would run your dirty items through the check-out scan, give you free batteries and roll their eyes as they said thanks. Neither of these places made me feel very free to find myself. Still, I felt more pressure in the Arcade to buy something and try something - because I was a woman in a man’s store, because I was daring, because I was drunk and seeking. Where the Touch store made me feel like I should KNOW what I want and want what I KNOW.
In the end, I grabbed a couple of toys to try and when I tried the Doc Johnson’s egg vibrator, I was hooked. There’s no rabbit, no whirls or zings or big fat cock-wannabes, no zaps or pain or hums or whirrs. I just had to place it in my undies, turn the porn on, or select an erotic story to read, and went off. Yeah, yeah, men fear the clit factor - that they’ll be replaced by clitoral satisfaction or a girl who doesn’t need a dildo inserted is some kind of lesbian wannabe. So not true. I need men and I need male parts and touch and testosterone on my skin, but there’s really no comparison between a fuck orgasm and an alone vibrator orgasm.
The Doc Johnson, which I refer to as the egg vibrator, doesn’t burn out after a quick or long use. Actually, it depends on one’s usage, but mine lasted a pretty long time until I either burned out the batteries or broke the wire for bending it in certain ways for long hours in my pants.
But even in 2001, it wasn’t yet Adam time. It was just me, joyous and Christmas day happy that I’d found a way to get off when I wasn’t able to get off with a date. A completely new idea, a new feeling, and god I felt so late in the coming of finding it.
But when I did… well, it was certainly my drunken girl phase, when I was a waitress at the local historic theatre/restaurant/bar, fucking boys in the theatre after-hours, serving under-age kids, tossing shots, and sliding fancy food onto big payers’ tables. Around this time, I also registered to be a certified, ordained marriage official. I filled the boxes online, printed the certificate, and could marry anyone who asked. So, I married me to myself. I also fooled around with the Ouija board - not too distant cousin from the marriage officiator - and made my own board when alone and asked my own silly questions.
When the strangers came knocking on my door one night and asked if I’d seen my neighbor in a few days, and then we called the landlord to bring us the keys to his apartment, and when the landlord couldn’t open the door for fear and I did instead, and found Ze dead on the floor, well, it kind of signified the drunk world colliding with the dead world. I freaked out. And realized that yes, I do see dead people. And, yes, perhaps I should stop fucking with the Ouija board.
But it might have been too late.
I think that if I had to pinpoint, it would have been that time that discovering self-pleasure coincided with Adam’s incarnation inside me. After those days, I’d have no problem with taking vacation time to stay at home on a Thursday or Friday to extend the weekend, holing up with frozen pizza, Maker’s Mark, cigarettes, and the egg vibrator. My viewing became progressively naughtier. Porn stars fucking on couches, amateurs in beds, some chick and a dog, the cartoon Simpsons making on the Flintstones, and then… and then… breakfast of cereal at noon, whiskey at 4, coming 6 times before the sun set.
And it hasn’t stopped since. Only, it’s changed. I brought an egg over from the States and it recently died on me. Paranoid I wouldn’t find a replacement, I went in and out of sex shops at Pigalle, finally finding its cousin in a store overwhelmed with hookers and gigantic cock dildos for gay men or vacuous women. It used to be a span of 5 or 10 days that Adam would inhabit my life and disrupt my work pattern. Now, it’s almost guaranteed that he’ll visit on the last day of my period and stay for at least two weeks.
I’ve got a bit better handle on it. Employment affords daydreaming and who cares reports. But grad school requires late night research and 50% of a grade on class participation. I might show up to class in a low-cut hussy shirt and short shorts, but at least I’m able to discourse about the change in regulation of financial institutions and the shrinking of the state.
But, still, here I am, on one of two working days off from scheduled class, when I could be using my time wisely for research or tying up loose ends. Instead, I’m perusing the You Porn, posting horrible ads on Craigslist and AFF, eating chips and chevre, drinking the last of my grappa. Good lord.
I do have to say though, that I hope he stays around for a bit. I’m not at all excited by the prospect of menopause, drying up, or feeling less sexy. I actually prefer this strange fight of feeling like a dirty 18-year-old boy inside a 33-year-old woman’s body to being a tired old hag.
my little vacation
Somehow I slid some sex in at the end of the conference that I organized. It was the last night though, so no points for almost-caught, super-sneaky sex without being noticed by 3 strangers sleeping at my place. And, no, none of the strangers were intriguing enough. Tall boy from Halloween Party night invited me to his place and we had sex three times between sleep (2am) and reason (2pm). God bless youth.
I packed on Sunday.
Monday I took the Eurostar over to London (or, under to London - as it goes under the Channel and all). Slept all days long at my friend’s LSE dorm. During the day I went out for a massage in some danky hair salon, lunch, brief shopping, and email-checks. Stayed up late enough to close the tired ass pubs down (2am) and gained like 6 pounds drinking beer and eating fish & chips.
Thursday I left for Bahrain on British Airways, which offered free beverages including blood marys and wine. Flew over burning oil fields and felt solemn over Iraq. I hear that Saudi Air flies around Israel, as if they care I’m sure. Bahrain was desert, sex, 50E bills for each naughty act I performed or let him perform on me, an ex-pat party, finding the Tree of Life, taking some sunrays on my bikini body, more sex, more drinking, more euros.
Saturday at 2am (technically Sunday) I caught the BA flight back, took some Tylenol PM, a bloody mary, curled up over my 2 open seats and tried to sleep until we got fed again 6 hours later.
Sunday I got out of Heathrow, took the 1 hour tube to Saint Pancreas (well, it sounds like an organ to me), ate again and hopped the Eurostar back to Paris. I was going to take EasyJet for like 50$ but they wanted me to fly out of somewhere called Liddy, England - stupid cheap airlines. And I’d already booked when I realized this, of course. And, of course, I was mid-conference conundrums when I booked my last minute Eurostar back to Paris. I thought it was so expensive because it was booked a week before I needed the ticket. When I was getting into my car, the Eurostar employee guy looks at my ticket, tells me I’m 4 seats back on the right side, and there are magazines for my enjoyment. Shit. I accidentally booked First Class. No wonder it was so damn expensive. And, it wasn’t even worth it. I got fed AGAIN, worked on some photos, watched some crazy old people argue, napped, and basically didn’t even really enjoy the twice-as-much ticket adventure.
Today I’ve been catching up with work and getting back into school. Shit’s starting to be due soon and I’m totally out of it. My neighbor guy, the Actor (who I fucked a couple times when I first moved here and now just see him as a lowly hunchback for some reason), stopped by and asked for vinegar. Several hours later he knocked again and asked if I had some free time. “Do you need something?” I asked him. He took a step closer with a sly smile and started to rub my tit. I brushed his hand off and tried to play it off so he wouldn’t feel like a total ass and I’d get to keep my free wifi… “It’s just that I’m super busy catching up with work, have an overview of a paper due tomorrow, and I’m waiting for them to deliver the new fridge any minute now.” I kind of wanted to wash my sweater, my shirt, my bra, and my tit where he touched me. Odd how he was attractive then and now is just desperate and grody.
The TV Producer has sent an SMS. The Spaniard Big Cock sent an email. I’m a bit under the weather since the conference ended so I’m not rushing into anything. Plus, I found out just before leaving Bahrain that no one’s a dad this month. Celebration… and down time.
(from Tumblr)
But now... well, oh boy oh boy. My first day back to class on Tuesday was a long one. From 10am - 8:30pm. Everything was going well until I was heading into the last course and got an SMS from Halloween Party Host aka Tall Tom: "Lola, where are you?" Only, he calls me by my last name, which leads me to think that I'm on his basketball team and that it's endearing and that it's kind of dirty that he's being endearing to a woman six years his senior, which then makes me feel naughty and school-girl-esque. So, then, while the boring lecturer launches into a discussion on risk perception, I'm thinking of Tall Tom's cock and how he fucked me the last night of the conference - after sneaking into his apartment past his uncle - and then fucked me again two other times before we got out of bed. Risk. Perception. Whatever. Fuck. All I could think about was cock.
Tall was in a lecture by some South Korean diplomat who was loving and hating on the US. I was done with class and went home. He SMS'd me that I had to come out and meet him. I had just finished my period, but already I was entering into 18-year-old-boy-Adam taking over my body. (Poor, poor Bahrain lover who got me at PMS girl time - although he still got his rocks off by half-raping me in the morning and making me dry-mouth suck his cock.) Yes yes, I'd dress and take the metro and meet him at Odeon. We had a few drinks and I hadn't eaten and hit a moment of back-in-the-day crazy Lola and almost stormed out on him due to a miscommunication. Instead, he calmed me and tossed me a cab to his apartment, where his uncle was asleep. (Thank god. And thank god he wasn't there when we got up at noon the next day because the last time I got up and met him he served me coffee and croissants and we talked about quantum physics and philosophy - he's a philosopher. This time I wasn't interested in deep conversation so I lucked out.)
This time he held my wrists - tentatively but held them down - and told me to shut the fuck up. It was worth going back out for. He persuaded me to cut class and came over to my apartment and then we went for sushi for lunch, where he ordered us a bottle of wine and I worried that I'd be tipsy for the group work meeting I had at 5pm. He studied elsewhere and we found each other during a break before another class meeting and, again, he ordered a bottle of wine. (He'd also taken my 50E and bought a very, very, very nice bottle of champagne that I'll gift to my Madison friends Amanda and Leo when we see each other on Saturday - they got married and champagne seems a better gift than a toaster or some shit.)
(Boy, this post is full of asides!)
We got through the dumb class meeting and went for pizza and beer with 2 other kids from class and then he pushed me to invite him to my place. Remember if you will that a) I fucked my neighbor when I first moved here (and fucked him in a group setting at a bathhouse), b) my neighbor has a teen daughter sleeping on the other side of my paper-thin wall, c) I am now repulsed by my neighbor, d) I am still embarrassed by making loud fucking noises knowing that people can hear me. I caved and brought him home.
This time he fucked me from behind while pushing my head down, or when I'd try to get on all fours, he'd push my back down. Mmmmm god that was nice. I'm starting to move into the place where I'm getting enough sex (finally!) and now need to fulfill the submissive side. I'd explained this a bit to him over lunch. Whereas he'd said he was taken by the [insert last name] power during the conference, leading the whole thing, controlling the crowd, etc.. I explained that I didn't mind having that confidence and control in my work life, but I needed to balance it with my submissive side and explained a very small part of what I meant. It wouldn't have been wise to tell him I wanted to be used as a toilet, pissed on, tossed around, degraded, controlled. It would have shocked him too much and frankly, I need to keep him in rotation and not scare him away. So, when he flipped me over and fucked me more and then whispered, "Are you going to cum? Are you going to cum on my cock? Cum on my cock. Do it." I had no other option to but let loose in wildness... dirty talk, repeating words I'd said before, feeling over-powered, my god yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, I'm cumming on your cock. Who knows how loud we were really - after 2 bottles of wine, a few beers, I didn't care if we were repulsing the teen girl next door.
And then, he had early class this morning and I have no class today or tomorrow, which only brings trouble from Adam. I slept until noon and then sat in the grey sky dark apartment playing with myself and waiting until dusk to drink the wine. It's not even really Adam Time yet ... he's growing stronger and bigger and taking up more of my free time.
I'm not convinced I'm a orgasm addict, although I love the song.
I packed on Sunday.
Monday I took the Eurostar over to London (or, under to London - as it goes under the Channel and all). Slept all days long at my friend’s LSE dorm. During the day I went out for a massage in some danky hair salon, lunch, brief shopping, and email-checks. Stayed up late enough to close the tired ass pubs down (2am) and gained like 6 pounds drinking beer and eating fish & chips.
Thursday I left for Bahrain on British Airways, which offered free beverages including blood marys and wine. Flew over burning oil fields and felt solemn over Iraq. I hear that Saudi Air flies around Israel, as if they care I’m sure. Bahrain was desert, sex, 50E bills for each naughty act I performed or let him perform on me, an ex-pat party, finding the Tree of Life, taking some sunrays on my bikini body, more sex, more drinking, more euros.
Saturday at 2am (technically Sunday) I caught the BA flight back, took some Tylenol PM, a bloody mary, curled up over my 2 open seats and tried to sleep until we got fed again 6 hours later.
Sunday I got out of Heathrow, took the 1 hour tube to Saint Pancreas (well, it sounds like an organ to me), ate again and hopped the Eurostar back to Paris. I was going to take EasyJet for like 50$ but they wanted me to fly out of somewhere called Liddy, England - stupid cheap airlines. And I’d already booked when I realized this, of course. And, of course, I was mid-conference conundrums when I booked my last minute Eurostar back to Paris. I thought it was so expensive because it was booked a week before I needed the ticket. When I was getting into my car, the Eurostar employee guy looks at my ticket, tells me I’m 4 seats back on the right side, and there are magazines for my enjoyment. Shit. I accidentally booked First Class. No wonder it was so damn expensive. And, it wasn’t even worth it. I got fed AGAIN, worked on some photos, watched some crazy old people argue, napped, and basically didn’t even really enjoy the twice-as-much ticket adventure.
Today I’ve been catching up with work and getting back into school. Shit’s starting to be due soon and I’m totally out of it. My neighbor guy, the Actor (who I fucked a couple times when I first moved here and now just see him as a lowly hunchback for some reason), stopped by and asked for vinegar. Several hours later he knocked again and asked if I had some free time. “Do you need something?” I asked him. He took a step closer with a sly smile and started to rub my tit. I brushed his hand off and tried to play it off so he wouldn’t feel like a total ass and I’d get to keep my free wifi… “It’s just that I’m super busy catching up with work, have an overview of a paper due tomorrow, and I’m waiting for them to deliver the new fridge any minute now.” I kind of wanted to wash my sweater, my shirt, my bra, and my tit where he touched me. Odd how he was attractive then and now is just desperate and grody.
The TV Producer has sent an SMS. The Spaniard Big Cock sent an email. I’m a bit under the weather since the conference ended so I’m not rushing into anything. Plus, I found out just before leaving Bahrain that no one’s a dad this month. Celebration… and down time.
(from Tumblr)
But now... well, oh boy oh boy. My first day back to class on Tuesday was a long one. From 10am - 8:30pm. Everything was going well until I was heading into the last course and got an SMS from Halloween Party Host aka Tall Tom: "Lola, where are you?" Only, he calls me by my last name, which leads me to think that I'm on his basketball team and that it's endearing and that it's kind of dirty that he's being endearing to a woman six years his senior, which then makes me feel naughty and school-girl-esque. So, then, while the boring lecturer launches into a discussion on risk perception, I'm thinking of Tall Tom's cock and how he fucked me the last night of the conference - after sneaking into his apartment past his uncle - and then fucked me again two other times before we got out of bed. Risk. Perception. Whatever. Fuck. All I could think about was cock.
Tall was in a lecture by some South Korean diplomat who was loving and hating on the US. I was done with class and went home. He SMS'd me that I had to come out and meet him. I had just finished my period, but already I was entering into 18-year-old-boy-Adam taking over my body. (Poor, poor Bahrain lover who got me at PMS girl time - although he still got his rocks off by half-raping me in the morning and making me dry-mouth suck his cock.) Yes yes, I'd dress and take the metro and meet him at Odeon. We had a few drinks and I hadn't eaten and hit a moment of back-in-the-day crazy Lola and almost stormed out on him due to a miscommunication. Instead, he calmed me and tossed me a cab to his apartment, where his uncle was asleep. (Thank god. And thank god he wasn't there when we got up at noon the next day because the last time I got up and met him he served me coffee and croissants and we talked about quantum physics and philosophy - he's a philosopher. This time I wasn't interested in deep conversation so I lucked out.)
This time he held my wrists - tentatively but held them down - and told me to shut the fuck up. It was worth going back out for. He persuaded me to cut class and came over to my apartment and then we went for sushi for lunch, where he ordered us a bottle of wine and I worried that I'd be tipsy for the group work meeting I had at 5pm. He studied elsewhere and we found each other during a break before another class meeting and, again, he ordered a bottle of wine. (He'd also taken my 50E and bought a very, very, very nice bottle of champagne that I'll gift to my Madison friends Amanda and Leo when we see each other on Saturday - they got married and champagne seems a better gift than a toaster or some shit.)
(Boy, this post is full of asides!)
We got through the dumb class meeting and went for pizza and beer with 2 other kids from class and then he pushed me to invite him to my place. Remember if you will that a) I fucked my neighbor when I first moved here (and fucked him in a group setting at a bathhouse), b) my neighbor has a teen daughter sleeping on the other side of my paper-thin wall, c) I am now repulsed by my neighbor, d) I am still embarrassed by making loud fucking noises knowing that people can hear me. I caved and brought him home.
This time he fucked me from behind while pushing my head down, or when I'd try to get on all fours, he'd push my back down. Mmmmm god that was nice. I'm starting to move into the place where I'm getting enough sex (finally!) and now need to fulfill the submissive side. I'd explained this a bit to him over lunch. Whereas he'd said he was taken by the [insert last name] power during the conference, leading the whole thing, controlling the crowd, etc.. I explained that I didn't mind having that confidence and control in my work life, but I needed to balance it with my submissive side and explained a very small part of what I meant. It wouldn't have been wise to tell him I wanted to be used as a toilet, pissed on, tossed around, degraded, controlled. It would have shocked him too much and frankly, I need to keep him in rotation and not scare him away. So, when he flipped me over and fucked me more and then whispered, "Are you going to cum? Are you going to cum on my cock? Cum on my cock. Do it." I had no other option to but let loose in wildness... dirty talk, repeating words I'd said before, feeling over-powered, my god yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, I'm cumming on your cock. Who knows how loud we were really - after 2 bottles of wine, a few beers, I didn't care if we were repulsing the teen girl next door.
And then, he had early class this morning and I have no class today or tomorrow, which only brings trouble from Adam. I slept until noon and then sat in the grey sky dark apartment playing with myself and waiting until dusk to drink the wine. It's not even really Adam Time yet ... he's growing stronger and bigger and taking up more of my free time.
I'm not convinced I'm a orgasm addict, although I love the song.
all I could find
(sorry for the blurred faces - to protect the innocent)
Perfectly describes Halloween Party 2008:
a bit of the Lola
drunk dancing
Perfectly describes Halloween Party 2008:
a bit of the Lola
drunk dancing
Sunday, November 2, 2008
the never-ending
Yeah, no photos from Halloween. Strange since I'm typically so addicted to the camera, but I forgot to whip it out.
I accidentally deleted all my SMS messages meaning I've now lost the easy dictation of my daily life.
Wednesday, 29th: business meeting in the morning with the multi-national firm that we're working with for our graduating project, class, and then we had a petite soiree in my program with the directors of the school. I was busy in the back room sending emails while the Head Director made his speech. After, a bunch of us went for drinks at Coolins the Irish pub and after I lazily put my hair into pigtails to the amusement of the boy school chums. I tried to explain Lola's Philosophy on Sex and Love to a colleague who was coked up. Stumbled home on the metro.
Thursday, 30th: late night hook-up with The Spaniard Huge Cock, spent the night, and went to class in the morning feeling refreshed and exhausted.
Friday, 31st: Had a smoke with the colleague who admitted I was on his "could-do" list. I was blushing in the rain as we leaned against the big door to our building. Made it through class and got home with plenty of time to prepare the school girl costume, which required little prep anyway. Trying to find any random photos of me accidentally in the background. Great party, lots of drinking, tapped the coke friend for a bump and then we stayed in the bathroom almost in tears talking about each other's power and insecurities, danced a ton, watched Sex Colleague make out with a friend of a friend, talked shit for hours, kissed one guy who I think was a friend of a colleague, kissed another boy who was rambling about his hating on chicks, and then decided to stick around at 4am, fucked the party host -- non-planned, but wonderful.
Saturday, 1 Nov: He'd told me I'd have to be out by 11am and brought me coffee in his bed at 10h30. A few photos of him cleaning his place - it was a wreck. Metro all hung over and a rainy cold day. Climbed the 101 stairs, got into pjs, got into bed, and played with myself for 4 hours, napped for an hour, wrote a short paper for class, pulled myself together and went over to the Spaniard Huge Cock's place, had a quickie in between his packing to move to another apartment and my between parties, grabbed to-go Indian food, zoomed back to my apartment, made sure that Sex Colleague wasn't going to pussy out on the birthday party night, went to party. The strangest thing was that all of a sudden these boys were all over me. But boys who typically have not been my closest colleagues. Boys who I know talk shit about me - it's so high school in grad school - and who we mutually feel love-hate at various times. Alejandro greeted me at the door - his birthday and I hadn't seen him since he transferred to a sister-school in London. Emanuel winked at me from across the room all night. Sebastian danced with me, kept grabbing my ass, and tried to finger-fondle my cunnie. It was a strange fascination with them. Caipirinhas, beer, wine, and all of us dancing until we finally left at 5am. Sex Colleague again danced with friend from out of town and in the cab, sighed exasperatedly when she said she wouldn't be coming home with him.
Sunday, 2 Nov: Sleep at 5am, wake at 13h. Slow getting up. Laundry. The landlord comes by to fix the sink and take my rent money. I posted another ad on Craigslist to try to find closely-located sex partners. So, I perused my email box. Dreaming. Floating. Hungover but happy.
This coming week promises no sex and all work. US elections. We're having an American party over at Sex Colleague's apartment that starts at 10pm and will probably go until 9am on Wednesday. I'll be prepared to stay up all night. Wednesday night starts the conference hell until Sunday. I've got 3 people staying in my apartment. Two of them leave on Monday, when I'll hop on the Eurostar to London and then fly out on Thursday to Bahrain to hang out with an off-on-again lover.
I keep thinking that these are the best days of my life. I hope they only get better. So far, it's been a good trend that progressively my life has only gotten better over time. Let's keep the trend going.
I accidentally deleted all my SMS messages meaning I've now lost the easy dictation of my daily life.
Wednesday, 29th: business meeting in the morning with the multi-national firm that we're working with for our graduating project, class, and then we had a petite soiree in my program with the directors of the school. I was busy in the back room sending emails while the Head Director made his speech. After, a bunch of us went for drinks at Coolins the Irish pub and after I lazily put my hair into pigtails to the amusement of the boy school chums. I tried to explain Lola's Philosophy on Sex and Love to a colleague who was coked up. Stumbled home on the metro.
Thursday, 30th: late night hook-up with The Spaniard Huge Cock, spent the night, and went to class in the morning feeling refreshed and exhausted.
Friday, 31st: Had a smoke with the colleague who admitted I was on his "could-do" list. I was blushing in the rain as we leaned against the big door to our building. Made it through class and got home with plenty of time to prepare the school girl costume, which required little prep anyway. Trying to find any random photos of me accidentally in the background. Great party, lots of drinking, tapped the coke friend for a bump and then we stayed in the bathroom almost in tears talking about each other's power and insecurities, danced a ton, watched Sex Colleague make out with a friend of a friend, talked shit for hours, kissed one guy who I think was a friend of a colleague, kissed another boy who was rambling about his hating on chicks, and then decided to stick around at 4am, fucked the party host -- non-planned, but wonderful.
Saturday, 1 Nov: He'd told me I'd have to be out by 11am and brought me coffee in his bed at 10h30. A few photos of him cleaning his place - it was a wreck. Metro all hung over and a rainy cold day. Climbed the 101 stairs, got into pjs, got into bed, and played with myself for 4 hours, napped for an hour, wrote a short paper for class, pulled myself together and went over to the Spaniard Huge Cock's place, had a quickie in between his packing to move to another apartment and my between parties, grabbed to-go Indian food, zoomed back to my apartment, made sure that Sex Colleague wasn't going to pussy out on the birthday party night, went to party. The strangest thing was that all of a sudden these boys were all over me. But boys who typically have not been my closest colleagues. Boys who I know talk shit about me - it's so high school in grad school - and who we mutually feel love-hate at various times. Alejandro greeted me at the door - his birthday and I hadn't seen him since he transferred to a sister-school in London. Emanuel winked at me from across the room all night. Sebastian danced with me, kept grabbing my ass, and tried to finger-fondle my cunnie. It was a strange fascination with them. Caipirinhas, beer, wine, and all of us dancing until we finally left at 5am. Sex Colleague again danced with friend from out of town and in the cab, sighed exasperatedly when she said she wouldn't be coming home with him.
Sunday, 2 Nov: Sleep at 5am, wake at 13h. Slow getting up. Laundry. The landlord comes by to fix the sink and take my rent money. I posted another ad on Craigslist to try to find closely-located sex partners. So, I perused my email box. Dreaming. Floating. Hungover but happy.
This coming week promises no sex and all work. US elections. We're having an American party over at Sex Colleague's apartment that starts at 10pm and will probably go until 9am on Wednesday. I'll be prepared to stay up all night. Wednesday night starts the conference hell until Sunday. I've got 3 people staying in my apartment. Two of them leave on Monday, when I'll hop on the Eurostar to London and then fly out on Thursday to Bahrain to hang out with an off-on-again lover.
I keep thinking that these are the best days of my life. I hope they only get better. So far, it's been a good trend that progressively my life has only gotten better over time. Let's keep the trend going.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Dear the man from Prairie du Sac, WI
Fuck off.
You or one of your friends tried posting the God Saves shit a few years ago, so I can only deduce that you're a perv who likes reading my writing, especially considering the fact that you read for 30 minutes and looked at at least 2 pages. Do you really want me to find you and tell your wife or your employer that you're browsing such naughty, god-damning blogs?
No, didn't think so.
So, stop posting your dumb comments.
Domain Name norlight.net (Network)
IP Address 209.83.88.# (Badger Internet)
ISP Norlight Telecommunications
Location
Continent : North America
Country : United States (Facts)
State : Wisconsin
City : Prairie Du Sac
Operating System Microsoft WinNT
Browser Internet Explorer 7.0
Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 7.0; Windows NT 6.0; SLCC1; .NET CLR 2.0.50727; Media Center PC 5.0; .NET CLR 3.0.04506)
Javascript version 1.3
Monitor
Resolution : 1024 x 768
Color Depth : 32 bits
You or one of your friends tried posting the God Saves shit a few years ago, so I can only deduce that you're a perv who likes reading my writing, especially considering the fact that you read for 30 minutes and looked at at least 2 pages. Do you really want me to find you and tell your wife or your employer that you're browsing such naughty, god-damning blogs?
No, didn't think so.
So, stop posting your dumb comments.
Domain Name norlight.net (Network)
IP Address 209.83.88.# (Badger Internet)
ISP Norlight Telecommunications
Location
Continent : North America
Country : United States (Facts)
State : Wisconsin
City : Prairie Du Sac
Operating System Microsoft WinNT
Browser Internet Explorer 7.0
Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 7.0; Windows NT 6.0; SLCC1; .NET CLR 2.0.50727; Media Center PC 5.0; .NET CLR 3.0.04506)
Javascript version 1.3
Monitor
Resolution : 1024 x 768
Color Depth : 32 bits
Lola's little adventures
(also posted over on Tumblr - don't forget to check it for shorts)
Thursday: The Filmmaker before he went off to Rome for a 48-hour shoot. Three times. God bless youth.
Friday: Thought I was tired after a full day of lame class, but ended up over at a stranger's apartment getting fucked hard and fast. Won't be seeing him again - he answered the door in boxers and a t-shirt and thought he could keep his big screen TV going. He offered me champagne, but from a half-sized bottle.
Saturday: Les Chandelles sex club with the TV Producer. The premier sex club for the well-dressed. We danced and wandered, but the two rooms of sex were so over-crowded (school kids on holiday, their parents out for fun) that I just ended up sucking him off in a room of moaning and sucking noises. Went back to his place. He had good champagne. And I had my first scooter ride in Paris with thigh-highs exposed all over town. Man, the wind felt great. And in the morning he brought me breakfast in bed, while he tried to figure out why the heat wasn't working.
Sunday (tonight): Booked my tickets to London to see school chums. And then my flight from London to Bahrain to visit the Porn Guy who moved from the Midwest, USA, to the Middle East. We've dated a bit here and there. And I'm thrilled to get to travel to see him.. on his dime. And now, off to see The Filmmaker, back from Rome and needing a blowjob. How much protein is in cum again? Or is that myth?
I have to say, I'm grateful for my life right now. Without these marvelous adventures I'd be a bitch from hell with the pressure of the US elections on my mind, the daily conference planning, studying, and preparing for a big meeting with a multi-national client for my graduation project. I need this multiple, whorish release. And I've loved them each - for their individual qualities. Even boxer short boy - he really shook me. And the taxi rides cut me across town into new realities. Away from my own mind. Out of my own anxieties. God bless 'em, as Palin would wink.
Thursday: The Filmmaker before he went off to Rome for a 48-hour shoot. Three times. God bless youth.
Friday: Thought I was tired after a full day of lame class, but ended up over at a stranger's apartment getting fucked hard and fast. Won't be seeing him again - he answered the door in boxers and a t-shirt and thought he could keep his big screen TV going. He offered me champagne, but from a half-sized bottle.
Saturday: Les Chandelles sex club with the TV Producer. The premier sex club for the well-dressed. We danced and wandered, but the two rooms of sex were so over-crowded (school kids on holiday, their parents out for fun) that I just ended up sucking him off in a room of moaning and sucking noises. Went back to his place. He had good champagne. And I had my first scooter ride in Paris with thigh-highs exposed all over town. Man, the wind felt great. And in the morning he brought me breakfast in bed, while he tried to figure out why the heat wasn't working.
Sunday (tonight): Booked my tickets to London to see school chums. And then my flight from London to Bahrain to visit the Porn Guy who moved from the Midwest, USA, to the Middle East. We've dated a bit here and there. And I'm thrilled to get to travel to see him.. on his dime. And now, off to see The Filmmaker, back from Rome and needing a blowjob. How much protein is in cum again? Or is that myth?
I have to say, I'm grateful for my life right now. Without these marvelous adventures I'd be a bitch from hell with the pressure of the US elections on my mind, the daily conference planning, studying, and preparing for a big meeting with a multi-national client for my graduation project. I need this multiple, whorish release. And I've loved them each - for their individual qualities. Even boxer short boy - he really shook me. And the taxi rides cut me across town into new realities. Away from my own mind. Out of my own anxieties. God bless 'em, as Palin would wink.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Some stories about men
The Economist Beekeeper Sex God comes to me out of the stars and says he remembers me as there is light illuminating the sky over the Jura mountains.
I wonder why I adore this validation of my existence.
Pienso en vos como veo la madgrugada
Algunas dias duermo contenta en los brazos de un otro
Depertandome con las estrellas de noche autre fois
Otros dias me levanto y veo le soleil de manana
Y pienso gracias a dios que existe esta belleza en el mundo
Otros, miro los aviones cruzando el sol de apres-midi
Con los pajaros volando donde yo no puedo y las abejas tocando lo que yo no puedo
Y les matins that you come to me
And I open my curtains to your soft glow
Pienso autre fois que suerte tengo en ver y sentir y oir
El silencio de lejos
La luz de aqui
El conocimiento de alla
The new day rises again
And you are still with me
I do miss him.
And this is bad poetry.
More than offering a Goggles notifier, Google needs to offer a "You're about to send bad poetry to someone - is this what you really want to do?" notifier. Oh well.
The Filmmaker asked me something interesting recently. Saying he hasn't gone searching for Lola's blog, and requesting me to send snipits here and there, he asked if I had something less individual-story-like and more general over-arching story-like. I told him that's what the book is for, although the book will be compiled and published in probably ten years because the writing goes on and on. No. I don't have anything like that. And that question has been inside me for days. The overarching why. Not the existential "Who am I?" question, but the "Why do I do these things?" question, which leads to the former, I guess.
The compilation of lovers. The list we all make sometimes when we sit down and write all the names or all the stories that go with each lover for whom we've forgotten their name. Why am I attracted. Why do I get bored. What makes me feel like I'm on fire every month and have to hump every man in sight. Who is "Adam" - the inner 18-year-old boy who takes over and makes me want to call in sick to life and just fondle myself all day and night. My ring finger is longer than my pointer finger - which has been suggested to mean I've got more testosterone in my body than estrogen. What does that mean? How does it play out? Who are all my lovers and why do I seek them? If they were all in one room I know I'd look out and try to connect the dots and they'd just be insulted by looking at the others in comparison. There are no answers tonight, only more questions.
The Filmmaker came over late last week after I'd been drinking and he offered to take the cab. We talked and talked, I fired my co-organizer of the conference with an email he helped me write, and then we smoked in my apartment, and then we slept and around 3am he slowly fucked me in the double-futon. Now, the next-door teen girl won't look at me. We tried to be quiet. It's not my fault that the walls are paper thin or that she's disgusted.
This past Sunday I got all dolled up in thigh highs and skirt and went to the TV Prodcer's. We couldn't resist - despite my period - and fucked before we even got to dinner. I'm too self-conscious with him - that I'm smoking again and he's a non-smoker runner. That I'm not cute enough and he could have anyone. This latter is something I felt I out-grew with the relationship with the Economist. .... free thoughts.... I really did feel validated by him in a way. While he's trapped himself in a small town in a land-locked country in the middle of Europe, he's still so incredibly beautiful and relaxed and wealthy and laid back and focused and non-chalont and non-caring and comfortable in his own skin and predicaments. All these things made me feel unworthy and when he gave me attention I felt - validated. Coming back to school, a place that replicates high school in so many sick ways, I felt empowered thinking, I have been adored by someone who really shouldn't even give me the time of day. And his interest - and continued interest - as pathetic as this is, has given me more power. More self-esteem in a horrible way. I recognize that this is fucked up but secretly felt so much more assured walking into the school, being a conference organizer... Like, you all might think I'm xyz, but really I've been abc. And, again, the TV Producer is not a gorgeous stud man, he's not thrillingly intelligent - although, when I was explaining to him how I didn't feel so comfortable in lipstick and was hoping he wouldn't laugh and how I'm becoming more of a woman in a sense, he quoted "Second Sex" and "you aren't born a woman, but you are continuously becoming a woman." But the fact that he finds me mildly entertaining or interesting gives me some sick validation.
So, right, there we were fucking against his wall and then sitting so properly at his dining room table having Italian food. And then discussing art and music and politics like I had not just been bent over getting fucked from behind while my blood stained his shirt. And then, we went to his bedroom and I got on all fours on an ottoman and he spanked me for a good 20 minutes. We ended up in his bed and he snuggled me all night to where I was sweating in the boxer shorts he loaned me. I actually felt comfortable in some moments and then would wake up and need space. He got up and left before I did and I took my time showering, making coffee in his place, looking at the things that were visible to me.
But it's back to Adam creeping into my body and I'm starved for fucking. Since Sunday, which was nice with the TV Producer but I was bleeding which can make the whole scene different. Tomorrow I'll go find the Filmmaker for a short quick 3 hours before he leaves for Rome on the ...
uh oh
distracted into wondering if there's a way I can go with him and skip class on Friday.
trouble.
damn you Adam!
I wonder why I adore this validation of my existence.
Pienso en vos como veo la madgrugada
Algunas dias duermo contenta en los brazos de un otro
Depertandome con las estrellas de noche autre fois
Otros dias me levanto y veo le soleil de manana
Y pienso gracias a dios que existe esta belleza en el mundo
Otros, miro los aviones cruzando el sol de apres-midi
Con los pajaros volando donde yo no puedo y las abejas tocando lo que yo no puedo
Y les matins that you come to me
And I open my curtains to your soft glow
Pienso autre fois que suerte tengo en ver y sentir y oir
El silencio de lejos
La luz de aqui
El conocimiento de alla
The new day rises again
And you are still with me
I do miss him.
And this is bad poetry.
More than offering a Goggles notifier, Google needs to offer a "You're about to send bad poetry to someone - is this what you really want to do?" notifier. Oh well.
The Filmmaker asked me something interesting recently. Saying he hasn't gone searching for Lola's blog, and requesting me to send snipits here and there, he asked if I had something less individual-story-like and more general over-arching story-like. I told him that's what the book is for, although the book will be compiled and published in probably ten years because the writing goes on and on. No. I don't have anything like that. And that question has been inside me for days. The overarching why. Not the existential "Who am I?" question, but the "Why do I do these things?" question, which leads to the former, I guess.
The compilation of lovers. The list we all make sometimes when we sit down and write all the names or all the stories that go with each lover for whom we've forgotten their name. Why am I attracted. Why do I get bored. What makes me feel like I'm on fire every month and have to hump every man in sight. Who is "Adam" - the inner 18-year-old boy who takes over and makes me want to call in sick to life and just fondle myself all day and night. My ring finger is longer than my pointer finger - which has been suggested to mean I've got more testosterone in my body than estrogen. What does that mean? How does it play out? Who are all my lovers and why do I seek them? If they were all in one room I know I'd look out and try to connect the dots and they'd just be insulted by looking at the others in comparison. There are no answers tonight, only more questions.
The Filmmaker came over late last week after I'd been drinking and he offered to take the cab. We talked and talked, I fired my co-organizer of the conference with an email he helped me write, and then we smoked in my apartment, and then we slept and around 3am he slowly fucked me in the double-futon. Now, the next-door teen girl won't look at me. We tried to be quiet. It's not my fault that the walls are paper thin or that she's disgusted.
This past Sunday I got all dolled up in thigh highs and skirt and went to the TV Prodcer's. We couldn't resist - despite my period - and fucked before we even got to dinner. I'm too self-conscious with him - that I'm smoking again and he's a non-smoker runner. That I'm not cute enough and he could have anyone. This latter is something I felt I out-grew with the relationship with the Economist. .... free thoughts.... I really did feel validated by him in a way. While he's trapped himself in a small town in a land-locked country in the middle of Europe, he's still so incredibly beautiful and relaxed and wealthy and laid back and focused and non-chalont and non-caring and comfortable in his own skin and predicaments. All these things made me feel unworthy and when he gave me attention I felt - validated. Coming back to school, a place that replicates high school in so many sick ways, I felt empowered thinking, I have been adored by someone who really shouldn't even give me the time of day. And his interest - and continued interest - as pathetic as this is, has given me more power. More self-esteem in a horrible way. I recognize that this is fucked up but secretly felt so much more assured walking into the school, being a conference organizer... Like, you all might think I'm xyz, but really I've been abc. And, again, the TV Producer is not a gorgeous stud man, he's not thrillingly intelligent - although, when I was explaining to him how I didn't feel so comfortable in lipstick and was hoping he wouldn't laugh and how I'm becoming more of a woman in a sense, he quoted "Second Sex" and "you aren't born a woman, but you are continuously becoming a woman." But the fact that he finds me mildly entertaining or interesting gives me some sick validation.
So, right, there we were fucking against his wall and then sitting so properly at his dining room table having Italian food. And then discussing art and music and politics like I had not just been bent over getting fucked from behind while my blood stained his shirt. And then, we went to his bedroom and I got on all fours on an ottoman and he spanked me for a good 20 minutes. We ended up in his bed and he snuggled me all night to where I was sweating in the boxer shorts he loaned me. I actually felt comfortable in some moments and then would wake up and need space. He got up and left before I did and I took my time showering, making coffee in his place, looking at the things that were visible to me.
But it's back to Adam creeping into my body and I'm starved for fucking. Since Sunday, which was nice with the TV Producer but I was bleeding which can make the whole scene different. Tomorrow I'll go find the Filmmaker for a short quick 3 hours before he leaves for Rome on the ...
uh oh
distracted into wondering if there's a way I can go with him and skip class on Friday.
trouble.
damn you Adam!
Friday, October 17, 2008
The men as lovers in my life
Well.
Yes.
I'm finding it easier and quicker to post over on Tumblr, so there you will find a short photo post recently, and more details back on Flickr. I've become a bit more selective in who I invite to view the Flickr. I've found a few faker men who pose as women who want porno shots and I'm not interested in sharing my photos that way. If you are a legitimate reader with interest and intrigue, and you want to view the photos, then I suggest you share something with me that is consistent and makes me believe you aren't a photo spammer or faker. I don't mean to impose rules, nor do I care what you send me, or if you're married and on the sly, but be real. And, be smart. My intuition is more finely tuned than most people's so I can see through bullshit rather quickly. That said, you want to view the photos, email me.
&&&&&&&&
I could make my own movie right now if I so desired. There's the Filmmaker, the next-door neighbor actor, and then the TV Producer. Maybe I'd be cast as an extra walking down the street.
I've stopped fucking the neighbor. Well, that was a while ago, but he's made some kind gestures and I've denied them. I just have a sour taste in my mouth from our last adventure to the swinger's club bath house.
So, in reply to the Craigslist (as you can see in the previous post), I found the Filmmaker.
I also found the TV Producer by this:
I've enjoyed reading your post
I'm french, 39, divorced and single
I like some of the games you mentionned but only with chemistry and good vibes
i live in the 5th near Le PAntheon and i can host
would you like to carry on?
[insert name with é accent]
It was really his photo that captured me. And, then:
Hi dear Lola
Are you spanish or italian or american? where do come from?
congratulations for typing the accent on your last top!
regarding le pantheon i have the pleasure to have a direct view on le pantheon: to be discovered
what do you do in Paris?
i work in a production company
I really like your pics
i'd like to know more about your expectations: what sort of games do you like or what kind of ambiance?
it would be nice to have a drink
ciao cara
[insert namé]
So, we did meet. Over by the Pantheon and had drinks in a quiet, dark bar that I thought, upon entering, was a swingers club for it's drapes over the windows, the low seating, the sexual music, the quiet dignity. But it's not. Or wasn't then. We talked for a long time. He's an alumni of my school and now is in the arts. He seemed a bit dry or restrained, which made it all the more intriguing to wonder what was underneath it all.
I was bold and he was warm so I went over to his place. Up the side stairwell directly in front of the Pantheon. This man would not be a murder, he would not jeopardize his standing with blood on the carpet. I sat on the couch inside his enormous apartment and picked up a child's book on Hanukkah in French. He and his ex-wife divorced several years ago and he has a room for his 7-year old son. He's re-discovering his Jewish heritage and is feeling strongly about it. I read the book out loud, in French, and he relished in correcting me, and then, at the end of the book, chastised me when I couldn't answer the short quizzes on dates in history and moments of importance.
Then, he blindfolded me with a blindfold I felt he'd used on a few dozen other women. We had talked about this earlier. The blindfold wine test with repercussions for poorly identifying the right wine. He said he would start easy on me. He gave me sips from the glass and then sucklings of his finger dipped into the glass. Dry. Familiar. Bordeaux. Yes. He wondered if I cheated. I wondered if he made it too easy. Then, he wanted me to guess which region of Bordeaux. More finger licking. I couldn't guess. So, he educated me. While watching me squirm - blindfolded and watched. On a stage.
I was placed on my knees between his legs, bent over at the waist across his thigh, and my jeans removed. After a fashion of spanking me, he removed my blindfold and cupped my chin in his hands and turned my face toward him, his eyes reflecting mine with each slap. Squinting, wincing, begging for more and to stop. He moved my hand to his sex and I felt a steel rod. A hard cock more and more excited with each slap. It's not that his spanks were so hard or repeated in the same place to cause pain, but they were passionate and inciting, exciting.
I pulled his cock out and sucked it as he continued to spank me. There was no sex this night. And, I feared he'd fall hard for my cock-sucking and would prove to be a normal, vanilla fiend instead of a bdsm friend.
Meanwhile, I saw the Filmmaker again. As I've said before, it's important for me to get regular sex fulfilled before I worry about bdsm. And sometimes the bdsm needs scream out and I beg for some fulfillment. Filmmaker and I have started a repetition of drinking like Bukowski and Parker together - without the aggression or anger. Instead, we talk and laugh and get naked and, ever more, he takes advantage of what I offer. A spank here, several teeth-mark bruises there, more spanks until I turn red, cock-choking, bondage. Bit by bit he is unraveling and opening and using his strength. And bit by bit I'm asking for more, hinting at more. It's a nice package at Christmas.
And then, in the mornings, I am awoken with gentle caresses. The lightest fingers over my body, the smoothest kisses. On my shoulder, magic arousal of my nipples, down my hip, my inner thigh. I am a study for a sculpture in his hands. And then he enters me and I bite my lips, cringe, cry, scratch the walls. After, we get fallafel or orange juice or coffees at the cafe at 1pm. We have spent late nights up until morning, watching movies, looking at each other's photos, talking, fucking, and mornings have become afternoons. We are behaving like French kids.
Then, the TV Producer invited me over. With instructions. Dress as if I was going for an escort date. We had talked about my interest in this. Why not be paid? I've had this debate with so many people. And so many people, including the Filmmaker and the TV Producer, don't wholly understand my interest in receiving payment. I think it's because they come from a place where their cock should be enough blessing to me. And it is, but given a different situation, where the date wouldn't get wrapped up in the real, on-going date, I might be paid. And I wouldn't mind it. Even for a blow job. I just can't seem to get myself out on the streets is all. I can't join some escort service because my time is erratic. I want my dates to be good-looking. I have expectations and I'm also not at the caliber to be demanding my own clients.
So, I climbed the stairs in heels, a skirt, and a low-cut shirt - as he'd requested. When I got to the door, I took the man's tie and put it around my neck and then tied the blindfold on my eyes - noticing the previous mascara from other girls. (I should be paid.) He led me into his apartment as I stumbled slowly following his too-quick lead. He fed me little hors d’ouevers. And then we talked over slow, sexy music. He changed seats and invited me sit at his feet. I heard his zipper and went hungrily.
He took off my blindfold and I was aware that he was in a suit. I asked him if he had come from work and he told me that no, he'd dressed for our date. (See tumblr photos) He reached in his jacket inside pocket and put a condom on, lifted me up, pulled up my skirt and licked me until I couldn't stand and needed to put him inside me. I crawled on top of his lap, pants still around his waist, and tried to accept being on top. He pulled out slowly and brought me to his couch, bent me over and took me from behind. My hands on the couch sides, my hands on the couch cushions, my teeth biting my lips, my moans.
He called me a cab after and I rode home with a mix of dignity and slutiness. Perfect.
The filmmmaker and I went out again and again. And, again, had hat night (see tumblr or flickr) and he tied me up. He made me stand on a small table in the middle of his room - his rommmate gone this time, unlike the first night I was over and went for the toilet and gave her a cheek-kiss hello - unlike the second night when two girls were over and I gave them both, including the birthday girl, cheek kisses while wrapped in a sheet. He took photos of me, tied my wrists behind my back. Bent me over the small table and walloped my ass until bruises remained for days.
I came home one night from drinks with a colleague after class. TV Producer emailed me and I decided to dress quickly, pack a small bag for the next day classes, and went over. "I'm drunk-ish," I told him. He's so mellow and overly Jewish and a dad, so he remained calm, knew I was, offered me water, and then fucked me silly in his big bed. In the morning, we fucked again, which was really more like 4 hours later. Then, we had a slightly awkward dressing-for-our-day morning. His shower is like mine. He made coffee. I putzed around. He showered longer than I did. I grabbed a lotion I found and he told me it was from a former "story" (story in French often means histoire which means history which means other lover in the past). I wasn't sure if this would ruin my chances for other dates with him or not. It didn't.
The differences. As I've said before, I am not monogamous because I find that I can't align all of me to one person. The Filmmaker fulfills my need for discussion, debate, art, romance, touchy-feely, whiskey, late nights, debauchery, bowling, competition in games, laughter, photos. The TV Producer fulfills my need for anonymity, separation between classes, allure, intrigue, a daddy figure. I know I can show up at the Filmmaker's in my pajamas and expect a tight neck grab kiss. I know I need to prepare into sexy woman for the TV Producer. Things are different. I'm much more easily comfortable with the Filmmaker, but I'm challenged by the TV Producer. For instance, the former, we pay for each other's drinks or food and get each other back in turn. The latter, he gave me money - the last time - for the cab and I joked that he shouldn't pay for the cab but for the sex. He balked and got uncomfortable. There are different degrees and different planes.
And, meanwhile, there are two boys at school who are interesting. Oh my. Oh my.
But for now this is enough. And sometimes too much.
What happened to the Butcher? Well, I told the Filmmaker, I hate being bored. I don't want to be an end all be all. If I'm not challenged or feel stable, I lose interest. If you're not a James or an Andy - I guess, forget it. I don't like pedestals or anything resembling them - unless I'm being commanded to step up on one so as to be tied. The Butcher got infatuated. He showed me everything and quickly. He drinks too much when we're not together (not that I'm the catalyst, but I don't drink all the time alone). He told me he loves me after a month. A Canadian friend of mine has been dating a French guy and she attests to the same. Too fast, too deep, too needy. Not all French men are like this - take the TV Producer, he's a playboy and we talked about how most of the time he breaks women's hearts. That's more interesting to me. I don't care about my heart - not with him, not with others. And it's not because of James or Andy - for I took a lengthy call with James one night when I was out with the Filmmaker. They are now great loves I've had (and James is my best friend), like the Beekeeper. I have been loved and loved in turn. But I cannot handle being loved without loving in return. I cannot be a savior or a beauty of all beauties. Plus, the Butcher has been exhibiting desperateness in trying to date my girl friends. He's a socialite of the weirdest kind. He wants so many people around .. and I don't know why. So, now we hang out - sometimes. But he fell too hard and I did not fall. That's all. That's it.
So, tomorrow I go shopping for food, pens, folders, school supplies, thigh highs, and other girlie things. Sunday I'll see the TV Producer. Later in the week, the Filmmaker. It's enough for me. And, I am blessed for it.
Yes.
I'm finding it easier and quicker to post over on Tumblr, so there you will find a short photo post recently, and more details back on Flickr. I've become a bit more selective in who I invite to view the Flickr. I've found a few faker men who pose as women who want porno shots and I'm not interested in sharing my photos that way. If you are a legitimate reader with interest and intrigue, and you want to view the photos, then I suggest you share something with me that is consistent and makes me believe you aren't a photo spammer or faker. I don't mean to impose rules, nor do I care what you send me, or if you're married and on the sly, but be real. And, be smart. My intuition is more finely tuned than most people's so I can see through bullshit rather quickly. That said, you want to view the photos, email me.
&&&&&&&&
I could make my own movie right now if I so desired. There's the Filmmaker, the next-door neighbor actor, and then the TV Producer. Maybe I'd be cast as an extra walking down the street.
I've stopped fucking the neighbor. Well, that was a while ago, but he's made some kind gestures and I've denied them. I just have a sour taste in my mouth from our last adventure to the swinger's club bath house.
So, in reply to the Craigslist (as you can see in the previous post), I found the Filmmaker.
I also found the TV Producer by this:
I've enjoyed reading your post
I'm french, 39, divorced and single
I like some of the games you mentionned but only with chemistry and good vibes
i live in the 5th near Le PAntheon and i can host
would you like to carry on?
[insert name with é accent]
It was really his photo that captured me. And, then:
Hi dear Lola
Are you spanish or italian or american? where do come from?
congratulations for typing the accent on your last top!
regarding le pantheon i have the pleasure to have a direct view on le pantheon: to be discovered
what do you do in Paris?
i work in a production company
I really like your pics
i'd like to know more about your expectations: what sort of games do you like or what kind of ambiance?
it would be nice to have a drink
ciao cara
[insert namé]
So, we did meet. Over by the Pantheon and had drinks in a quiet, dark bar that I thought, upon entering, was a swingers club for it's drapes over the windows, the low seating, the sexual music, the quiet dignity. But it's not. Or wasn't then. We talked for a long time. He's an alumni of my school and now is in the arts. He seemed a bit dry or restrained, which made it all the more intriguing to wonder what was underneath it all.
I was bold and he was warm so I went over to his place. Up the side stairwell directly in front of the Pantheon. This man would not be a murder, he would not jeopardize his standing with blood on the carpet. I sat on the couch inside his enormous apartment and picked up a child's book on Hanukkah in French. He and his ex-wife divorced several years ago and he has a room for his 7-year old son. He's re-discovering his Jewish heritage and is feeling strongly about it. I read the book out loud, in French, and he relished in correcting me, and then, at the end of the book, chastised me when I couldn't answer the short quizzes on dates in history and moments of importance.
Then, he blindfolded me with a blindfold I felt he'd used on a few dozen other women. We had talked about this earlier. The blindfold wine test with repercussions for poorly identifying the right wine. He said he would start easy on me. He gave me sips from the glass and then sucklings of his finger dipped into the glass. Dry. Familiar. Bordeaux. Yes. He wondered if I cheated. I wondered if he made it too easy. Then, he wanted me to guess which region of Bordeaux. More finger licking. I couldn't guess. So, he educated me. While watching me squirm - blindfolded and watched. On a stage.
I was placed on my knees between his legs, bent over at the waist across his thigh, and my jeans removed. After a fashion of spanking me, he removed my blindfold and cupped my chin in his hands and turned my face toward him, his eyes reflecting mine with each slap. Squinting, wincing, begging for more and to stop. He moved my hand to his sex and I felt a steel rod. A hard cock more and more excited with each slap. It's not that his spanks were so hard or repeated in the same place to cause pain, but they were passionate and inciting, exciting.
I pulled his cock out and sucked it as he continued to spank me. There was no sex this night. And, I feared he'd fall hard for my cock-sucking and would prove to be a normal, vanilla fiend instead of a bdsm friend.
Meanwhile, I saw the Filmmaker again. As I've said before, it's important for me to get regular sex fulfilled before I worry about bdsm. And sometimes the bdsm needs scream out and I beg for some fulfillment. Filmmaker and I have started a repetition of drinking like Bukowski and Parker together - without the aggression or anger. Instead, we talk and laugh and get naked and, ever more, he takes advantage of what I offer. A spank here, several teeth-mark bruises there, more spanks until I turn red, cock-choking, bondage. Bit by bit he is unraveling and opening and using his strength. And bit by bit I'm asking for more, hinting at more. It's a nice package at Christmas.
And then, in the mornings, I am awoken with gentle caresses. The lightest fingers over my body, the smoothest kisses. On my shoulder, magic arousal of my nipples, down my hip, my inner thigh. I am a study for a sculpture in his hands. And then he enters me and I bite my lips, cringe, cry, scratch the walls. After, we get fallafel or orange juice or coffees at the cafe at 1pm. We have spent late nights up until morning, watching movies, looking at each other's photos, talking, fucking, and mornings have become afternoons. We are behaving like French kids.
Then, the TV Producer invited me over. With instructions. Dress as if I was going for an escort date. We had talked about my interest in this. Why not be paid? I've had this debate with so many people. And so many people, including the Filmmaker and the TV Producer, don't wholly understand my interest in receiving payment. I think it's because they come from a place where their cock should be enough blessing to me. And it is, but given a different situation, where the date wouldn't get wrapped up in the real, on-going date, I might be paid. And I wouldn't mind it. Even for a blow job. I just can't seem to get myself out on the streets is all. I can't join some escort service because my time is erratic. I want my dates to be good-looking. I have expectations and I'm also not at the caliber to be demanding my own clients.
So, I climbed the stairs in heels, a skirt, and a low-cut shirt - as he'd requested. When I got to the door, I took the man's tie and put it around my neck and then tied the blindfold on my eyes - noticing the previous mascara from other girls. (I should be paid.) He led me into his apartment as I stumbled slowly following his too-quick lead. He fed me little hors d’ouevers. And then we talked over slow, sexy music. He changed seats and invited me sit at his feet. I heard his zipper and went hungrily.
He took off my blindfold and I was aware that he was in a suit. I asked him if he had come from work and he told me that no, he'd dressed for our date. (See tumblr photos) He reached in his jacket inside pocket and put a condom on, lifted me up, pulled up my skirt and licked me until I couldn't stand and needed to put him inside me. I crawled on top of his lap, pants still around his waist, and tried to accept being on top. He pulled out slowly and brought me to his couch, bent me over and took me from behind. My hands on the couch sides, my hands on the couch cushions, my teeth biting my lips, my moans.
He called me a cab after and I rode home with a mix of dignity and slutiness. Perfect.
The filmmmaker and I went out again and again. And, again, had hat night (see tumblr or flickr) and he tied me up. He made me stand on a small table in the middle of his room - his rommmate gone this time, unlike the first night I was over and went for the toilet and gave her a cheek-kiss hello - unlike the second night when two girls were over and I gave them both, including the birthday girl, cheek kisses while wrapped in a sheet. He took photos of me, tied my wrists behind my back. Bent me over the small table and walloped my ass until bruises remained for days.
I came home one night from drinks with a colleague after class. TV Producer emailed me and I decided to dress quickly, pack a small bag for the next day classes, and went over. "I'm drunk-ish," I told him. He's so mellow and overly Jewish and a dad, so he remained calm, knew I was, offered me water, and then fucked me silly in his big bed. In the morning, we fucked again, which was really more like 4 hours later. Then, we had a slightly awkward dressing-for-our-day morning. His shower is like mine. He made coffee. I putzed around. He showered longer than I did. I grabbed a lotion I found and he told me it was from a former "story" (story in French often means histoire which means history which means other lover in the past). I wasn't sure if this would ruin my chances for other dates with him or not. It didn't.
The differences. As I've said before, I am not monogamous because I find that I can't align all of me to one person. The Filmmaker fulfills my need for discussion, debate, art, romance, touchy-feely, whiskey, late nights, debauchery, bowling, competition in games, laughter, photos. The TV Producer fulfills my need for anonymity, separation between classes, allure, intrigue, a daddy figure. I know I can show up at the Filmmaker's in my pajamas and expect a tight neck grab kiss. I know I need to prepare into sexy woman for the TV Producer. Things are different. I'm much more easily comfortable with the Filmmaker, but I'm challenged by the TV Producer. For instance, the former, we pay for each other's drinks or food and get each other back in turn. The latter, he gave me money - the last time - for the cab and I joked that he shouldn't pay for the cab but for the sex. He balked and got uncomfortable. There are different degrees and different planes.
And, meanwhile, there are two boys at school who are interesting. Oh my. Oh my.
But for now this is enough. And sometimes too much.
What happened to the Butcher? Well, I told the Filmmaker, I hate being bored. I don't want to be an end all be all. If I'm not challenged or feel stable, I lose interest. If you're not a James or an Andy - I guess, forget it. I don't like pedestals or anything resembling them - unless I'm being commanded to step up on one so as to be tied. The Butcher got infatuated. He showed me everything and quickly. He drinks too much when we're not together (not that I'm the catalyst, but I don't drink all the time alone). He told me he loves me after a month. A Canadian friend of mine has been dating a French guy and she attests to the same. Too fast, too deep, too needy. Not all French men are like this - take the TV Producer, he's a playboy and we talked about how most of the time he breaks women's hearts. That's more interesting to me. I don't care about my heart - not with him, not with others. And it's not because of James or Andy - for I took a lengthy call with James one night when I was out with the Filmmaker. They are now great loves I've had (and James is my best friend), like the Beekeeper. I have been loved and loved in turn. But I cannot handle being loved without loving in return. I cannot be a savior or a beauty of all beauties. Plus, the Butcher has been exhibiting desperateness in trying to date my girl friends. He's a socialite of the weirdest kind. He wants so many people around .. and I don't know why. So, now we hang out - sometimes. But he fell too hard and I did not fall. That's all. That's it.
So, tomorrow I go shopping for food, pens, folders, school supplies, thigh highs, and other girlie things. Sunday I'll see the TV Producer. Later in the week, the Filmmaker. It's enough for me. And, I am blessed for it.
One little, two little
(written weeks ago, 9/19/08, 8:56pm)
indian boys...
I will be getting dressed up soon for a goth/punk party in some club down by Les Halles. Les Halles is where all the kids hang out. It's like a gigantic, ugly, concrete buried underground Mall of America. I hate that area. But I guess there is some club there and my friends have invited me and I'm sure it will be fun.
Thing is, I'm running on Low. Shame on me.
I had a late afternoon drink with the Butcher two days after I got back into town. Saturday, specifically. And, then, I proceeded to drink almost an entire bottle of wine back at my place while finally deciding to place another Craigslist ad. On Sunday afternoon I had started narrowing down and sending emails. I am certainly not reducing men to just sexual objects, although that is one aspect I am looking for. But I can't keep having an Economist Beekeeper Sex God who didn't initiate kissing or cuddling or caressing. When he sometimes joked with me or wanted to make a point, he'd pat me on my back almost as if I were a buddy on his baseball team. I am infatuated with him still (which is entiche - je suis entichée de lui), but I need more well-rounded lovers.
Monday, I grabbed drinks with the filmmaker. At 30, I wasn't sure if he'd cut it, but we had a great conversation and I could imagine fucking him, but for some reason I wasn't quite in the mood. PMS was stalking me. But he grabbed me by the entrance to the metro (he came up to my 'hood - very nice of him) and made me kiss him and I swooned for his lips. He's got a James Dean quality to his hair, and a Jack Kerouac quality to his face, and he's all wrapped up in English accent and good whiskey and black and white documentaries. We made a date for Tuesday night.
My ad this time:
Title: (casual encounters) Friend with benefits - w4m
Seeking someone with the mind of Charles Bukowski or Henry Miller, but with a gentlemanly attitude to open doors. My info doesn't fit on a matchbook, but I'm not demanding. I lean toward bondage and domination (receiving) but am not about whipz and chainz. Sometimes hours of conversation or simply chemistry. Intelligent but not haughty. Naughty but not whorish. Home on a Saturday night writing a book, not homeless. Shy but confident. Speak a bit of French, some Spanish, and a lot of English. I also know the alphabet in sign language.
Who are you? (a photo included in response is welcome and more apt to receive reply than not.)
Thanks for reading this far.
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
The Filmmaker's first reply:
Subject: Squeezing a world into a matchbook
I'm sure you have a hundred and fifty replies, but here's one more for you to read if the rest seem lacking...
Miller, yes, Bukowski, I don't know so well, except for a poem a friend once wrote on the back of an envelope for me, kept me sane at a little low... I liked your post, the important distinctions and the fine lines... I'm English, French, speak a little Russian, but not so much Spanish, I'd put myself on the same side of those fine lines as you, I'm a filmmaker, mostly documentary, a little fiction, a little writing but wish I could express myself better with words, I'm 30, I take a lot of photos, but promised myself never to sully that pleasure by trying to make a career out of it,
I'd love to meet up, have a coffee or a whiskey, with no expectation on either side, but with a curiosity and just a little bit of anticipation on both...
-Filmmaker
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
Yes, re-reading his email it wasn't that it was so amazing that it swept me off my feet, but it was one of the first and he used the word "sully." Not easy to pass up and the ensuing conversation improved ten-fold.
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
Subject: (same)
In the morning she was Lo...
You look delicious. Where are those hills in the background? Cinqueterre... (Italy?) And is that a small man cowering under the sink in the black dress photo?
I'm actually up around pigalle this evening - meeting up with an editor friend to do a little work. I don't know if you're free, but I'll be done around 8/8.30. If not this evening, let me know when you have time later in the week.
My number is 123456789
Looking forward to meeting you, hearing what you're writing about and trying to persuade you of the virtues of a cup of tea.
-Filmmaker
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
I'm always taken by the people who can correlate the "Lola" to the icon "Lolita." Sure, it's not too hard to make the connection, but I'm more impressed when a person can. And what girl can pass up "You look delicious"?
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
As I told Sarah over wine and cheese and cigarettes, I can't be monogamous because there are so many sides of myself that I find it easier to date a few people who mirror an aspect here or there. I'm not sure what the Filmmaker fulfills but there is the obvious: art, whiskey, good conversation, good sex,
indian boys...
I will be getting dressed up soon for a goth/punk party in some club down by Les Halles. Les Halles is where all the kids hang out. It's like a gigantic, ugly, concrete buried underground Mall of America. I hate that area. But I guess there is some club there and my friends have invited me and I'm sure it will be fun.
Thing is, I'm running on Low. Shame on me.
I had a late afternoon drink with the Butcher two days after I got back into town. Saturday, specifically. And, then, I proceeded to drink almost an entire bottle of wine back at my place while finally deciding to place another Craigslist ad. On Sunday afternoon I had started narrowing down and sending emails. I am certainly not reducing men to just sexual objects, although that is one aspect I am looking for. But I can't keep having an Economist Beekeeper Sex God who didn't initiate kissing or cuddling or caressing. When he sometimes joked with me or wanted to make a point, he'd pat me on my back almost as if I were a buddy on his baseball team. I am infatuated with him still (which is entiche - je suis entichée de lui), but I need more well-rounded lovers.
Monday, I grabbed drinks with the filmmaker. At 30, I wasn't sure if he'd cut it, but we had a great conversation and I could imagine fucking him, but for some reason I wasn't quite in the mood. PMS was stalking me. But he grabbed me by the entrance to the metro (he came up to my 'hood - very nice of him) and made me kiss him and I swooned for his lips. He's got a James Dean quality to his hair, and a Jack Kerouac quality to his face, and he's all wrapped up in English accent and good whiskey and black and white documentaries. We made a date for Tuesday night.
My ad this time:
Title: (casual encounters) Friend with benefits - w4m
Seeking someone with the mind of Charles Bukowski or Henry Miller, but with a gentlemanly attitude to open doors. My info doesn't fit on a matchbook, but I'm not demanding. I lean toward bondage and domination (receiving) but am not about whipz and chainz. Sometimes hours of conversation or simply chemistry. Intelligent but not haughty. Naughty but not whorish. Home on a Saturday night writing a book, not homeless. Shy but confident. Speak a bit of French, some Spanish, and a lot of English. I also know the alphabet in sign language.
Who are you? (a photo included in response is welcome and more apt to receive reply than not.)
Thanks for reading this far.
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
The Filmmaker's first reply:
Subject: Squeezing a world into a matchbook
I'm sure you have a hundred and fifty replies, but here's one more for you to read if the rest seem lacking...
Miller, yes, Bukowski, I don't know so well, except for a poem a friend once wrote on the back of an envelope for me, kept me sane at a little low... I liked your post, the important distinctions and the fine lines... I'm English, French, speak a little Russian, but not so much Spanish, I'd put myself on the same side of those fine lines as you, I'm a filmmaker, mostly documentary, a little fiction, a little writing but wish I could express myself better with words, I'm 30, I take a lot of photos, but promised myself never to sully that pleasure by trying to make a career out of it,
I'd love to meet up, have a coffee or a whiskey, with no expectation on either side, but with a curiosity and just a little bit of anticipation on both...
-Filmmaker
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
Yes, re-reading his email it wasn't that it was so amazing that it swept me off my feet, but it was one of the first and he used the word "sully." Not easy to pass up and the ensuing conversation improved ten-fold.
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
Subject: (same)
In the morning she was Lo...
You look delicious. Where are those hills in the background? Cinqueterre... (Italy?) And is that a small man cowering under the sink in the black dress photo?
I'm actually up around pigalle this evening - meeting up with an editor friend to do a little work. I don't know if you're free, but I'll be done around 8/8.30. If not this evening, let me know when you have time later in the week.
My number is 123456789
Looking forward to meeting you, hearing what you're writing about and trying to persuade you of the virtues of a cup of tea.
-Filmmaker
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
I'm always taken by the people who can correlate the "Lola" to the icon "Lolita." Sure, it's not too hard to make the connection, but I'm more impressed when a person can. And what girl can pass up "You look delicious"?
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
As I told Sarah over wine and cheese and cigarettes, I can't be monogamous because there are so many sides of myself that I find it easier to date a few people who mirror an aspect here or there. I'm not sure what the Filmmaker fulfills but there is the obvious: art, whiskey, good conversation, good sex,
Friday, October 3, 2008
As KEXP counts down, I count up
from Tumblr post:
I should be asleep now. Considering I'm sick as a dog - supposedly, but the drugs are working. Except for that hour where the first antibiotic made me dizzy and my vision turned all blurry and seeing two for one and like I was drunk before I'd even touched the wine. Got the French doctor lady to change that 'script for shizzle.
So, instead of going out with hot Jimmy down the block who is a first year in my program and who SMS'd me about where the party was tonight, I stayed home and caught up on my VP debate and McCain on The View.
The next-door neighbor knocked and I was tired and I thought he'd want to flirt because we've fucked a couple of times and he took me to my first bath house in Paris and then took me there again where we did a little exchangiste action and I got a sexy older man's cock up my ass. So, I really wasn't in the mood to talk to him though because the last time we were in a sexual position I was tired and spent and he was, like, begging me to finish him off in the cabin at the end of the hall of said bath house. And, last night I let The Filmmaker come over and fuck me on the overly noisy futon-couch thing in my apartment. But I let the neighbor in and he didn't make sly remarks on how long or short it took Filmmaker to get me off (like he did after the Pool Boy fucked me - and yes, it was short and small and bad). He actually came over to gloat about his daughter - who has the misfortune of sleeping directly opposite the wall of the futon-fuck-couch - and to show me a clip of her in Disney France's high school equivalent of some show on Nickelodeon. It made me want to corrupt her more. Granted, when I see her, she's dressed all hottie French high schooler, in the TV show, she's all baggy pants and high fives. A total contrast to deflate any boner.
Yes, I should go to bed. Considering I'm Tumblring about Nickelodeon.
I don't really want to talk about Mike. To me he is a figment in a sense. If I tried to describe him, I'd get it all wrong. Except for the blonde hair and glasses. A son of a hard-ass military dad. A punk rocker. We were all too snobby to pay attention to each other. I think he was brilliant for a kid. He was shy. Liberty loved him. And I vaguely remember seeing him the night before he offed himself. If it was premeditated, it was keenly covered up. We drank whiskey in the van on the way to his funeral. I was dating one of the punk friends. We were somber, not sober. He was straight-edge. He was in the casket. It was surreal.
And none of this matters. It's not who he was at the time, because that was not his beauty. He was in a good band. He had followers in the city. But who he was then is not who he was. Is. He is who he is within me. With me. Daily. Weekly. Monthly. In autumn. In October. He is my inspiration. He is standing over my left shoulder. He is enjoying things now. He is kicking my ass. He is a reminder. He is alive.
This is Mike.
I sent a drunk dial email to about 10 members of my family telling them briefly that I miss them and love them. I do. I feel a bit homesick. I felt more homesick while being sick, on the metro, heading from school to the doctor's appointment. A mom got on with her stroller and baby infant son. He was sick. She was rapid to pull out the medicine she'd just scored and to feed it to him. Hold his hand, look at him, smile, pull his hoody off, try to energize him. She was so concerned and focused and in love and wanting to do anything for him. I have never known this feeling for another person. It was fascinating to see. I was proud of her and knew he was in good hands. And then I missed my mum. I wished she was there to just smoothly rub my forehead.
And then, I am a sick fuck and immediately thought about wanting to fuck on the fever. It's an incredible feeling to fuck while delusional. I did a bit of that last night with the Filmmaker. After seeing that juice, soup, garlic, Dayquil were not improving my situation, I threw it to the wind and went out for whiskey with him. And then back to my apartment and more whiskey and cigarettes and making out and fucking and then a long, detailed, gruffly whispered story about Lola, a 12-year-old girl getting fucked the first time by her brother Vladimir on a playground, who ditches and is replaced by his friend Dimitri - all the while, I was speeding up the vibrator on my clit.
In the morning he fisted me. And I got a fill of protein. Nothing chases cum like a pain au chocolat, I tell you.
Yes, these are the drunk thoughts which should be put to sleep before I divulge too much.
"Cathy, I'm lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping. I'm empty and aching and I don't know why. Counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike. They've all come to look for America." - Simon & Garfunkel, on KEXP.
I should be asleep now. Considering I'm sick as a dog - supposedly, but the drugs are working. Except for that hour where the first antibiotic made me dizzy and my vision turned all blurry and seeing two for one and like I was drunk before I'd even touched the wine. Got the French doctor lady to change that 'script for shizzle.
So, instead of going out with hot Jimmy down the block who is a first year in my program and who SMS'd me about where the party was tonight, I stayed home and caught up on my VP debate and McCain on The View.
The next-door neighbor knocked and I was tired and I thought he'd want to flirt because we've fucked a couple of times and he took me to my first bath house in Paris and then took me there again where we did a little exchangiste action and I got a sexy older man's cock up my ass. So, I really wasn't in the mood to talk to him though because the last time we were in a sexual position I was tired and spent and he was, like, begging me to finish him off in the cabin at the end of the hall of said bath house. And, last night I let The Filmmaker come over and fuck me on the overly noisy futon-couch thing in my apartment. But I let the neighbor in and he didn't make sly remarks on how long or short it took Filmmaker to get me off (like he did after the Pool Boy fucked me - and yes, it was short and small and bad). He actually came over to gloat about his daughter - who has the misfortune of sleeping directly opposite the wall of the futon-fuck-couch - and to show me a clip of her in Disney France's high school equivalent of some show on Nickelodeon. It made me want to corrupt her more. Granted, when I see her, she's dressed all hottie French high schooler, in the TV show, she's all baggy pants and high fives. A total contrast to deflate any boner.
Yes, I should go to bed. Considering I'm Tumblring about Nickelodeon.
I don't really want to talk about Mike. To me he is a figment in a sense. If I tried to describe him, I'd get it all wrong. Except for the blonde hair and glasses. A son of a hard-ass military dad. A punk rocker. We were all too snobby to pay attention to each other. I think he was brilliant for a kid. He was shy. Liberty loved him. And I vaguely remember seeing him the night before he offed himself. If it was premeditated, it was keenly covered up. We drank whiskey in the van on the way to his funeral. I was dating one of the punk friends. We were somber, not sober. He was straight-edge. He was in the casket. It was surreal.
And none of this matters. It's not who he was at the time, because that was not his beauty. He was in a good band. He had followers in the city. But who he was then is not who he was. Is. He is who he is within me. With me. Daily. Weekly. Monthly. In autumn. In October. He is my inspiration. He is standing over my left shoulder. He is enjoying things now. He is kicking my ass. He is a reminder. He is alive.
This is Mike.
I sent a drunk dial email to about 10 members of my family telling them briefly that I miss them and love them. I do. I feel a bit homesick. I felt more homesick while being sick, on the metro, heading from school to the doctor's appointment. A mom got on with her stroller and baby infant son. He was sick. She was rapid to pull out the medicine she'd just scored and to feed it to him. Hold his hand, look at him, smile, pull his hoody off, try to energize him. She was so concerned and focused and in love and wanting to do anything for him. I have never known this feeling for another person. It was fascinating to see. I was proud of her and knew he was in good hands. And then I missed my mum. I wished she was there to just smoothly rub my forehead.
And then, I am a sick fuck and immediately thought about wanting to fuck on the fever. It's an incredible feeling to fuck while delusional. I did a bit of that last night with the Filmmaker. After seeing that juice, soup, garlic, Dayquil were not improving my situation, I threw it to the wind and went out for whiskey with him. And then back to my apartment and more whiskey and cigarettes and making out and fucking and then a long, detailed, gruffly whispered story about Lola, a 12-year-old girl getting fucked the first time by her brother Vladimir on a playground, who ditches and is replaced by his friend Dimitri - all the while, I was speeding up the vibrator on my clit.
In the morning he fisted me. And I got a fill of protein. Nothing chases cum like a pain au chocolat, I tell you.
Yes, these are the drunk thoughts which should be put to sleep before I divulge too much.
"Cathy, I'm lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping. I'm empty and aching and I don't know why. Counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike. They've all come to look for America." - Simon & Garfunkel, on KEXP.
Monday, September 22, 2008
I was a goth slut for a night
The Germans dressed me up. When I walked home drunk, two cars pulled up alongside me. I was drowning in a song from The Stnnng so I couldn't hear how much money they were offering.
Then, there's the date with The Filmmaker, which turned into another date the next night just based on the way he grabbed me and kissed me at the metro station. The second date lasted a night and a full day. The third date lasted a night and another full day. I think I like him a lot.
In between, was The TV Producer. The Filmmaker shared whiskey and cigarettes and slow caresses and rough fucking. The TV Producer blindfolded me and had me lick wine off his finger, guessing which wine it was. He bent me over his knee and spanked me, looking into my wincing eyes after each slap. And the fucker had the audacity to say, "Oui.. ça c'est bon ça..." Just like The Economist Beekeeper Sex God. Damn him. Tonight he wants me as an escort.
I guess my paper on the analytical comparison of prostitution policies in the EU will have to wait. I'll focus more on work when school starts. I'll focus more on everything then.
Then, there's the date with The Filmmaker, which turned into another date the next night just based on the way he grabbed me and kissed me at the metro station. The second date lasted a night and a full day. The third date lasted a night and another full day. I think I like him a lot.
In between, was The TV Producer. The Filmmaker shared whiskey and cigarettes and slow caresses and rough fucking. The TV Producer blindfolded me and had me lick wine off his finger, guessing which wine it was. He bent me over his knee and spanked me, looking into my wincing eyes after each slap. And the fucker had the audacity to say, "Oui.. ça c'est bon ça..." Just like The Economist Beekeeper Sex God. Damn him. Tonight he wants me as an escort.
I guess my paper on the analytical comparison of prostitution policies in the EU will have to wait. I'll focus more on work when school starts. I'll focus more on everything then.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Lola is... My Morning Jacket
Reflecting at midnight on Friday.
I got back to Paris on 9/11. The last few days of Geneva were rain showers, sunny glory, and then drizzling on my way out of town. Very parallel to how I was feeling in those final days.
I got back from Cinque Terre, which was a wonderful trip, albeit not a pilgrimage, but a bonding experience with my good friend The Russian, and bonding with myself. I have yet to tell her that on the final day, after she left, I went out past the shoreline and into the deeper water, and as I saw her do earlier, floated on my back facing the tall hills. Serenity in salt water, relaxation in light waves, security in the steady rocks below my feet, stability in being able to see to the bottom, and a free soul in looking up at the dusty green hills that felt so much more mighty than me, with so much presence. I am humbled by things of greatness, be it size of the landscape, beauty of a person, the profundity within the air. I tried to force myself to remember the moment. And then I had a Corona while watching the sunset on my blanket with rocks jabbing into my back.
If you want the details of the conversation between me and The Economist Beekeeper Sex God, you should click the link to the right called Tumblr. I've been quick-posting there a lot lately. It's addicting like the Status of Facebook.
Maybe it had something to do with his beauty and my insecurity that made me wonder why the hell he was spending time with me. I have no idea what he got out of our liaisons, except the obvious: sex. But he could have had it with the chick he told me about who, during their hot date at her place, ran to change and came out in a full-body Catwoman suit. He could have had it with his Brazilian chick, and he did - according to the time frame he told me, which was the night I got back into town from Cinque Terre. Maybe he liked slumming (granted, I think better of myself than that, but...). There just seemed to be no justification and he never really communicated anything. Sure, I knew all about his ex-girlfriend and how she got crazy and belittled him while he was a stay-at-home dad/journalist to their newborn. About how another ex-girlfriend came to visit him in Spain while he was on vacation for 3 weeks and she had new tits. But then - and shame, shame on me - there was the doctor's bill (sitting on top of the recycled newspapers directly next to the trash so, no, I was not digging through the trash, thank you). He was billed for 2 weeks starting the Sunday after he got back into town from Spain, ie the day after we hooked up. But I saw him those 2 weeks. And I hadn't noticed any moles removed or new rhinoplasty. Maybe it was psychotherapy. But who sees patients on a Sunday?
Hence, my doubts. And my curiosities. And I never felt at ease. And this made it all the more pleasurable to date him. The unknown, the mystery, the slight degradation I felt. The grass being greener and not being let in on the secret of the fertilizer. He charmed me with always calling me "guapa" and ending notes with "besos" of different proportions (grande, fuerte). If I could sum him up, I'd say he was probably a true Playboy like we don't see much anymore. Living a minimalist lifestyle (5 suits, 5 pairs of work shoes and a shoehorn the length of his calf, no art hung on the walls, no clutter), always with a bottle of something (Red Label, Ballantine's, wine), dashing in a sweater and white pants, a bathroom with the bare essentials but of good quality, a fridge with nothing but applesauce and pesto and juice, a good drug now and then, taking the train to work, swimming in the lake during lunch hour, and romancing a handful of girls. A veritable James Bond, with that special, forgivable shrug when caught between two lovers.
And his SMS yesterday, "...que tal paris.. beso..."
Yes, he was a character for me.
For the end of the Bike Man, well, I didn't call him after Cinque Terre. Our last rendezvous was strange, as he paced maniacally in his kitchen telling me about the former Swiss light weight champion wielding a bike frame in defense of Bike Man with a chainsaw, defending himself from a love triangle mix-up. He looked out the window the whole time like he couldn't look at me, who was amused just watching him. And then, when I told him I had to go in a half-hour, he spanked me with a newly bought crop and jacked off over me and then came. Leaving me high and dry and racing home on my bike. His fetish just became too routine and unfulfilling.
So, on the drizzly morning I had to leave Geneva, I biked over to his shop, forgetting he didn't open up until 13h, left the book I borrowed (after reading about the child-murdering Gilles des Rais, I decided to pick up a hefty book about some woman solving the Jack the Ripper case - barely got through 10 pages), with a note wondering if he'd buy back my wonderful bike if the future flatmate didn't want it. I haven't heard from him about this at all. Not surprising.
And, now, I'm back in Paris and I have the Butcher emailing me and SMSing me about 4 times a day - even before I left Geneva. I sent an email asking him to be patient upon my return, that I'd need time to settle back in, unpack, shop, readjust, and just get back into things. And yet, still, I get detailed reports about how he's living. He's a sweet guy and he and I are closer than The Economist and I got to be so we have a different conversation between us. But, like every crazy person, I prefer to be left in mystery and wondering and hoping for attention than to be on a pedestal, awaited for like the Queen sailing into town. He leaves no room for mystery or intrigue.
Example:
Me, in Cinque Terre, day after arriving there, I sent an SMS to The Economist: "pienso en vos" (thinking of you / think of you)
He SMS back: ...viento caliente...lo mismo. (hot wind, the same)
I felt compelled for some reason to send the same to The Butcher: "thinking of you"
and I got back "Hi! :-) i bet you're having great time. I've been working on antic photos with my parents. Great time, great stories! Back to paris tomorrow. Gros bisous"
And I know that this just explains the two distinct relationships I had developed with them, but they are also very distinct. And, I preferred the former reply. I guess it's a bit romantic although I swear against romance. But more than that it's this heated mystery, desire, and simplicity in depth. Or, maybe creativity. I don't know, but I saved both SMS and read them again and wondered what the fuck.
So, now The Butcher is wondering when we see each other as if he has a zillion things going on tomorrow night between 19h and 22h and thus needs to plan when I'll be coming over. I know, it's exactly like me. I like to plan things. But when, on the Tuesday before I left, I went over to the Economist's to head to the bees to transfer honey and he forgot the second helmet for the motorcycle, I was like, no problem, let me know when you get back and we'll hang out. I wasn't pining for an hour on the dot, I had packing to do, and frankly, wasn't all that interested in getting all sticky with transferring honey from one bucket to a bunch of jars - and honestly, I'd guess he knew the same or couldn't foresee there being any work for two people and *left* the other helmet as such.
I guess I want a complicated medium, as most people do. To be desired, but not to be needed. To be appreciated but not required. To be enjoyed but not an addiction. I didn't get enough of that from the Economist and get too much from the Butcher. Sigh. Life is so good. I love complexity and all the varieties of emotion of life. I am lucky to feel them.
Well, Paris is still burning lights. The street is louder than Geneva. There is no noise curfew of 10pm. It smells of urine and freshly-baked bread. I have climbed the 101 stairs to my apartment twice yesterday and three times today. I need supplies for survival. I'm also at home on a Friday night unpacking. Listening to "Strangulation" and "Death is the Easy Way" by My Morning Jacket and moaning Turkish singers and wailing French voices, while trying to avoid the Gotan Project, which is added to all my iTunes playlists and which I will not be able to unassociate from the Economist for a long time.
Oh, and there are new photos up on Flickr relating to the Saturday night with the Economist and his friend. We went to a club exchangiste and had a grand ol' time. I'll write about it soon, I'm sure.
I got back to Paris on 9/11. The last few days of Geneva were rain showers, sunny glory, and then drizzling on my way out of town. Very parallel to how I was feeling in those final days.
I got back from Cinque Terre, which was a wonderful trip, albeit not a pilgrimage, but a bonding experience with my good friend The Russian, and bonding with myself. I have yet to tell her that on the final day, after she left, I went out past the shoreline and into the deeper water, and as I saw her do earlier, floated on my back facing the tall hills. Serenity in salt water, relaxation in light waves, security in the steady rocks below my feet, stability in being able to see to the bottom, and a free soul in looking up at the dusty green hills that felt so much more mighty than me, with so much presence. I am humbled by things of greatness, be it size of the landscape, beauty of a person, the profundity within the air. I tried to force myself to remember the moment. And then I had a Corona while watching the sunset on my blanket with rocks jabbing into my back.
If you want the details of the conversation between me and The Economist Beekeeper Sex God, you should click the link to the right called Tumblr. I've been quick-posting there a lot lately. It's addicting like the Status of Facebook.
Maybe it had something to do with his beauty and my insecurity that made me wonder why the hell he was spending time with me. I have no idea what he got out of our liaisons, except the obvious: sex. But he could have had it with the chick he told me about who, during their hot date at her place, ran to change and came out in a full-body Catwoman suit. He could have had it with his Brazilian chick, and he did - according to the time frame he told me, which was the night I got back into town from Cinque Terre. Maybe he liked slumming (granted, I think better of myself than that, but...). There just seemed to be no justification and he never really communicated anything. Sure, I knew all about his ex-girlfriend and how she got crazy and belittled him while he was a stay-at-home dad/journalist to their newborn. About how another ex-girlfriend came to visit him in Spain while he was on vacation for 3 weeks and she had new tits. But then - and shame, shame on me - there was the doctor's bill (sitting on top of the recycled newspapers directly next to the trash so, no, I was not digging through the trash, thank you). He was billed for 2 weeks starting the Sunday after he got back into town from Spain, ie the day after we hooked up. But I saw him those 2 weeks. And I hadn't noticed any moles removed or new rhinoplasty. Maybe it was psychotherapy. But who sees patients on a Sunday?
Hence, my doubts. And my curiosities. And I never felt at ease. And this made it all the more pleasurable to date him. The unknown, the mystery, the slight degradation I felt. The grass being greener and not being let in on the secret of the fertilizer. He charmed me with always calling me "guapa" and ending notes with "besos" of different proportions (grande, fuerte). If I could sum him up, I'd say he was probably a true Playboy like we don't see much anymore. Living a minimalist lifestyle (5 suits, 5 pairs of work shoes and a shoehorn the length of his calf, no art hung on the walls, no clutter), always with a bottle of something (Red Label, Ballantine's, wine), dashing in a sweater and white pants, a bathroom with the bare essentials but of good quality, a fridge with nothing but applesauce and pesto and juice, a good drug now and then, taking the train to work, swimming in the lake during lunch hour, and romancing a handful of girls. A veritable James Bond, with that special, forgivable shrug when caught between two lovers.
And his SMS yesterday, "...que tal paris.. beso..."
Yes, he was a character for me.
For the end of the Bike Man, well, I didn't call him after Cinque Terre. Our last rendezvous was strange, as he paced maniacally in his kitchen telling me about the former Swiss light weight champion wielding a bike frame in defense of Bike Man with a chainsaw, defending himself from a love triangle mix-up. He looked out the window the whole time like he couldn't look at me, who was amused just watching him. And then, when I told him I had to go in a half-hour, he spanked me with a newly bought crop and jacked off over me and then came. Leaving me high and dry and racing home on my bike. His fetish just became too routine and unfulfilling.
So, on the drizzly morning I had to leave Geneva, I biked over to his shop, forgetting he didn't open up until 13h, left the book I borrowed (after reading about the child-murdering Gilles des Rais, I decided to pick up a hefty book about some woman solving the Jack the Ripper case - barely got through 10 pages), with a note wondering if he'd buy back my wonderful bike if the future flatmate didn't want it. I haven't heard from him about this at all. Not surprising.
And, now, I'm back in Paris and I have the Butcher emailing me and SMSing me about 4 times a day - even before I left Geneva. I sent an email asking him to be patient upon my return, that I'd need time to settle back in, unpack, shop, readjust, and just get back into things. And yet, still, I get detailed reports about how he's living. He's a sweet guy and he and I are closer than The Economist and I got to be so we have a different conversation between us. But, like every crazy person, I prefer to be left in mystery and wondering and hoping for attention than to be on a pedestal, awaited for like the Queen sailing into town. He leaves no room for mystery or intrigue.
Example:
Me, in Cinque Terre, day after arriving there, I sent an SMS to The Economist: "pienso en vos" (thinking of you / think of you)
He SMS back: ...viento caliente...lo mismo. (hot wind, the same)
I felt compelled for some reason to send the same to The Butcher: "thinking of you"
and I got back "Hi! :-) i bet you're having great time. I've been working on antic photos with my parents. Great time, great stories! Back to paris tomorrow. Gros bisous"
And I know that this just explains the two distinct relationships I had developed with them, but they are also very distinct. And, I preferred the former reply. I guess it's a bit romantic although I swear against romance. But more than that it's this heated mystery, desire, and simplicity in depth. Or, maybe creativity. I don't know, but I saved both SMS and read them again and wondered what the fuck.
So, now The Butcher is wondering when we see each other as if he has a zillion things going on tomorrow night between 19h and 22h and thus needs to plan when I'll be coming over. I know, it's exactly like me. I like to plan things. But when, on the Tuesday before I left, I went over to the Economist's to head to the bees to transfer honey and he forgot the second helmet for the motorcycle, I was like, no problem, let me know when you get back and we'll hang out. I wasn't pining for an hour on the dot, I had packing to do, and frankly, wasn't all that interested in getting all sticky with transferring honey from one bucket to a bunch of jars - and honestly, I'd guess he knew the same or couldn't foresee there being any work for two people and *left* the other helmet as such.
I guess I want a complicated medium, as most people do. To be desired, but not to be needed. To be appreciated but not required. To be enjoyed but not an addiction. I didn't get enough of that from the Economist and get too much from the Butcher. Sigh. Life is so good. I love complexity and all the varieties of emotion of life. I am lucky to feel them.
Well, Paris is still burning lights. The street is louder than Geneva. There is no noise curfew of 10pm. It smells of urine and freshly-baked bread. I have climbed the 101 stairs to my apartment twice yesterday and three times today. I need supplies for survival. I'm also at home on a Friday night unpacking. Listening to "Strangulation" and "Death is the Easy Way" by My Morning Jacket and moaning Turkish singers and wailing French voices, while trying to avoid the Gotan Project, which is added to all my iTunes playlists and which I will not be able to unassociate from the Economist for a long time.
Oh, and there are new photos up on Flickr relating to the Saturday night with the Economist and his friend. We went to a club exchangiste and had a grand ol' time. I'll write about it soon, I'm sure.
Friday, August 29, 2008
I am an idiot
the Economist Beekeeper Sex God in SMS: ...reve en dormant...envie de toi...
me, asking the Swiss roommate what it means
her, replying it means he wants me
we, giggle
I, hesitate - but does it mean he wants me now? He wants me in general? He wanted me in the dream?
I send an SMS back: je ne comprend pas le francais guapo
Economist Beekeeper Sex God: ...ganas de ti...
[desire of you]
Swiss and I, wondering, analyzing what it means. She wants me to go to him. But "ganas" means longing, interest, I have "ganas" to eat that apple. But it doesn't mean I ask someone for it. Or, that I grab it. It means I'm interested in it. .....I am over-analyzing.
I send an SMS back: creo que deje un par de bragas alla
[I think I left a pair of underwear there]
Swiss and I are laughing our asses off and having another cigarette and another glass of wine.
Economist Beekeeper Sex God: ...mmmmhh...
Swiss and I wonder what it means. In English it means akin to meh or feh or could also be yummyeh. Swiss thinks the latter.
I send an SMS back (after debating for 15 minutes what witty reply to send): yes
Actually, the Swiss gave it to me. I feel like a moron. Like a 16-year-old moron. And, I'm behaving like one.
...nothing...
...silence...
...fuck...
...will pack for Italy...
...will grow up...
...will stop being a fucking idiot...
[interesting that I have a label called "moron" - will have to see my other moronic times]
me, asking the Swiss roommate what it means
her, replying it means he wants me
we, giggle
I, hesitate - but does it mean he wants me now? He wants me in general? He wanted me in the dream?
I send an SMS back: je ne comprend pas le francais guapo
Economist Beekeeper Sex God: ...ganas de ti...
[desire of you]
Swiss and I, wondering, analyzing what it means. She wants me to go to him. But "ganas" means longing, interest, I have "ganas" to eat that apple. But it doesn't mean I ask someone for it. Or, that I grab it. It means I'm interested in it. .....I am over-analyzing.
I send an SMS back: creo que deje un par de bragas alla
[I think I left a pair of underwear there]
Swiss and I are laughing our asses off and having another cigarette and another glass of wine.
Economist Beekeeper Sex God: ...mmmmhh...
Swiss and I wonder what it means. In English it means akin to meh or feh or could also be yummyeh. Swiss thinks the latter.
I send an SMS back (after debating for 15 minutes what witty reply to send): yes
Actually, the Swiss gave it to me. I feel like a moron. Like a 16-year-old moron. And, I'm behaving like one.
...nothing...
...silence...
...fuck...
...will pack for Italy...
...will grow up...
...will stop being a fucking idiot...
[interesting that I have a label called "moron" - will have to see my other moronic times]
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Fuck chess
I've been trapped in a catch-22 checkmate leapfrog wrestle-crush. Out of nowhere and completely visible. I let this happen and I am the only one to blame.
All I can fool myself into beleiving is that he is at home thinking the same things, saying he shouldn't call, we shouldn't hang out, distance is best. Otherwise, I am the fool. The smell of this clothes, the flip flops crushing bees, the way he looks just like a 10-year-old boy in certain light, the way I started to see other sides of him, the way he opened up my ass slowly over candlelight.
I am fucked.
Fucked.
Fucked.
Fucking how this happened.... fuck.
And then, it is only logical and reasonable and the next best move to be retreat. Protection and calm and far from assault or risk. All my balls landed in his court. Although I played it cooly, I still gave more than he did. I risked greater distances across the board. In my honor, I did verbalize my recognition that in no way was he manipulating me since I was compliant and interested in all the activities. Granted, in my admission, I wonder if I wasn't completely transparent.
I can only hope he's not fucking "Catwoman" or maybe I hope he is.
God, I need the vacation in Cinque Terre. I do. I do. Get back to myself. Get free again. Be quiet and solitary with a good friend. Drink wine and eat pesto. I need to get out of here.
Fuck.
I hate this part of the beautiful living.
.......
Addition:
It's not love. It's some crazy lust.
I know this because I have no fashion on making him a life partner or fostering children from Africa or my own belly with him. I could never see a life where we lived in the same apartment or visited every weekend. There's just not enough substance between us.
It's just that he's so damn nice on the eyes. And somewhat aloof. And can give a crazy ass hard spanking. And is free in that kind of rich-guy freedom, where he can go to work with slicked back hair, a suit, a tie, and use a shoe-horn to get into his expensive shoes. Then, take the hour lunch on the beach, swim for 20 minutes, lay on the sand, have girls laugh because he thinks his balls might be hanging out since the suit is torn, go back to work, catch the train, be back by 4:30pm to ride out to bees. In a painter's suit. And flip-flops. And Captain America motorcycle helmut. And a gay scarf. And then, to kill bees with his bare hand, make honey, steal stealthily from bees, organize things in an OCD fashion like stacking bee houses, tell me to be calm when I freak out, and then grab a beer on the terrace afterwards, get Thai food, eat, and use the same manipulation tactics to touch my cunt, finger my ass, fuck me silly.
These are ... a few of my favorite things.
Power, money, freedom. Who wouldn't fall for that?
So, to have it and then to not have it is a jolt.
My god he's so beautiful. And simple. He thinks I'm a spy for all the photos I take of everything. I think he's an impostor for how simply he lives.
Why have I fallen so fast and hard?
All I can fool myself into beleiving is that he is at home thinking the same things, saying he shouldn't call, we shouldn't hang out, distance is best. Otherwise, I am the fool. The smell of this clothes, the flip flops crushing bees, the way he looks just like a 10-year-old boy in certain light, the way I started to see other sides of him, the way he opened up my ass slowly over candlelight.
I am fucked.
Fucked.
Fucked.
Fucking how this happened.... fuck.
And then, it is only logical and reasonable and the next best move to be retreat. Protection and calm and far from assault or risk. All my balls landed in his court. Although I played it cooly, I still gave more than he did. I risked greater distances across the board. In my honor, I did verbalize my recognition that in no way was he manipulating me since I was compliant and interested in all the activities. Granted, in my admission, I wonder if I wasn't completely transparent.
I can only hope he's not fucking "Catwoman" or maybe I hope he is.
God, I need the vacation in Cinque Terre. I do. I do. Get back to myself. Get free again. Be quiet and solitary with a good friend. Drink wine and eat pesto. I need to get out of here.
Fuck.
I hate this part of the beautiful living.
.......
Addition:
It's not love. It's some crazy lust.
I know this because I have no fashion on making him a life partner or fostering children from Africa or my own belly with him. I could never see a life where we lived in the same apartment or visited every weekend. There's just not enough substance between us.
It's just that he's so damn nice on the eyes. And somewhat aloof. And can give a crazy ass hard spanking. And is free in that kind of rich-guy freedom, where he can go to work with slicked back hair, a suit, a tie, and use a shoe-horn to get into his expensive shoes. Then, take the hour lunch on the beach, swim for 20 minutes, lay on the sand, have girls laugh because he thinks his balls might be hanging out since the suit is torn, go back to work, catch the train, be back by 4:30pm to ride out to bees. In a painter's suit. And flip-flops. And Captain America motorcycle helmut. And a gay scarf. And then, to kill bees with his bare hand, make honey, steal stealthily from bees, organize things in an OCD fashion like stacking bee houses, tell me to be calm when I freak out, and then grab a beer on the terrace afterwards, get Thai food, eat, and use the same manipulation tactics to touch my cunt, finger my ass, fuck me silly.
These are ... a few of my favorite things.
Power, money, freedom. Who wouldn't fall for that?
So, to have it and then to not have it is a jolt.
My god he's so beautiful. And simple. He thinks I'm a spy for all the photos I take of everything. I think he's an impostor for how simply he lives.
Why have I fallen so fast and hard?
Sunday, August 24, 2008
What do I care about chess?
(I'm blurting out sometimes. Thanks BadMan for showing me.)
Bike Man told me about wielding a chainsaw against a former Swiss light weight champion who wielded a bike frame as protection. This was after the latter smashed the former's head on a vice. It was all about women and madness.
I watched him in a manic state as he prepared dinner. The strange glow of an exposed bulb lighting the small kitchen and his black frame speaking, the majority of the time, to a window. I drank a lot of wine and kept thinking, "I have to remember this."
Of the 4 hours, a half-hour was spent turning my ass to red with a crop while he jacked off above me. I got cum in my eye and it turned bloodshot. I did not cum. But I got crazy stories.
I watched a Canadian film on Putin, which scared me to sleep at 3am. And then, after I had already decided not to get up at 8:30am for the 9:30 train to see my flatmate tell stories in a festival in Vevey (an hour away), "...do you want to come sunday to the beehouses?..." The Economist is a Beekeeper.
At 10:34am "yes"
He found an extra helmet. We're going on his moto.
I am afraid of bees. The Russian girl friend will die laughing reading this.
Especially after the story I told her about me dropping to the floor as if a drive-by outside my window, knees hitting the floor and my head down -- ducking from a bee that came into my bedroom and promptly fled the giant that fell on the floor in wild fashion.
Dios mio.
Bike Man told me about wielding a chainsaw against a former Swiss light weight champion who wielded a bike frame as protection. This was after the latter smashed the former's head on a vice. It was all about women and madness.
I watched him in a manic state as he prepared dinner. The strange glow of an exposed bulb lighting the small kitchen and his black frame speaking, the majority of the time, to a window. I drank a lot of wine and kept thinking, "I have to remember this."
Of the 4 hours, a half-hour was spent turning my ass to red with a crop while he jacked off above me. I got cum in my eye and it turned bloodshot. I did not cum. But I got crazy stories.
I watched a Canadian film on Putin, which scared me to sleep at 3am. And then, after I had already decided not to get up at 8:30am for the 9:30 train to see my flatmate tell stories in a festival in Vevey (an hour away), "...do you want to come sunday to the beehouses?..." The Economist is a Beekeeper.
At 10:34am "yes"
He found an extra helmet. We're going on his moto.
I am afraid of bees. The Russian girl friend will die laughing reading this.
Especially after the story I told her about me dropping to the floor as if a drive-by outside my window, knees hitting the floor and my head down -- ducking from a bee that came into my bedroom and promptly fled the giant that fell on the floor in wild fashion.
Dios mio.
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