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.
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Sunday, October 26, 2008
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.
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