Thursday, January 31, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
an excess of men, all blurring together into a dramatic apotheosis
My brain is drunk on images.
It is that time again.
Disintegration.
If I could sink as low as I feel my thoughts could go, I would plummet in a slow motion rip through the wooden floors of this building. The wood would peel back in splinters and me, along with this wicker chair, would rush through the levels separating privacy and violation all the way into the concrete and brick of the basement and through to the dank, spooge, grease of the sewers. That is where I would rest. Splattered with wood splinters gouging my soft skin. Hair torn off in strands caught on the jagged floor above me. Black ooze splashed up into my eyes and sliding down my calves. The rats gathering curious after the loud disruption. And me, sitting, calmly, staring at a slight forty-five degree angle at a crack slightly lit by some life from the hole above my head. My heart a stuttering horse galloping across the dips of my chest cavity. The empty firepit of my belly filling with phlem. Mechanically, I would pierce through the sludge below to grab a rabid rat and would rub rub rub him between my legs until rugburn and tears.
I am in love with incest. When I think about my own father he is replaced by a melting pot of beautiful men I know in my life. But I don't think of my own father. I read stories of other people's fantasies. When I hear the father next door argue with his seventeen year old daughter about her lateness or her absence or her homework and then the voices go silent, I imagine his anger really comes from desire and he muffles her moans as he forgives her. They fuck in my head endlessly and I want to ask him about it, tell him he must describe it to me. Tell me every detail so I can find out if the shuffles and echoes I hear match what I imagine is going on. Does he push the back of her head so her mouth gags on his cock like he did me? And will he call me his fille when he shoves his hand inside me? When my American friend, the professor, visited, sitting so vulgarly next to his wife, button-up shirt unbuttoned showing his white undershirt covering a pot belly only exaggerated by his overtly loud annoying American behavior earlier in the day. He tells of his new caregiving of their children and how his three year old sits with him watching portions of Roman Polanski and says, "But this is boring to me." He pauses with memory behind his eyes and hesitates in finishin the story. And I imagine he has a hand on her golden curls and is placing sweet kisses along her arm as she giggles.
"Incest, like pedophilia or bestiality or cannibalism are only taboos erected by social convention, always identifying with the victim. There is nothing inherently evil in them and any damage they might do is also socially constructed. In other words, he felt that they could only be damaging if you believed they were inherently evil. Why then succumb to such weakness? He felt that if Anaïs were to put this into her own words, she would support his explanation that this was something unique, a great sacrilege, a radical transgression of the forbidden. That was how it should be judged. Why impose conventional bourgeois sentiments upon it if that is what you think? Anglo-Saxon culture in particular had trouble understanding that blood is the most potent substance on the earth; Spanish culture understands it but rightly fears it; only French culture had learnt to understand it to some degree, which is why he chose to live in Paris."
There is sacredness to blood. I try to imagine what this means to Parisians and I'm afraid that I'm so far away from them that by the time I reach them, my time will be up and I will be without an EU citizenship to stay on to figure them out. "Rank concluded these fantasies produce three kinds of people: (1) the normal person who is able to deal with its implications and get on with life; (2) the neurotic, who requires psychoanalytic guidance; and (3) the artistic person who translates them into their writing. It was the third of these that Rank was interested in here."
Why the fuck am I here?
I have four red daisies in the middle of a white room. I am writing on an antique round table which can fit three or eight people. I have two tiny speakers begging and craving Louis Attaque to my heart. Elle est pas.
I have stumbled over my own desires. I am running to find someone, something and I am refraining from seeing things. I am told it is my own ignorance of myself that is blinding and beauty. I have no idea I am sexy. I keep aiming for it, thinking I'm failing and tryiing all the more harder. And yet, it is flypaper while I think it is bug repellent. Come together over me.
I am going to fail my economics exam. I am going to half-ass my law paper and I'm going to totally give a fuck on my statitics paper.
It is that dissentigration. I can't keep my hands out of my pants and I'm begging for a beating.
Remember that guy several years ago who wooed me when I was a drunkard? (If you're trustworthy I'll give you the passcode to CDOA v.2) And then we found each other again last year in Madison and he brought me a fishnet body suit and porn and then bored me over lunch? He's moving to Saudi Arabia for a big money making job and sent me all his porn. It's illegal over there. So I have a 2-foot tall stack of CDs of all kinds of porn on my counter top. And now he's asking to see me again. I am not an alter at which to be worshiped. I am not to be psychoanalyzed and told that my independence will let me down. I am not to be wooed with promises of comfort and seduction and ultimate pleasure.
I am to be broken.
I imagine there's an equally strong hand for my equally challenging ass.
It is true that confidence overwins any other default. Someone posted a simple ad on Craigslist/Paris looking for a girl who would be interested in bondage. I was bored, proscrastinating and sent a reply. He's a (struggling) fashion photographer who is attracted by Shibari. He's been in love with Japan and Paris. I was shy our first meeting at his place. He cut me short on the elongated, drawn-out email exchange I sometimes enjoy as foreplay. I thought we'd be going for the (new) Ang Lee movie but we ended up talking for hours. I was shy. He sat on a stool in his bedroom cum living room and squirmed. It's always odd to me when men squirm in front of me. Have they no idea that I'm pacing and trembling and cowering on the inside? I'm chalking his body twisting up to the fact that he hadn't smoked the maryjane in days and was without a contact. Not that it's addicting, mind you, but that he just felt even more microscoped without it. I was kind of burning him with my stares. (We all know that intensity only masks utter insecurity, right?) I was amazed by his arms. Ok, he said he was a rollerblader (which in this country isn't quite as lame as in the US, it's more of an alternate mode of transportation coupled with daring feat), but where did his arms come from? I'm a sucker for strong hands, but was keenly aware of his biceps for some reason. Perhaps it was the way he was dressed like Kerouac. Poor, artist, Henry Miller, wine, short on cash, all those things I had left behind.
"Most virtue is a demand for greater seduction." - Natalie Clifford Barney
So he sent in an email mentioning that next time he'd like have his way with me. I had wondered if I'd made any good impression at all. A million beautiful women in his apartment/studio. We kissed cheeks good-bye with a closer lip kiss on the second, and a second spread out between us when he leaned in and gave me a quick third kiss. Just like a playground, acceptance and maybe he likes me. I was convinced he'd have a girlfriend or wife or both and I'd just be a professional experience. And in the meantime, I suffer my hormones.
Disintigration into debasement.
Anais Nin fucked Henry Miller who fucked June (who needs no last name). But she also fucked her father at the suggestion (perhaps) of her psychoanalyst who also fucked her in order to replace her obsession with her father. While unethical it worked and she wa able to leave him. I wrote a paper in the 8th grade on Munchausen Syndrome and child abuse. I'm not sure how much I plagerized but it wasn't all me. In 7th grade I convinced my Mormon science lab partner to do our student project on viscosity of liquids and we won. But I've never eagerly or voluntarily fucked my parent. That's a feat I don't know I could do. Although it is, as James pointed out, the ultimate taboo and I am probably only attracted to it because it's so wrong.
It's seductive to offer me things like hearts and comfort and power. As seductive as truth:
I'm vulnerable right now. I'm aware of this which is good and necessary. But I am primed after such a long time without my needs met. Sure, I've been getting cock since I got here (thank the gods!), but meeting bare necessities for a highly sexed girl like me doesn't do much but tease. I could very easily fall for an for a casual encounter on Craigslist or a tempting invitation to use my body. And in other parallel universes my body isn't caged and I'm doing these things. And in those parallel universes I am asking first and then, once I've found my voice, insisting I am paid.
I have these thoughts so many times a day. I watched the madam pace up the corner of the block yesterday. I had a short class, stopped by Demonia to browse the sales, and decided to eat a late lunch at the cafe on Pigalle. I've seen this woman so many times as I round the corner from the metro down the walk to my apartment. She's always looking the same way. About 5'3", black dyed hair pulled back in a slick ponytail, a face with a bit of Eastern European roundness but Italian fire in her eyes. A kind of black bomber jacket with fur-lined hood that is long enough to cover her ass, black pants, black casual sneakers. She looks like she could be your sister or a waitress on a smoke break or a tour guide, but instead she tries to entice men - gently, which is refreshing to see - to go into a club around the corner. We've made eye contact on a few times but me sitting in the cafe gave us both a better chance to eye each other up. So, later last night, when I was off to the bondage soiree, pigtails and heels covered up under my long coat, we made eyes in one of those 2 seconds seems like forever stares and we *knew*. I have deep dreams that she stops me next time and suggests I be the English-speaking escort at her bar. I am so close to the edge of exploring this world but ... hahahah... lord, my morals or fear are holding me back. I certainly don't want to be stupid about this, but I wouldn't mind using my god-given talents to earn a few Euros. I'd be so damn good at it too.
I'm reading "The Prince" by Machiavelli on the metro lately. I read it all the way down to the bondage soiree to be there at 11pm to meet Wilfried & Sarah and friends. I had written down the wrong number on the street. I was sweating on the metro in my corset. I read the book all the way back up the metro. It wasn't a night blown, but it was a "stupidity tax" as BadMan put it.
I'm taking up a French-English language exchange and had my first meeting today. I think it will be impossible as it's supposed to be with the husband of my pregnant colleague. He smells like need and I smell like desire and she smells like ... a bubble. It's dangerous. I could already tell. Despite her presence today, I couldn't help but giggle and do that weird accidental deep looking into his eyes. I just don't think there's a single way for me to live another way. Everyone is sexual to me, every object is something I'd like to shove into my mouth or cunnie.
Disentigration.
Man, I want a cigarette.
"Paris was pulsing away in Anaïs’ bloodstream well before she began her strange flirtation with Antonin Artaud. What Anaïs wanted was to provoke a crisis in herself: an excess of men, all blurring together into a dramatic apotheosis."
with help from Sexual Fables
It is that time again.
Disintegration.
If I could sink as low as I feel my thoughts could go, I would plummet in a slow motion rip through the wooden floors of this building. The wood would peel back in splinters and me, along with this wicker chair, would rush through the levels separating privacy and violation all the way into the concrete and brick of the basement and through to the dank, spooge, grease of the sewers. That is where I would rest. Splattered with wood splinters gouging my soft skin. Hair torn off in strands caught on the jagged floor above me. Black ooze splashed up into my eyes and sliding down my calves. The rats gathering curious after the loud disruption. And me, sitting, calmly, staring at a slight forty-five degree angle at a crack slightly lit by some life from the hole above my head. My heart a stuttering horse galloping across the dips of my chest cavity. The empty firepit of my belly filling with phlem. Mechanically, I would pierce through the sludge below to grab a rabid rat and would rub rub rub him between my legs until rugburn and tears.
I am in love with incest. When I think about my own father he is replaced by a melting pot of beautiful men I know in my life. But I don't think of my own father. I read stories of other people's fantasies. When I hear the father next door argue with his seventeen year old daughter about her lateness or her absence or her homework and then the voices go silent, I imagine his anger really comes from desire and he muffles her moans as he forgives her. They fuck in my head endlessly and I want to ask him about it, tell him he must describe it to me. Tell me every detail so I can find out if the shuffles and echoes I hear match what I imagine is going on. Does he push the back of her head so her mouth gags on his cock like he did me? And will he call me his fille when he shoves his hand inside me? When my American friend, the professor, visited, sitting so vulgarly next to his wife, button-up shirt unbuttoned showing his white undershirt covering a pot belly only exaggerated by his overtly loud annoying American behavior earlier in the day. He tells of his new caregiving of their children and how his three year old sits with him watching portions of Roman Polanski and says, "But this is boring to me." He pauses with memory behind his eyes and hesitates in finishin the story. And I imagine he has a hand on her golden curls and is placing sweet kisses along her arm as she giggles.
"Incest, like pedophilia or bestiality or cannibalism are only taboos erected by social convention, always identifying with the victim. There is nothing inherently evil in them and any damage they might do is also socially constructed. In other words, he felt that they could only be damaging if you believed they were inherently evil. Why then succumb to such weakness? He felt that if Anaïs were to put this into her own words, she would support his explanation that this was something unique, a great sacrilege, a radical transgression of the forbidden. That was how it should be judged. Why impose conventional bourgeois sentiments upon it if that is what you think? Anglo-Saxon culture in particular had trouble understanding that blood is the most potent substance on the earth; Spanish culture understands it but rightly fears it; only French culture had learnt to understand it to some degree, which is why he chose to live in Paris."
There is sacredness to blood. I try to imagine what this means to Parisians and I'm afraid that I'm so far away from them that by the time I reach them, my time will be up and I will be without an EU citizenship to stay on to figure them out. "Rank concluded these fantasies produce three kinds of people: (1) the normal person who is able to deal with its implications and get on with life; (2) the neurotic, who requires psychoanalytic guidance; and (3) the artistic person who translates them into their writing. It was the third of these that Rank was interested in here."
Why the fuck am I here?
I have four red daisies in the middle of a white room. I am writing on an antique round table which can fit three or eight people. I have two tiny speakers begging and craving Louis Attaque to my heart. Elle est pas.
I have stumbled over my own desires. I am running to find someone, something and I am refraining from seeing things. I am told it is my own ignorance of myself that is blinding and beauty. I have no idea I am sexy. I keep aiming for it, thinking I'm failing and tryiing all the more harder. And yet, it is flypaper while I think it is bug repellent. Come together over me.
I am going to fail my economics exam. I am going to half-ass my law paper and I'm going to totally give a fuck on my statitics paper.
It is that dissentigration. I can't keep my hands out of my pants and I'm begging for a beating.
Remember that guy several years ago who wooed me when I was a drunkard? (If you're trustworthy I'll give you the passcode to CDOA v.2) And then we found each other again last year in Madison and he brought me a fishnet body suit and porn and then bored me over lunch? He's moving to Saudi Arabia for a big money making job and sent me all his porn. It's illegal over there. So I have a 2-foot tall stack of CDs of all kinds of porn on my counter top. And now he's asking to see me again. I am not an alter at which to be worshiped. I am not to be psychoanalyzed and told that my independence will let me down. I am not to be wooed with promises of comfort and seduction and ultimate pleasure.
I am to be broken.
I imagine there's an equally strong hand for my equally challenging ass.
It is true that confidence overwins any other default. Someone posted a simple ad on Craigslist/Paris looking for a girl who would be interested in bondage. I was bored, proscrastinating and sent a reply. He's a (struggling) fashion photographer who is attracted by Shibari. He's been in love with Japan and Paris. I was shy our first meeting at his place. He cut me short on the elongated, drawn-out email exchange I sometimes enjoy as foreplay. I thought we'd be going for the (new) Ang Lee movie but we ended up talking for hours. I was shy. He sat on a stool in his bedroom cum living room and squirmed. It's always odd to me when men squirm in front of me. Have they no idea that I'm pacing and trembling and cowering on the inside? I'm chalking his body twisting up to the fact that he hadn't smoked the maryjane in days and was without a contact. Not that it's addicting, mind you, but that he just felt even more microscoped without it. I was kind of burning him with my stares. (We all know that intensity only masks utter insecurity, right?) I was amazed by his arms. Ok, he said he was a rollerblader (which in this country isn't quite as lame as in the US, it's more of an alternate mode of transportation coupled with daring feat), but where did his arms come from? I'm a sucker for strong hands, but was keenly aware of his biceps for some reason. Perhaps it was the way he was dressed like Kerouac. Poor, artist, Henry Miller, wine, short on cash, all those things I had left behind.
"Most virtue is a demand for greater seduction." - Natalie Clifford Barney
So he sent in an email mentioning that next time he'd like have his way with me. I had wondered if I'd made any good impression at all. A million beautiful women in his apartment/studio. We kissed cheeks good-bye with a closer lip kiss on the second, and a second spread out between us when he leaned in and gave me a quick third kiss. Just like a playground, acceptance and maybe he likes me. I was convinced he'd have a girlfriend or wife or both and I'd just be a professional experience. And in the meantime, I suffer my hormones.
Disintigration into debasement.
Anais Nin fucked Henry Miller who fucked June (who needs no last name). But she also fucked her father at the suggestion (perhaps) of her psychoanalyst who also fucked her in order to replace her obsession with her father. While unethical it worked and she wa able to leave him. I wrote a paper in the 8th grade on Munchausen Syndrome and child abuse. I'm not sure how much I plagerized but it wasn't all me. In 7th grade I convinced my Mormon science lab partner to do our student project on viscosity of liquids and we won. But I've never eagerly or voluntarily fucked my parent. That's a feat I don't know I could do. Although it is, as James pointed out, the ultimate taboo and I am probably only attracted to it because it's so wrong.
"i am and i still don't get it. those words don't seem like you - which means i still don't get you. ........ i don't mind being reduced to similar to other people so i hope you dont mind if i try to generalize you. but i know guys like you. successful, driven, workaholic, etc and i've yet to meet one who doesn't want it the other way - to be dominated as opposed to dominate. to have a wifey and kids at home and a mistress in boots telling him what to do sexually. so 'power. domination. control.' they seem foreign coming from "you," i guess."
"I'm never predictable. Give me a chance.
"No, I think you're completely wrong. I've been forced to be that mold that you speak of - by my core, my true being is to be hedonistic, to be pleasure seeking, to be athoritative in my true wants and desires. Let me be so to you. Let me show you what it's like to be with a man who knows what he wants, knows how he wants it, yet know how to bring along a partner to get him to that point. Fuck. Fun. Power share. Sexual pleasure. Real life. Give up to me. Let me have you. Comfort in my desire.
"Be yourself, yet be mine. It's not confusing - think of me as something different than you've experienced. Think of me as your protector and as your safe harbour. Where you can lay down your guard and submit to letting your pleasure be fulfilled. Trust me and you'll be free. Trust me and you'll have your shelter. Your sexuality will bloom. You have never never felt such happiness.
"Lola:
But ultimately, I'm not trying to analyze you. I just want to get you naked, fuck you hard, and want you to want more. If you're hooked, and if somehow you end up wanting to see me again and again- then I'm happy wit whatever result comes from that.
It' simple. Bodies first, minds maybe later.
It's hard for you - I know. We need to spend some time. You still don't trust me."
It's seductive to offer me things like hearts and comfort and power. As seductive as truth:
"I would appreciate to know you better and i propose you to check if we could fit for you to become my casual toy for some plays and driving.
I wont be long this time as i know i have 99 chance on 100 to get deleted without even have been read.
I am wise and have a very good imagination. You are right the brain is the biggest sex organ of the body. Driving your brain correctly will provide you safety, extasy, fulfilment and deep emotions.
I am a cary man with a good knowledge and i see in bdsm quite a spiritual way.
If interested in further talks let me know.
Wish you happy and safe
With respect [name]"
I'm vulnerable right now. I'm aware of this which is good and necessary. But I am primed after such a long time without my needs met. Sure, I've been getting cock since I got here (thank the gods!), but meeting bare necessities for a highly sexed girl like me doesn't do much but tease. I could very easily fall for an for a casual encounter on Craigslist or a tempting invitation to use my body. And in other parallel universes my body isn't caged and I'm doing these things. And in those parallel universes I am asking first and then, once I've found my voice, insisting I am paid.
I have these thoughts so many times a day. I watched the madam pace up the corner of the block yesterday. I had a short class, stopped by Demonia to browse the sales, and decided to eat a late lunch at the cafe on Pigalle. I've seen this woman so many times as I round the corner from the metro down the walk to my apartment. She's always looking the same way. About 5'3", black dyed hair pulled back in a slick ponytail, a face with a bit of Eastern European roundness but Italian fire in her eyes. A kind of black bomber jacket with fur-lined hood that is long enough to cover her ass, black pants, black casual sneakers. She looks like she could be your sister or a waitress on a smoke break or a tour guide, but instead she tries to entice men - gently, which is refreshing to see - to go into a club around the corner. We've made eye contact on a few times but me sitting in the cafe gave us both a better chance to eye each other up. So, later last night, when I was off to the bondage soiree, pigtails and heels covered up under my long coat, we made eyes in one of those 2 seconds seems like forever stares and we *knew*. I have deep dreams that she stops me next time and suggests I be the English-speaking escort at her bar. I am so close to the edge of exploring this world but ... hahahah... lord, my morals or fear are holding me back. I certainly don't want to be stupid about this, but I wouldn't mind using my god-given talents to earn a few Euros. I'd be so damn good at it too.
I'm reading "The Prince" by Machiavelli on the metro lately. I read it all the way down to the bondage soiree to be there at 11pm to meet Wilfried & Sarah and friends. I had written down the wrong number on the street. I was sweating on the metro in my corset. I read the book all the way back up the metro. It wasn't a night blown, but it was a "stupidity tax" as BadMan put it.
I'm taking up a French-English language exchange and had my first meeting today. I think it will be impossible as it's supposed to be with the husband of my pregnant colleague. He smells like need and I smell like desire and she smells like ... a bubble. It's dangerous. I could already tell. Despite her presence today, I couldn't help but giggle and do that weird accidental deep looking into his eyes. I just don't think there's a single way for me to live another way. Everyone is sexual to me, every object is something I'd like to shove into my mouth or cunnie.
Disentigration.
Man, I want a cigarette.
"Paris was pulsing away in Anaïs’ bloodstream well before she began her strange flirtation with Antonin Artaud. What Anaïs wanted was to provoke a crisis in herself: an excess of men, all blurring together into a dramatic apotheosis."
with help from Sexual Fables
Thursday, January 10, 2008
It's still Happy New Year
I really need to get the video up. I went to town on the short video clip from up on the roof at midnight. It seemed like the Eiffel was a lot closer than it is in the tiny window now. Anyway. Completely uneventful and I was on my own - exactly how I wanted it. And, only you, dear reader will get the full scoop.
But this all has to be super quick because I said 'no' to a phone call from James a few days ago when I was in a run on the papers and I told him I had not even 10 minutes for a conversation. I forget that I can be biting, rude, and an awful person when I'm PMSd and under time pressure. This is not a good personality to shop around for an international job. I need to be more friendly and forget myself. I've always said this and it'll never change. Ok. ... sorry, James.
Then again, this is the first break I've given myself since, essentially, this past Saturday night, Jan 5th. Since then I've been reading, writing, going to class. Literally getting home at 8:30p/9p to make a quick dinner while I read more and then wrote until midnight. Then, up at 6am or 7am for another full day of the same. Add to that PMS fat bitchy girl who wants to crush heads and has no patience. Yup, I'm a nice package.
Anyway. This is my break and I'm going to enjoy it.
Yes, literally. Monday-Thursday up at 6/7am and working non-stop until midnight. Ok, maybe for occassional breaks to goof off on Facebook, but jesus - I'd go insane if I didn't look elswewhere once in a while.
So, I bought 2 bottles of Champagne. Yes, I should have explored a bit but I went for an old standard of Cliquot and a new friend of something else that is currently over there in the cupboard waiting for recycling. (Which they don't really do in this country which worries me to no end.) I had a good meal and started drinking at 8pm. Basically I wrote a bit of work until I couldn't any longer and then switched to surfing the 'net for jobs, information, new things. It's a big wide huge world out there behind this flat screen. I read so many new fun things. Then, I climbed up on the roof at about 11:30pm. The unknown first bottle was almost cashed except for a bit I mixed into a plastic bottle to climb up to the roof. Totally horrible if any French person caught me: champagne in a bottle AND mixed! But see, I thought the climb to the roof was going to be like climbing one of those challenges in Fear Factor where not only is is sloped and possibly slippery, but also way way above ground with chances of falling to my death equal to 100%. I put a few things into a backpack, got bundled up and headed off on the adventure... the adventure that took 2 seconds with no difficulty or fear at all. Chalk it up to the fact that it's extremely easy to get up there and I had drunk a bottle of champagne.
It was indeed very nice up there. The wind was blowing, I think. The view was pitch black except for the sporadic fireworks all over the circumference of my existence. I don't remember much else except being very giddy and surprised into happiness when the Eiffel all of a sudden lit up in sparkling lights and I knew it was midnight. Frankly, I don't even remember if I said anything or thought anything profound or made any wishes. There goes the superstition I guess.
I climbed back down, which again didn't seem scary or hard at all. Kind of bored, I decided to go check out the world downstairs on the street. All I remember is walking up to the top of my street where the Moulin Rouge is and seeing more people in the street than I've ever seen before. They weren't all congregated together in a crowd, but moving, walking, grouping, separating, streaming. I think all traffic had been stopped or ended or blocked or something because there wasn't any, and people were walking all over the street. I had to lean up against the giant neighborhood map to stay upright as all of a sudden the champagne just really hit me and put me into a huge dream stream, not drowning but slowly bobbing or drifting in a dirty, busy aquarium. Some guy talked to me and I said I don't speak French so he switched to English. He might have been cute. I lied and said my friends were 'over there' and I think I basically walked away from him once I realized I couldn't quite see straight and needed to go home.
Yeah. I had to. I had to because I was dizzy and spinning and knew if I tried to lay down it would have been the death of me. So, up and out came the lovely spaghetti and bubbly champagne. I think I took a sleeping pill and went to sleep.
Hm.
Kind of pathetic. Kind of sweet. Kind of lame. Kind of weird. Kind of very appropriate.
I woke up happy and alert and started working on my papers again.
Wednesday and Thursday I went to school. Much easier to write there than at my apartment where I think about cleaning, surfing, singing, and playing with myself.
Friday I just couldn't get up out of bed earlier than 10am so I lazed all day and got some hardcore writing done and then met the young French-Canadian, JC, down at The Canadian Pub over on the Seine because the USA was playing Canada in junior hockey or something. Of course, what do you think I am a moron? Of course, I agonized whether to go or not. After all, I'm old and I know I don't like sports unless they're live and in front of me - and even then, I don't like them unless I get a press pass to the floor where sweat flies all over me and there's a great likelihood that a huge tight end might land on top of me. But really, I didn't party at New Years. And he used to play on this team. And I had nothing else to do. And I could tell, because I was once 23 and wrote my emails in a passive-agressive wishful way like no really I don't have to go but the address is such and such. And the conversation was forced and we really have nothing in common or even anything interesting to share. It's all a falsehood between civilized and fucking. But we did leave the Pub and go to a cool club where all the nouveau punks go, and met up with some of my colleagues who ended being one of my colleagues since the others ditched out to go home and fuck -- leaving 2 out-of-town friends from California and Alaska with us. And, we did go to the pool hall and play some nice rounds. But the drinks weren't stiff and I didn't get drunk and I wanted him to touch me because I was a bit buzzed and he just seemed very far and very uninterested.
And the sex wasn't all that either. The last time we fucked the futon creaked and screeched and the small bed slide across the wood floor. And I think, when he wanted to do it, he said, "Let's dance." Not like David Bowie. More like "Swingers" on Ice. This time it was awkward and I had to roll over and do it. And - god I'm horrible - there wasn't much to do. He's a tall boy for such disproportions. Sigh. But he did let me cum first and he did pant, "It feels so good... so good..." which makes me grateful for kegel exercises and my resiliance in youth.
I couldn't sleep any longer and I wanted to go get lunch together, but he was confused and didn't understand and left almost immediately on a very grey, very rainy day. I hope he didn't go home feeling dirty and lonely and achy because I know those mornings, too, and that's not what I wanted.
I had some really good Greek pita sandwich on a bench in the drizzle on the island on Blvd de Clichy. Tourists still travel in winter. It's amazing.
My landlord and I went shopping for sheets, pillows, a new white comforter ("White, like a virgin," he joked. Oh, I never told you. After Nuit Demonia he came over for something.. to see or do something. And the rubber clothes were out drying from being cleaned and moisturized or whatever I did to them - Wilfried? So, the landlord saw and now knows that I'm a sub. He even joked about me giving up the bedspread to my guests because I was the sub and had to sleep like a doggie. He's very cool and funny and honest and nice. ... no, I don't want to fuck him. Really. ... no, really.) It was fun. He bikes everywhere so we started walking down Rue Blanche alongside his bike and then he suggested I get on back. So, I sat side-saddle on the rack on the back of his tire. I think the last time I shared a ride or got 'pumped' (isn't that what they call it where you sit on the seat and the other person pumps the pedals without sitting the whole way?), was definitely more than 8 years ago. I swear I thought I was going to die - for no reason other than it's fun to think that, like on a rollercoaster - and I had a smile the whole way down the hill. It was so much fun and I wanted to do more, go faster, go again!
And then. This week from hell.
I don't mean to be a bitch but I really wish everyone would leave me alone and would stop acting so damn relaxed about all the papers they have to write because this is their second Masters program. And, man, was it a blow to my ego when I heard this 2nd year student had written her paper on a very similar topic. She sent it to me and while I was happy to receive it and glanced at it, it's totally not a good idea at all to read it very closely. It'll just worry me and make me want to plagerize.
So, that's that. And some guy from Denmark wants to come visit me at the end of the month. We were chatting on OKcupid.com for a while and seemed to strike a similar kinky chord. But there's no way I can entertain more than I am this month with friends coming to visit over my holiday and 2 papers due at the beginning of February, an exam at the end of January, and books and articles I should read before our trip to India. Yeah, it's pretty cool to have a field trip thrown into my education. It's fucking expensive. But that's one of my resolutions - not to think about the cost of my education. I had a panic 2 days ago when I heard from another colleague from the US who is applying for the dual-degree program at Columbia next year. We're offered the opportunity to apply to Columbia, London School of Econ, Herttie in Berlin, or Lee Kwan Yew in Singapore for our second year. I've professed the whole time since accepting this program that I'd stay for 2 years and become fluent in French. But the money! The money drives me crazy. This is my first experience with major debt (the most I ever owed was $1000 and James helped me get rid of that rather quickly). These two years will be the equivalent to me buying a decent house in Madison. Except the house is in my brain. God help me if I get brain cancer. ... I never wanted to own a real house anyway. I'm too transient. So this makes sense, but going back to the US makes some sense, too.
Ugh. I just have to suck it up and know that God has a plan for me.
Hahahahahhaa... fooled you!
Ok, now I'm just typing gibberish to avoid papers.
Happy fucking New Year!
Bonne année!!
But this all has to be super quick because I said 'no' to a phone call from James a few days ago when I was in a run on the papers and I told him I had not even 10 minutes for a conversation. I forget that I can be biting, rude, and an awful person when I'm PMSd and under time pressure. This is not a good personality to shop around for an international job. I need to be more friendly and forget myself. I've always said this and it'll never change. Ok. ... sorry, James.
Then again, this is the first break I've given myself since, essentially, this past Saturday night, Jan 5th. Since then I've been reading, writing, going to class. Literally getting home at 8:30p/9p to make a quick dinner while I read more and then wrote until midnight. Then, up at 6am or 7am for another full day of the same. Add to that PMS fat bitchy girl who wants to crush heads and has no patience. Yup, I'm a nice package.
Anyway. This is my break and I'm going to enjoy it.
Yes, literally. Monday-Thursday up at 6/7am and working non-stop until midnight. Ok, maybe for occassional breaks to goof off on Facebook, but jesus - I'd go insane if I didn't look elswewhere once in a while.
So, I bought 2 bottles of Champagne. Yes, I should have explored a bit but I went for an old standard of Cliquot and a new friend of something else that is currently over there in the cupboard waiting for recycling. (Which they don't really do in this country which worries me to no end.) I had a good meal and started drinking at 8pm. Basically I wrote a bit of work until I couldn't any longer and then switched to surfing the 'net for jobs, information, new things. It's a big wide huge world out there behind this flat screen. I read so many new fun things. Then, I climbed up on the roof at about 11:30pm. The unknown first bottle was almost cashed except for a bit I mixed into a plastic bottle to climb up to the roof. Totally horrible if any French person caught me: champagne in a bottle AND mixed! But see, I thought the climb to the roof was going to be like climbing one of those challenges in Fear Factor where not only is is sloped and possibly slippery, but also way way above ground with chances of falling to my death equal to 100%. I put a few things into a backpack, got bundled up and headed off on the adventure... the adventure that took 2 seconds with no difficulty or fear at all. Chalk it up to the fact that it's extremely easy to get up there and I had drunk a bottle of champagne.
It was indeed very nice up there. The wind was blowing, I think. The view was pitch black except for the sporadic fireworks all over the circumference of my existence. I don't remember much else except being very giddy and surprised into happiness when the Eiffel all of a sudden lit up in sparkling lights and I knew it was midnight. Frankly, I don't even remember if I said anything or thought anything profound or made any wishes. There goes the superstition I guess.
I climbed back down, which again didn't seem scary or hard at all. Kind of bored, I decided to go check out the world downstairs on the street. All I remember is walking up to the top of my street where the Moulin Rouge is and seeing more people in the street than I've ever seen before. They weren't all congregated together in a crowd, but moving, walking, grouping, separating, streaming. I think all traffic had been stopped or ended or blocked or something because there wasn't any, and people were walking all over the street. I had to lean up against the giant neighborhood map to stay upright as all of a sudden the champagne just really hit me and put me into a huge dream stream, not drowning but slowly bobbing or drifting in a dirty, busy aquarium. Some guy talked to me and I said I don't speak French so he switched to English. He might have been cute. I lied and said my friends were 'over there' and I think I basically walked away from him once I realized I couldn't quite see straight and needed to go home.
Yeah. I had to. I had to because I was dizzy and spinning and knew if I tried to lay down it would have been the death of me. So, up and out came the lovely spaghetti and bubbly champagne. I think I took a sleeping pill and went to sleep.
Hm.
Kind of pathetic. Kind of sweet. Kind of lame. Kind of weird. Kind of very appropriate.
I woke up happy and alert and started working on my papers again.
Wednesday and Thursday I went to school. Much easier to write there than at my apartment where I think about cleaning, surfing, singing, and playing with myself.
Friday I just couldn't get up out of bed earlier than 10am so I lazed all day and got some hardcore writing done and then met the young French-Canadian, JC, down at The Canadian Pub over on the Seine because the USA was playing Canada in junior hockey or something. Of course, what do you think I am a moron? Of course, I agonized whether to go or not. After all, I'm old and I know I don't like sports unless they're live and in front of me - and even then, I don't like them unless I get a press pass to the floor where sweat flies all over me and there's a great likelihood that a huge tight end might land on top of me. But really, I didn't party at New Years. And he used to play on this team. And I had nothing else to do. And I could tell, because I was once 23 and wrote my emails in a passive-agressive wishful way like no really I don't have to go but the address is such and such. And the conversation was forced and we really have nothing in common or even anything interesting to share. It's all a falsehood between civilized and fucking. But we did leave the Pub and go to a cool club where all the nouveau punks go, and met up with some of my colleagues who ended being one of my colleagues since the others ditched out to go home and fuck -- leaving 2 out-of-town friends from California and Alaska with us. And, we did go to the pool hall and play some nice rounds. But the drinks weren't stiff and I didn't get drunk and I wanted him to touch me because I was a bit buzzed and he just seemed very far and very uninterested.
And the sex wasn't all that either. The last time we fucked the futon creaked and screeched and the small bed slide across the wood floor. And I think, when he wanted to do it, he said, "Let's dance." Not like David Bowie. More like "Swingers" on Ice. This time it was awkward and I had to roll over and do it. And - god I'm horrible - there wasn't much to do. He's a tall boy for such disproportions. Sigh. But he did let me cum first and he did pant, "It feels so good... so good..." which makes me grateful for kegel exercises and my resiliance in youth.
I couldn't sleep any longer and I wanted to go get lunch together, but he was confused and didn't understand and left almost immediately on a very grey, very rainy day. I hope he didn't go home feeling dirty and lonely and achy because I know those mornings, too, and that's not what I wanted.
I had some really good Greek pita sandwich on a bench in the drizzle on the island on Blvd de Clichy. Tourists still travel in winter. It's amazing.
My landlord and I went shopping for sheets, pillows, a new white comforter ("White, like a virgin," he joked. Oh, I never told you. After Nuit Demonia he came over for something.. to see or do something. And the rubber clothes were out drying from being cleaned and moisturized or whatever I did to them - Wilfried? So, the landlord saw and now knows that I'm a sub. He even joked about me giving up the bedspread to my guests because I was the sub and had to sleep like a doggie. He's very cool and funny and honest and nice. ... no, I don't want to fuck him. Really. ... no, really.) It was fun. He bikes everywhere so we started walking down Rue Blanche alongside his bike and then he suggested I get on back. So, I sat side-saddle on the rack on the back of his tire. I think the last time I shared a ride or got 'pumped' (isn't that what they call it where you sit on the seat and the other person pumps the pedals without sitting the whole way?), was definitely more than 8 years ago. I swear I thought I was going to die - for no reason other than it's fun to think that, like on a rollercoaster - and I had a smile the whole way down the hill. It was so much fun and I wanted to do more, go faster, go again!
And then. This week from hell.
I don't mean to be a bitch but I really wish everyone would leave me alone and would stop acting so damn relaxed about all the papers they have to write because this is their second Masters program. And, man, was it a blow to my ego when I heard this 2nd year student had written her paper on a very similar topic. She sent it to me and while I was happy to receive it and glanced at it, it's totally not a good idea at all to read it very closely. It'll just worry me and make me want to plagerize.
So, that's that. And some guy from Denmark wants to come visit me at the end of the month. We were chatting on OKcupid.com for a while and seemed to strike a similar kinky chord. But there's no way I can entertain more than I am this month with friends coming to visit over my holiday and 2 papers due at the beginning of February, an exam at the end of January, and books and articles I should read before our trip to India. Yeah, it's pretty cool to have a field trip thrown into my education. It's fucking expensive. But that's one of my resolutions - not to think about the cost of my education. I had a panic 2 days ago when I heard from another colleague from the US who is applying for the dual-degree program at Columbia next year. We're offered the opportunity to apply to Columbia, London School of Econ, Herttie in Berlin, or Lee Kwan Yew in Singapore for our second year. I've professed the whole time since accepting this program that I'd stay for 2 years and become fluent in French. But the money! The money drives me crazy. This is my first experience with major debt (the most I ever owed was $1000 and James helped me get rid of that rather quickly). These two years will be the equivalent to me buying a decent house in Madison. Except the house is in my brain. God help me if I get brain cancer. ... I never wanted to own a real house anyway. I'm too transient. So this makes sense, but going back to the US makes some sense, too.
Ugh. I just have to suck it up and know that God has a plan for me.
Hahahahahhaa... fooled you!
Ok, now I'm just typing gibberish to avoid papers.
Happy fucking New Year!
Bonne année!!
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