Thursday, February 26, 2009

The joy of sub

aka Everyone needs a reason for poetry

On a first note there are some nice photos uploaded on Flickr of me in a fishnet body suit. The filmmaker needed a prostitute scene and I obliged. These are outtakes from the filming - more for his enjoyment, I think. Regardless, I'm amazed at how nice I look in them. (Just ask if you don't have access to view them.)

This one is now the image for my profile on FetLife, a bdsm website to which I was introduced by a kind stranger.

This kind stranger has got me all in knots. I realize more and more that I am a lover of words and ideas. Not because I fear the realities of faces and touching, but a phrase - even with translation gaps or quickly typed with slight mistakes - can make me weak in the eyes and knees. Intelligence is a word often used in my profile postings for bdsm hook-ups. Imagination - crucial. Yes, while the physical attraction to someone is key, there are still random chances within a face-to-face meeting for so many things to be thrown off: pheromones, the rollercoaster curves of hormones, a bad day, a good day. External factors can distort any first date to the point that one isn't interested in furthering the occasion. With letters and sentences, stories and explanations, there can be more substantial interaction created as a foundation upon which to test the randomness of standing next to each other.

Sure, words in email exchanges are never like actual conversation, for they lack endearing pauses, accents, finger fidgets, bad breath, nervous ticks, deep stares, stutters, intonation, or gaps filled with swears. I get to type out my replies to [his] phrases, with prolonged stares out the window between ideas, thesaurus at my fingertips for braver more bold words, and re-reading for spelling mistakes and re-phrasing. In essence, they are the perfect words I'd like to say. And, [his] replies (sometimes noted) can be quick in delivery, tripped over repeated letters - or can be well-developed poems in response to my thoughts. It's not real in the sense of actual or live, but the things that are said are truer than confession. Regardless how much time I spend crafting my thought, it is still my unique idea or understanding of something; and late at night after wine and whiskey, they, too, are rushed with typos, speeding to get out into the open in a burst of disregard for composure or restraint.

Dreams are built on words. Fantasies are born. Imagination is fueled. And, I've had email conversations and fallen in love with just the letters. I remember Harley, who was interested in bdsm and had dreams of his own, and together over a month we developed our own land and roads and hotel room in which I'd succumb to his brutal aggression. This was all dashed away once he felt compelled to tell his wife and she woke me up one morning calling me on the phone to tell me it was over, he'd told her everything. On the one hand, I was relieved because it was deep and powerful to dream like that and I was grateful that they'd go to counseling and that he later told me she'd expressed interest in exploring his needs. On the other hand, I loved the stories we'd concocted and was ready for the kiss in real life. To say, I've been living in words for most of my life with the absolute knowledge of their power, weakness, unreality, and potential. At this point, I'm aware of my vulnerability to their charm and, now, can find fanciful use in their availability, can wrap myself up in them while keeping a leg out for temperature and grounding.

So, missing something and wanting something, I went back to throwing words out there. A poem on CL, updating my OKC, checking and interacting on ALT and AFF. It was over on OKC where he sent me a message again. We figured out that he'd sent something earlier last year when he was in Amsterdam, right before I went off to Geneva. It was instigated by my comments on submissiveness, perhaps. He's now in Switzerland again which gives me ample space to swoon and dream and let my imagination run wild about liaisons in the mountains, crawling on all fours across a floor, looking up into his eyes (that I only half visualize through photos and half make up in my own mind), spankings that leave me giddy as I have been with the TV Producer or the Economist Beekeeper. Yes, there's a twang of wistfulness, a longing for realization, a need to see in real life, but there's no reason why this can't happen - and there's no reason to let it stop me from enjoying the exchange of banter and wit, or being swept up in romantic writing and rediscoveries.

I think too much. Of course, we all do, those of us who read this blog and read things out in the world. Since the Charlie Brown episode I've been thinking about the new change in my emotions. Since going on a date with a lame ass I've been thinking about how I love thinking. He tried to explain to me how movies aimed at women ("chick flicks") all dealt with women needing to do something to attain this ever-unreachable happiness, and that when he'd asked his guy friends if they were happy, they all said they didn't think about it. I asked him if, in essence, he meant they went to work, picked up their kids from school, came home, ate, watched tv, had sex, without ever a thought to whether they were happy and he said yes. As if it was a good thing. To put it into context, he's been divorced for 2 years and she left him. (Not to discredit him entirely, he thinks women can dress and be whoever they want and do whatever they want, have abortions if they want to - despite opposition from their partners, talks to his teenage kids about contraception, and loves Obama. We also laughed a ton on our first date, and he barely kissed me at the end. We laughed again on our second date, with a bit more debating than before though, and kissed me longer. But seriously, for those who know me - put out or get out. No sex on the second date? What's the point?)

Anyway, all I can say is that it's seasonal and a salad mix of possible reasons. Holidays, too much time to contemplate, too little sunlight, no sincere out-of-town travel, the 6th anniversary of my abortion, too many papers, too little time, too much time, no bdsm, no regular and satisfying sex, an unstable schedule of getting up late and going to bed late, looking at less than five months of school left (three now). All these things summed up by Charlie Brown - poor kid, gets blamed for everything, good grief.

When Mr. OKC (temporary place-holder nickname for now) started our conversation off the OKC site, he dropped a bomb of remembrance. From "Lola" to "Lolita" to "lil'girl." From "What kind of job are you looking for in Geneva? I do hope the stars will be auspiciously aligned. As much altruism as self interest in the wish" to "I am a mean bastard (no contradiction with being a nice human being, in case)" to "I could use a personal assistant, too. But it is just a tease." He's very astute at manipulating words and mind capture. Perhaps with or without knowing, he also sparked memories inside me that set me off racing.

I followed his link to FetLife. If it's any indication, both Mistress Matisse and Graydancer are there. It's a cerebral ALT, where ALT has become like a tweekers' and lamers' magnet. Basically, if you can't get play over on AFF come to ALT because apparently men there think any chick will fuck, and instead of just fucking AFF-style, she'll let you tie her up, gag her, and come all over her face. Or, as one guy keeps emailing me about: and let you poop on her face. I'm all for anyone's kink or fetish, but I'm not all for repeated contacts on the same inquiry or the sell-out of the site. If you think I want to over-discuss our mutual interests or a play scene (or "date" whatever one wants to call it), then you're a moron. And, it's not like FetLife is some big rainbow of problem-solving loveliness. I doubt I'll meet anyone off it in Paris. Maybe nothing will come from it. But it did give me a boost of rejoice and placement.

Part of the confusion of grad school is that, no matter what age, you're thrown back into a petri dish of social reconfiguration in close quarters. I'm not sure it relates the same way to new job atmospheres (it probably does). There's something strange about daily meetings of 30 people who are all type A personalities competing to either have their say or distance themselves from what everyone says. I definitely lost some of my confidence when I first started the program. Somehow regained it over summer - perhaps by having an incredible lover, a fabulous friend, a wonderful flatmate, and summer sun. Or, hell, maybe it was just purely being distanced from the damn petri dish. Following, now I'm in an eight-month-long group project with 4 people, one of who is American and a military brat and an insecure 25-year-old. And, for the life of me, I can't help but absorb this energy and internalize it and reflect it. We feed off each other and we get along best in the group. It's sick, and it's destroying my sense of self, my confidence, my balls. Of course, I don't blame her. I'm the captain of my ship and I need to fight off my own internal and external pirates.

Wandering around FetLife and exchanging discussions with Mr. OKC sent me off into exploration of a part of myself I'd detached. I had to. I took my submissive side and put her in a drawer filled with lilac pouches and soft, babygirl undies. I kept the paddles out and let the TV Producer play percussion on me. I asked Tall Tom to play my Daddy. I got on my knees for the Italian. So, while I have had to tune the microscope to school endeavors, I had to block out other hungers. And, in doing so, in not finding the correct outlet for this deep part of me, I started to lose a pure essence of myself. In designing a profile for this site, I got to walk down memory lane and got to think again about my curiosities, my desires, the reason I became a sub, the path to developing my subness, the partners I've had in play and relationships, and felt such an immense high in letting myself dream and feel these things. And, while I'm not a switch, I told Mr. OKC about topping from the bottom with recent lovers. Where some kinksters look down on that, he replied, "Perro que no camina, no encuentra hueso." While not having that switch inside me, I do have my own master and sub living together. It's nicer to have a master who is not my mind, but for the meantime, I can be my own inspiration, remind myself of my own inner ability to control my actions and demand myself to be better and forgive myself for mistakes. These are things I have been missing. The balance. The yin and yang. The words and the dreams. The racing pulse reminder that I am a total natural sub who is thrilled by ideas and actions.

I'm not going to psychoanalyze this. (I'll leave that to D to do ;) But we all need validation and caring and inspiration. I just got separated from my own voice that provides that to me. It's nice to feel closer to whole again. It's lovely to drift on sweet words and feel shot like a rocket from my own imagination.

more fun

33F sub
Ile-de-France, France
relationship status: Single
D/s relationship status: Presently Inactive
orientation: Heteroflexible
active: Just In The Bedroom
is looking for:
A relationship
A play partner
A Master

About me:

I'm pleasantly surprised by my short time wandering here to see so many friends! I'm obviously in good company.


"If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation."

It was interesting to choose the "How Active Are You" selection in the profile. It's been a while since I've engaged in any serious activity in the bdsm/kink world. I left my gainful employment in the USA to pursue a Master degree in Paris and have been dedicating most of my energy to books and thoughts, while suffering masochistically under paper-writing deadlines.

I have been involved in different levels and intensities of bdsm/kink for more than 10 years. I know that there is incredible liberation and strength in submission. I've never mentored anyone in this realm, but I have given advice when requested and, while not wearing a bdsm patch on my sleeve, I try to live honestly and am not embarrassed to openly discuss my interests with vanilla folks or otherwise.

It's been fascinating to engage in Paris. I have a few lovely Parisian friends who have graciously invited me to events - and still do, despite my frequent unavailability. I do have to say it's a bit challenging though not having a complete French vocabulary while seeking play as a sub. (Oui, je parle français mais je ne parle pas couramment et je n'écris pas bien. Désole!)

Ideally, someday, I'd love to find a dominant man to whom I could commit within a welcoming, open relationship. For right now though, something a bit more casual suits me. The best qualities of any human being should be found in someone with whom I would play: respectful, intelligent, mentally-sound. Frankly, I find the mind the most erogenous, and the imagination the most titillating. I appreciate older men and those who have a good range of experience in bdsm.

I value my submissiveness and know it's a wonderful gift. (Just browsed the forum on this topic and am sticking to my use of "gift" here.) I don't switch and have never been interested in dominating someone. I enjoy pleasing others and fulfilling their/our desires. I like being challenged by new activities and endeavors. More fancifully, an OTK spanking can make me giddy, just as the prospect of being caned can make me tremble with excitement. The beauty of bdsm is in the limitless possibilities and plethora of delicious (and thrilling) activities. Reaching this stage in my life has included a lot of reading, introducing lovers to bdsm, learning from other people, engaging with wonderful and amazing play partners - if not demanding and frightening sometimes (see photos), and educating myself as much as possible. I'm eager to continue learning.

"I do not want to be the leader. I refuse to be the leader. I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire, his life, his work, his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated. I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, be all that I am capable of doing, but I am going to be pursued, fucked, possessed by the will of a male at his time, his bidding."

Thank you for reading this far!

(all quotes Anaïs Nin)

Oh, and regarding the list of fetishes/interests: 1) I'm not going to highlight things that I think are human traits that I enjoy (humor, cuddles, intelligence) so please just know that I am a smart, compassionate, loving, ambitious woman/girl who admires the same in others; and 2) just because it's not listed below doesn't mean I'm not interested or curious about it. In fact, life-long learning is a passion and I've always been fond of trying everything twice.

And, lastly, this is awesome: "Your 'About Me' section has been updated! Make sure to re-read it for any grammatical/spelling mistakes."

fun with CL casual sex ads

[Feb 23 / on Tumblr]
Every once in a whie I get bored and flirty. When first started I’d play around with personas on it. I was the Easter Bunny, the Bridesmaid, a Santa’s Elf, a Homegirl, etc. It’s fun with words and words for fun. Sure, ultimately, I’d love a lay, but it’s more because I’m bored and don’t smoke pot. And… I’m a nerd. So, here’s the new one (accompanied by a photo of my cute birdy undies - on me, but not disgustingly revealing, because I do, sometimes, have taste).

Me: I am a little bird looking for her owner
Small body full of energy
Does not chirp well
No time for patient squawking
Feed me
A worm
Stroke me tenderly
Keep me in a cage
Make me sing

The robin is the one
That overflows the noon
With her cherubic quantity,
An April but begun.

I do not seek love:
But I told her, “I cannot feed
The little lovebird in you
For the women in my past
Were like vultures
And have eaten up
All my grains of love”

Can we?:
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am’rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow chapped power

A. Nin:
The fourth day Manuel stepped out on the terrace. Ten o’clock was the recreation hour. The schoolyard was animated. To Manuel it was an orgy of legs and very short skirts, which revealed white panties during the games. He was growing feverish, standing there among his birds, but finally the plan succeeded; the girls looked up.

Manuel called,” Why don’t you come and see? There are birds from all over the world. There is even a bird from Brazil with the head of a monkey.”

The girls laughed, but after school, impelled by curiosity, several of them ran up to his apartment.


Saturday, February 21, 2009

Taut wire

Strange days. How did Adam flee and where did he go when I woke up that morning and heard the melancholy Charlie Brown Christmas song? I have no idea, but he hasn't come back in full since. He visited once. But now it seems I'm back to the standard firey buzz that fills my body, instead of the manic rage of Adam.

I felt it yesterday after our travels for the final school project. I woke late and couldn't concentrate. My dreams waking me with cravings in my Cookie Monster underwear.

Before moving to Paris, I remember hearing "Whole Wide World" by Wreckless Eric (featured in "Stranger Than Fiction") and thinking that I'd find my Daddy Dom here. I'd find a man who wanted me in my Cookie Monster undies, crawling on the floor, eating out of a dog bowl, getting spanked and fucked from behind as my face pressed against the hardwood floor. This has not realized itself. Not for lack of trying either. I'm not complaining for the lack of adventure and fun, because I've definitely had moments of elation and pieces of that dream. But I truly thought I'd find a more whole package in Paris. Land of lights, home of sex, streets of dirty Henry.

And, so, for the past couple of months I've felt odd. Out of sorts. Unattractive, confused, finding bits with one person but feeling loss throughout.

But the intense feelings come back. I don't feel as stably strong and magnetic, but I feel as I have before, like a taut wire ready to explode with any touch. This does not help when going for a late afternoon tea with a man who wears a purity ring and says "Praise God" as he ends his sentences. A gorgeous fucking man with perfectly white teeth and slight tan, muscular legs through his pants, and a generous demeanor. I met him last fall as he came to attend the student conference I put on. During my manic running around while I was managing the event, he came up (1 of like 120 students) and stood inches from me and wanted to talk. Something about the "me" then... I had such enormous confidence from the eagle eye focus I had on the conference planning. It must have emanated out of me like a siren's magic call from the sea.

This time we were meeting to discuss a project spawning from the conference. He was in town from his school in Asia. I met him at a cafe and we decided to head to another for tea. He grabbed my arm to direct me across the street and, in my mind, I turned him, mid-street and started making on him. In realizing that my hormones are on fire and in remembering how fucking hot this man is, I even tried to quell the explosions by masturbating before leaving the house. Still, as he grabbed my arm to lead me across the street I could tell this meeting was not going to be easy. He's a touchy-feely person and reached out to touch my shoulder in emphasis of something, would touch my hands across the table. And all I wanted to do was scream, "Stop touching me you freak tease!" Of course, he can do this. He's got the ring of god on his finger reminding him to behave and focus and thus, can take all the liberties in the world to rile up women all over. He's got "Praise God" on his lips so he can remind himself not to get a hardon, while I'm trying to stop twisting my hair around my finger in dumb passion. So, I finally had to cross my legs tightly under the table and withdraw my hands from his reach. It was just too much. A taut wire connected to a ton of dynamite. Touch me in even a nonchalant way and I'm ready to explode. Tear off your clothes, tear off mine, get on my knees and suck your cock til you stop thinking of baseball statistics in order to postpone cumming.


Easy enough, right? Just go call up one of the men in the black book. Ugh. The TV Producer told me he's dating someone, but maybe we could see each other next week. Somehow this would seem very wrong to me - not to mention torturous to my psyche. The Filmmaker is now more of a professional colleague than a sex partner. The rest all seem to not meet what I want. And what I don't want right now is a repeat. I'd rather someone new and closer to what I desire. Sigh. Cloistering myself up in the Rapunzel tower isn't helping, but I'm reaching tentacles out there. Delicious, sensuous signals. Sending tiny, pulsating satellites across the rooftops. Inching out bits of invitation to touch the wire, finger it, vibrate it, and hopefully someone will take the bait and trip it entirely.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Like the first commenter: Word.

Wednesday, 4 February 2009

Diving Back In
- Posted by Trinity at let them eat....:

I've been gone a while. I've really taken a break from SM-and-feminism debates, and I think it's been good for me. But recently, possibly due to a new anti-SM post up at Nine Deuce's blog, people have been showing up and commenting here. So I figured I'd return, and say some things.

First, start up the zamboni in hell please, because I actually think that there's a Point hidden in all the stuff that has me wincing as I read. To wit:

But what does all this talk of separating D/s in the bedroom from real life, of taking “safe, sane, and consensual” as one’s creed, of female subs being empowered by the emphasis on consent really mean? Methinks the Sisters of Mercy fans doth protest too much, that someone is pissing on my leg and telling me it’s raining. I read 400+ e-mails from men interested in a young woman curious about submission, I looked at a shit-ton of BDSM porn, I went to a BDSM club, I read tens of thousands of words on BDSM-related websites, and I didn’t feel very safe or sane when I got done, nor did I feel like participating in the shit I’d seen or read about would make me feel particularly empowered.

While how safe or sane I feel reading websites is probably rather different than how safe or sane she does, I think she's spot on here. We do a lot of protesting and apologizing here in BDSMland for what we want and what we do (and, for some of us, who we are). We do a lot of insisting that, as ND points out, "safe sane and consensual" means we never get hurt. Means we never find asshole partners. Means we never mess up negotiations in ways that are Not Good for us.

Which is all, as she points out, bullshit.

Which brings me to the difference between these sorts of feminist and us, or at least between ND and me.

I believe that risk is a part of life, and I believe that sometimes things are important enough to someone that she can and should choose to take them.

She recommends scrutiny, for reasons she considers particularly feminist and I consider pretty bad:

When considering sexual matters and their relationship to the general misogyny that pervades our culture, I generally pretend I’m a justice in the Supreme Court of Gender Issues and apply the ol’ strict scrutiny standard (albeit my own modified version of it). Sex, as it has been used throughout history as a tool of domination and as it is the locus of the negotiation of gender roles and a large majority of our social behaviors, requires close analysis. If I’m going to give a sexual practice a free pass and the Nine Deuce seal of approval, it’s got to meet three criteria:

1. First, I ask myself whether women are ever hurt as a result of the practice under consideration. If the answer is yes, the practice has not earned immunity from examination and analysis.
2. Second, I ask myself whether those who engage in the practice ever do so out of a hatred of women. If so, it’s up for discussion and judgment (a nasty word for those with po-mo leanings, I know, but a necessary one nonetheless).
3. Finally, I have to ask myself whether the practice would occur in a society that wasn’t characterized by male supremacy and the hatred of women, both of which tend to manifest as the mixture of sex and power. I’ve got a really impressive imagination (I invented unicorns), so if I can’t imagine a sex act having the power to excite in a post-patriarchal world, I get a little dubious.

If a sex act fails to meet any of these three criteria, you can expect that I’ll be questioning the fuck out of it, and BDSM really blows it on all three.

I don't think these criteria are good ones. I don't think feminism is about figuring out what sorts of nefarious anti-woman things men have in their heads and, armed with Knowledge, tripping warily through the minefield. I think that makes feminism about men in a funny way, about men and about fear, when it's supposed to be about women and about becoming more free. (And yes, self-styled "radical" feminists may not like that word "free," thinking it means "at liberty to make dumb choices." As a matter of fact, I am using it that way. Let's see them sour faces.)

But having walked away from this discussion for months, and feeling so much the better for it, I don't want to talk about that now. I want to talk about something else.

I want to talk about this pervasive sense that feminism is about protecting women from making bad choices by Letting Them Know, through blog posts and essays and books, through warnings and theory and the slow spread of fear, What They're Getting Into.

I'm not for that any more. She's spot on: SM is risky and dark and it means looking into who you are and what you want and finding the spaces where that's not so pretty. The times when you want something no one is supposed to: abasement, exaltation, pain, fear, shame. That's not pretty -- well, no, it's quite pretty. But it's not tame.

It can and does engage all sorts of ugly things, because it draws on anything and everything, and doesn't run. Does that mean that sometimes, male dominance shows up, flaws and history and violence and all? Yes, it does. It even means that some women romanticize that, crave it in their head. In most cases, it will be stripped of social meaning ("I want to be his slave, but I want equal wages at work"), and that's what we mean when we do the "It's only in the bedroom" style insisting. In some cases, though, some people really do buy in to the idea that submission is what a woman is for -- including some women. When we say we're not like those people, we're disavowing that, saying that fantasy doesn't, in the end, trump reason.

Rightly so, IMO. There are people out there into ANYTHING who go overboard, and suffer for it.

But that doesn't really answer 92, and those like her. Their point is that women's submission to men, however bounded, just is frightening. Particularly to someone who doesn't have similar interests and whose deepest passion is a witty, cold, "radical feminist" rage that gets her a rapt audience.

Which it should be.

The disagreement isn't over that. It's over the place of the frightening in our lives. It's over whether you think people should dive into the frightening, or whether you're waving signs and trying to forcibly haul them back out.

I know where I stand on that.

Which is why I stick up for female subs the same as I stick up for me, despite that I've heard a fair amount of the same bullshit that she sees as epidemic.

Living means taking risks. It also means being wise about doing so, which is what all the "SSC", all the "limits", all the "I'm not 24/7", all that stuff, whether well-conceived or nonsensical, is about.

Risk management. Not risk elimination.

But someone coming up to me and saying "Isn't BDSM emotionally unsafe [for women bottoms living in patriarchy]?" is like someone coming up to me and saying "Don't condoms break?"

Not my place to decide whether someone else should panic and run because her boyfriend's might.


I'm not big on feminism or feminist thought and theory. I took the latter as a course in college, but I was raised being told I could do anything and slightly pushed by a father without a son in a two-daughter family. And, when I ran into unfairness and discrimination, and felt pissed at the patriarchy, I found Riot Grrrl. And, then, I just kind of absorbed feminism into my cells as an everyday breath of air. It's not that I don't think the world is male-controlled, but it's kind of like a black man running the US -- he got there not because he was militant against white people, but because he looked at the situation, acted accordingly, and got what he wanted. Time and again. And, was/is smart at the game.

So the above post is kinda us v them in a lot of ways that I could care less about. Really, I just love that she used "risk management" to characterize life, living, and engaging in bdsm. I have learned over this past year to call it "risk-reward management" though because we should be encouraged to take risks and make mistakes in order to maximize stakeholders' shares, improve regulations and laws, and most importantly to better people's (our) lives. Sex, drugs, rock-n-roll, voting, investing, dating, whatever... weigh the options, make the best decisions, aim for as less deviation from your intended goal as possible and then learn from the fuck ups.

Classic: But someone coming up to me and saying "Isn't BDSM emotionally unsafe [for women bottoms living in patriarchy]?" is like someone coming up to me and saying "Don't condoms break?"

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Long time comin'

[from Tumblr]

I just finished a blog (elsewhere) on my awesome mum who visited Paris in '68 and kept a matchbook from a drugstore, found it, photographed it and sent it to me. I could write about her in pages and pages of coolness and dumbfoundedness. All families are complicated, but I do think there's a trend of complex relationships between mothers and daughters. My sister gets along better with my mum for the shopping, girl chat, gossip. While I philosophize and politicize and debate with my dad. But I am, core and core, more like my mum than my sister. I see her in the mirror. I fought her like she fought her own mother. I party like her. I may have alcoholism like she does. While I smoke less now, I smoke, like she did. I dance like she does - my father jokes that she has no rhythm, but really she's got like all 16 levels of beats to every song going, in her hands, her head, her hips, her feet, her fingers. She traveled the world on 5$ a day and had princes swooning for her and took photos of VD clinics. I don't have princes, or 5$ a day, or.. um, VD, but we have similar interests. She was a go-go dancer, although she says she kept her bikini on. I took mine off for the Soho shot for the Filmmaker's film. Yes, she's always been a bit removed, a bit distant, a bit untouchable, but always somewhat truthful ("I love you but I don't like you right now" when I was a bratty 15 year old) and forever loving ("love you so much! signed, Mumma").

I could talk about my 26 hour date with Tall Tom and how we had pasta with too many pimentos with the Italian, 2 Indians, and 2 Canadian Indians, and how I stayed the night and we had sex and then the next morning had brunch with an old rich man and his wife at Deux Magots, and then went to the Louvre because we wanted to walk but it was too cold outside, about how he made lies and some half-truths to explain the art, and how he didn't know I had an art degree, and then we walked to the Japanese district to the same café we've tried for 3 times and it still was closed and so we got noodles at another place, and then metro'd to see a movie but there was absolutely nothing good to see so we just went back to his place and while he cleaned out his garbage-smelling refrigerator (because he's a young bachelor) I had a smoke and we then we fucked and napped and I had horrible dreams and felt anxious and claustrophobicized and woke up needing to leave but he convinced me to stay longer for another fuck and I made horrible fun of him by asking if I fucked like a corpse still and if he didn't mean something different then and how shy he was to try to explain, since he'd already stepped up his game by trying his hand at spanking me, and how I did leave and kicked myself in the pants for - again - falling into teaching a boy about what I wanted and then felt slightly relieved that at least there's another man in the world who knows kink and might like it, and then I showered after 26 hours of not showering properly (trying not to be condescending I suggested he invest in shampoo other than man-smelling ones, and maybe some regular soap that's not Axe for Men, and wouldn't it be nice to have some lotion after a shower?), and then, well, I passed out for sheer exhaustion.

I could, certainly, talk about all of that. But really... is there any reason?

My mum rules. I miss her. Boys and men are predictable and I appreciate that, but they're still weird.