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.

"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