Thursday, May 1, 2008

Yellow

It's the season of the pee.

I'll have to tell you about my date with Krishna. And then the one with Richard. And then the one with Yves.

Right after the 24th March debauchery with sex, I had a most horrible dry spell. I'm a manic swinger in these hormones - either dramatically anti-anything PMS girl or super horn dog to the rescue. This period was extremely ugly though. I felt more desperate than before. I felt more insatiable. I guess studying adds an element of over-usage of the brain and firing of certain synapses which weren't used previously.

I found myself in the apartment of a very interesting Indian man who studies physical particles and movement of I don't know what. But I was there under the pretense of our long email discussions of debased sexual acts. I was dark and deep under, walking to his place I nipped frequently on the flask. I saw people and know they were special to my eyes but I've forgotten them now.

How did I get here? Craigslist. He posted something very alluring about being a Dom seeking a sub girl. I jumped. We emailed back and forth - even some of the more disgusting, gutter ideas I've had. We're both literary. He's into classical music. I want to see an opera. We love Nabokov - although me for his writing and his slight pedo desires; him just for the writing. We met up at the Pompidou museum one night. We're both on the slightly-less-attractive-than-Parisian-standards scale. But I make up for it in character and confidence, which I find he lacks a bit. On one occasion he walks in front of me and narrowly almost crowds me into running into a sculpture. He's an unaware genius. He's the type who can't feed off of me. I have my own major insecurities.....

I remember bd saying he could never bring me home to his family, james being honest to my honest question - my teeth, the only thing he'd want to change and the only thing I find myself lately wanting to change. Orthodonistry is so cheap now that we can't even make fun of the British for their bad teeth anymore. Mine are yellowing, too, with the odd water content here and my genetics. So, I've bought hydro peroxide and brush and rinse and paint it on daily. I'm feeling more and more and more ugly than I ever did before. And my body is aging. Like the White House has aged Bush, my own eyes have formed bags under the stress of school. I think my body fatter and flabbier in comparison to the girls in this city. I am not a girl. I am a woman who is so much more tired than the kids on this pace. These are my daily insecurities.

But I replace them. I overlap them. I lay them to the side. I swallow them. I wash them down the drain. I eat them up. I toss them on the floor with my dirty laundry. I forget as soon as I'm on the path to meet someone. A stunning model, with perfect everything is nothing if she hasn't got confidence. An average looking woman is an alluring sex pot with confidence oozing out of her. So, I project. I give. I send it out in waves. I feel it and eat it and fill up on how beautiful I am, how special I am in submission and sex and giving head and moaning and cunt taste and soft skin.

He could not feed on this. I'm not sure what he was eating. But it was robotic in a way. I felt far away and burdened. When we first said hello he rushed us upstairs so I couldn't check my bag (with laptop and school books). I felt pained in trying to enjoy the night.

But it was only date #1. And I needed his understanding from other places, other spaces in his mind.

So, I found myself during this time, during the time I'm so familiar with, the time of debauchery inside and chaos. These are days when, if I were still in Madison, I'd bring the headphones and the flask of whiskey to the pier by my apartment and I'd sing loudly. Or scream or cry. Or, maybe I'd walk far in the night. In a last minute I emailed him if he'd be around this night. Could we skip some of the courting and meet up?

So, I barely ate and I fed myself whiskey and perfume and porn. I was beautiful and contained on the outside but on the inside I felt like a Robert Crumb comic on the inside. I was late and I knew but forgot that he'd have a bladder full for me.

I got to his place and asked him to turn the lights down. There were blaring white lights in his apartment. I chalk it up to his consideration of me - make sure I feel I can see everything and feel comfortable that he's not hiding some gigantic torture device behind his couch. He asks which whiskey I want and I want to tell him I've had some, thanks, but we decide on the older Scottish one. I have a Scottish one in my flask but it's not the same. The one he feeds me stays in my gums for 4 days after this night. My immediate reaction is that it tastes like dirty socks. It's peppery and old and too spicy. I drink it anyway.

He and I negotiate my undressing. I can't remember whether he tells me to undress or I suggest it. He wants to pour candle wax on me. So he shows me that he's testing it on himself first. I know it's a normal candle. And normal candles aren't 'appropriate' for experimentation but at some points one has to give up on 'what's book right' for the play scene and try 'what kinda might be right.' I don't know if he poured very much on me, but I remember I was a sensitive being this night. Everything felt hard and sharp and painful. Everything felt too much and too wrong. It might have been the time of the month or the liquor.

He took photos of me. From underneath - not a flattering view. He put a butt plug in me. He fingered me. I was in a scratchy space. Sandpaper. Everything that happened this night was wrong and so right. I made moves to suck his cock and he reminded me that I had to go the bathroom first. Yes, we'd talked about the pee. I wanted to be peed on and he wanted to pee on me. In an alley where I'd go home still stinking and wet. In a bathtub where I'd wallow in the piss like a pig. In our emails I dreamed of this debasement.

He helped me across the apartment to the bathroom. A small tub (a novelty in apartments to have any kind of tub at all), about 1/2 the size of normal tubs. A small room for it and the toilet and sink. He told me to get in. I did. And gagged a million times over inside.

I have a huge OCD issue with hair.

I was drunk.

Thank god.

I got on my knees into the tub and saw the hair in the drain. Around the drain. Clinging to the sides of the tub. Curled and black and sticky. My horror. My bravery. My drunk brain. "Put the plug in the drain," he said.

I turned over on my back and curled up. He climbed up on the sides of the tub and let loose upon me. On my face, on my chest, on my belly, on a lip. I kept my mouth closed. I kept my eyes closed. I let my tongue barely taste it from my lips. He kept releasing and releasing. Built up for hours. "You look beautiful, Lola. Just so beautiful." I wanted this. I wanted humility. I wanted disgusting. I wanted to feel like a pig. I wanted to let go in this way. To not be the constrained, composed student with high dreams. I was a nothing. I was fear and physical feelings. I was wet an humiliated and disgusting and shivering and cold and wet and warm and sticky.

He told me to turn over in the urine.

And now, rub my hair and face in it. He had written his thoughts on pee. To him it was like dogs. Marking their territory. Acting animalistic. Making me a dirty pig rolling in his fluids. I closed my eyes and didn't think. I just did. I just moved. I just swallowed the difficult and let out the action.

And then he helped me up and drained the tub and washed me. And then he made me wash him. A thick blanket of hair covered every part of his body except a mowed area of collarbone and neck and face. More hair. More hair on the soap. More hair on my hands. On my body as we bumped into each other. I was curling like milk on the inside and needed more booze. Too great a challenge.

Cleaned, we got out and went back to the whiskey. And then to the bed. He licked me and then told me to lick him. He laid back on the bed and again, my stomach dropped. Within a forest of hair laid a limp mushroom cock with interesting patchy splotches on it - from circumcision, from cultural skin tone. I put it in my mouth and sucked. I had hoped to hear some moaning, some development, some announcement of pleasure or nearness. He wanted to put it inside me and got a condom. I crawled up on top and rode him for a while. I felt him but was not spoiled by him. He pushed my thighs up and became more aggressive, grabbing my thighs in his fingers, pinching me, pulling me and then huge wind-up slaps to my thighs. Such that I howled loudly. This is not spanking, my friend. This is random slapping with uncontrolled force and greed and ignorance. It ruined any inkling of horny I had going. He explained that his last lover wasn't as sensitive as me and like this kind of wild abandon. He wanted me to suck him off. Time was running out. The metro would stop running in 20 minutes. I had to give up and leave him unfulfilled. He begged me to finish him off. I refused, putting on my clothes, up to my limit, done with the scene, done with the moment, out of the element, and unfulfilled.

We were nice. I ran out the door and washed my mouth with my own whiskey. I got lost and wasted time but made it to the last metro from this far south side.

I got home and had a glass of wine and 4 chocolates.
I have not yet recovered.


&&&&&&&&&&&&

Richard :

Another from Craigslist. He's younger than me but won my interest by pointing that fact out and claiming to be able to match me. We met one night when I decided to go for a drink with classmates. He took me to a rum bar on St. Germain des Pres and exuded confidence over all odds. He looked very soft and malleable. Too young for even his close proximity of age. His French voice was soft in English. I wondered if he'd developed a thing for his mother growing up. But still he had confidence. We kissed at the metro stop on my way rushing home (damn the non 24-hour living here!) and I found a weakness. Lips. Please, please, if you kiss, relax your lips. If you have no lips, then relax even more. A tight lipped kiss sends all the wrong messages. But one can be forgiven for this due to nerves.

So, when we talked next we decided I'd run over to his place after class one night. My flask is my friend. The metro is too bright so I find little dark spaces to have a tug. It's not that I'm an alcoholic, friends. And I think you know so there's not much explaining here. But really, as adults, it's nice to have a glass of wine or a nip or tuck before going off into unchartered sexual territory. So, this time, with the sun still finding it's hiding spot in the sky at 8pm, I ducked into the photo booth and pulled the curtain - thinking of Amelie and her innocent love chase to my naughty dirty sex drive. I sipped on the flask and thought about what I was going to do. What I had hoped would happen. He had joked about handcuffs in our last email. And had told me to come to his door, close my eyes, knock and keep my eyes closed.

I followed his directions out of the metro and up to his apartment. I closed my eyes. He spoke when he opened the door and essentially broke the spell. Which made me open my eyes and talk to him. Kill joy. Still, in a land of conservative, slow-making, private French he moved rather fast. Disappointing though, I ended up on top and instead of wearing handcuffs I was hearing, "I am your prisoner," in some kind of soft, poeticy french accent as if this was to make me feel romantic or inspired or lusty. When really, it dampened everything for me. But I still continued on. My cunnie still hungry from minimal fulfillment the last date.

And I wondered how I'd feel him inside me. Either I'm picking similar men or I've been spoiled to exaggeration or French men are slightly less enhanced than others. And when he put himself inside me I wondered if he felt comfortable or welcome or loose. God, I don't want to be a lossey goosey. I've been queen of kegels for this. And so, I tried to feel him and still... nothing. Yet he came. And then, he spent a good half hour playing with me with his hands and tongue and lips. I'm just not a girl who cums from oral. Usually... or rather, there's a small world of men who know how to give it.

So, disappointed, but not grossed out, I left his place. One glass of wine, 2 chocolates that night.

&&&&&&&&&&

There's always a happy ending.

I left Craigslist. There were two other men in between. One, a soccer player, never realized in physical form which made me distrust the situation. The other, I met, only to get along really well but find out that he was leaving for some stellar financial job in London.

So, I went to AFF. Sure, the time I spend making and caretaking a profile I could be hanging out in bars, but really, I feel I'm making a bit more progress while still wearing my pjs and multi-tasking on papers and projects.

One day there was an elaborate reply in my inbox. He said he was dominant and wrote wonderful English (a serious problem here - I'm not sure how the French will remain competitive in the world without emphasizing English sadly). We sent emails back and forth about likes and dislikes and interests for about a week. The same time Krishna and I did.

And finally, a night worked for me to go meet him. Something different in this round. Something very different. I was more excited. I knew what to expect or something. His four head shot photos sent were all of his smile closed so I presumed he shared my teeth problem. His photos were all head shots so I guessed he might have a bit of spare tire weight. His writing was genuine but kinky. Reserved and not desperate, but eager and interesting. Not to build this up as a love story because it's not. But something else made sense inside. And something totally dumb, but my heart spasmed in the way it does when cupid hits it. I had butterflies.

I came out of the metro, an hour late after texting him I would be late. I wasn't sure which direction he lived in, but I'd been here before since he lived near the club I've visited a lot. I crossed a street, headphones on, looked up at the street name, turned to head in the other direction. Saw him across the street - through my blurred vision. I smiled. It was like a reunion, not like a meeting. Cars moved between. I waited and tried to hide my smile but I couldn't stop my cheeks. And when I met him face to face we hugged instead of the reserved French cheek-kissing. We hugged and kind of kissed lips in a rush of remembrance. We laughed. I asked for a place to buy water. We rushed in and out of the supermarket nearby and I asked for a smoke.

It was more exciting. It was more comfortable. It was more eyes only a foot apart. It was talking so closely. It was inside me and outside me. It was so many things like we were rushing to catch up after a long separation. It was so many things like learning each other under a pretense of previous engagement. It was giddy like we'd been prisoners released. I think I felt it more than he did. I think I'm more heady than he is. I think I have to keep it in check.

Yes.

Breathe.

It's easy to find something good and focus on it. And then make it smoothered or unreal or brighter or impossible.

So, instead of that. I'd like to retain reality. Thus, I go to sleep now.

you'll get more soon.

More about pee from him. Walrus sleeping. Eclipses. Fisting. And who knows what after tomorrow night.

3 comments:

Monster said...

It was worth the wait, so I'll be virtuous again, I suppose. :)

Wilfried said...

The pee.

The pig... This word always reminds me of "Piglet", a sweet and pervy character, a careful lover, a hell of a daddy's boy in Bruce La Bruce's "Hustler White".

Keep on truckin'.

a said...

You've raised many memories from the depths for me...

Thank you.

And please don't close the gap. I've always found it so sexy and endearing.