Mostly I've been rejecting spam comments: lines and lines of links to drugs and chicks.
But the most recent on "The Nooner" is very interesting.
%%%%%%%%%%
Other than that? It's been 2-1/2 weeks with my family. I'm somewhat losing my mind, considering one of those weeks was me sick with a horribly sore throat. This, of course, freaked me out and sent my mind into wondering if I'd contracted an STI from oral sex. Needless to say the swab revealed that I had haemophilus influenzae, a common bacteria, that my body did well fighting off on its own with the help of gargling salt water. (Seriously, I should listen more to this type of household advice.)
And, waiting. Waiting. Waiting for confirmation. I'm DC-bound for a job, but there are hoops to jump through and then Olympic-sized judges to confirm or reject my performance. The waiting is really getting to me. I scour the Craigslist apartment listings, find something I could live with (and in), and then hope it sticks around. I've given up on that one and will, instead, wait for the final confirmation before getting excited. It should be any day now. So they say.
I am excited about the move, and finally living in my first one-bedroom apartment. Having the salary to do so. Having a job. Making a difference again. And, getting the fuck out of my parents' house. They're lovely people, but it's not advisable to visit this long with parents once one has become an adult. I see their dysfunctionality much more clearly. And I don't want to.
Anyway... nothing fun to report. Just the good news of a job and the patience that is my karma.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
The nooner
My friend told me on Friday about a potential date he was going to have for a guy to suck his cock. It's been a personal fantasy of mine to see guy-on-guy action. A long-standing fantasy at that. I don't usually wank to gay porn, because I usually envision myself as the bottom in the porn scenario and if the bottom has a cock it kind of confuses my lust. Nonetheless, over all my years of crazy libido, I'd never watched live guy action. So, I told my friend I'd love to be invited to watch.
Turns out that his date's fantasy involved sucking a cock with a woman. And, my friend, well, he's up for almost anything.
The date plan was that my friend was going to cross-dress as a slut in black and heels and the date was going to come by over lunch break. The date's a rather stereotypical looking bear daddy who is married, living a quiet life over on the other side of town. My friend put us in contact via email to assuage any nervousness on the part of the date: who is this chick, what does she want, is she for real, etc...
We chatted a bit over email and I sent him the nudey lola with socks photo and the nudey lola riding the sex toy photo. I guess he was convinced because he replied with "OMG!!!!!!" Flattery will get you everywhere.
Got over to my friend's house and poured a small whiskey (all work being done for the day). My friend got all dolled up in his slutty CD outfit with black stockings, black top, and heels. He was quite a sight with his plaid lumberjack robe on top. The Date arrived. We were all a bit nervous - least of all was my friend, most of all was The Date. His hands were shaking when we introduced ourselves and his voice cracking and rapid, "So, this is your first time?" (He'd already asked me that in email.) He pulled out the poppers and put it on the table. They both took a hit and my friend, with lovely moaning porn on his laptop in the background, got up and straddled The Date on the couch so his cock was well positioned for The Date's mouth. I watched from a comfy chair across the room: hand in my tights, slowly finding my clit and working myself up.
My friend came over and put the poppers below my nose. Having never indulged, I thought poppers were pills (poppers, uppers, same idea in my mind), so I'm sticking my tongue out a bit waiting for him to drop one and he says, "You inhale." Of course, I blushed, but then the blushing turned to red balloon fire inflating of my cheeks as the rush hit me. I'm not sure it really did anything for me - and we sniffed a few more times - but damn if my friend's cock wasn't enormously hard and bursting at the seams.
My friend called me over to the couch to fondle myself there, in view for him and The Date. I wasn't planning on participating really. In my mind, I'd just envisioned being an onlooker, like some Eyes Wide Shut masked observer. Power in my distance, cooly watching as if they were my actors, or my homemade porn. I guess I'm like a bitch in heat though - a cock is around, I can sniff it out, and damnit I want it. I was a bit reluctant because the spontaneity did catch me off guard. How far would I go? Did I want to fuck? Did I want cum on my face or in my mouth? Did I want to be sucked? Thankfully, time was in check. This was a lunch date, not an all-nighter. The Date touched me tentatively and I let him. I played with his cock in my hand while he sucked off my friend and my friend sucked on my tits. It was a tangle of limbs - so much so that a leg movement and my friend almost bonked The Date.
It was super fucking hot to play with my clit and watch these two. The Date's lips tight around the head of my friend's cock, and his hand just below, gripping and stroking. A man who knows how to touch another man. Sure, there are chicks who know how to give blowjobs and handjobs well, and I'm damn fine myself, but there's still never quite perfection for me. I don't have this body part. I don't want to hurt it. I don't want to grab too hard or pull too much. My friend tells me he doesn't like wet things - isn't into kissing, doesn't like saliva much, hates gum. Me? I prefer slobbery wet blowjobs. I want spit on my face, trails of drool from a cock to my mouth, swallowing multiple pools of saliva. The Date knew just how much pressure in his hand, how much spit was needed. It was horny perfection.
My friend pulled my sweater off. (I'd already taken off my tights to show my little red cherry thong.) They both went at my tits and I kept my finger on my clit. The Date went back to my friend's cock and he shot his load as I moaned along.
Then it was done. Clothes put back on. The Date said I was hot and wiped up a bit of dripped cum on the floor with some toilet paper. I thanked them for letting me watch. My friend was like, fun and gotta run back to work.
It all happened so fast. Truly, a half-hour can go by like a wink. In my mind, I think I was imagining a drawn-out porn hour-long fantasy. Different positions. Some unplanned fucking. I wanted to see cock in ass. I wanted to roll around on the floor and call The Date "Daddy" and pretend my friend and I were siblings in some wack incest roleplay. Or, maybe they'd push the coffee table out of the way and get into a 69 while I touched myself, viewing from the couch. I'd pulled out my silver underwear bag thinking I might want the egg vibe - but there wasn't time. It was all over so quickly. Guess that means there's room for more expansion on this. Guess that means I can add it to my list of "Things To Explore More Fully." At least I got a good taste.
Turns out that his date's fantasy involved sucking a cock with a woman. And, my friend, well, he's up for almost anything.
The date plan was that my friend was going to cross-dress as a slut in black and heels and the date was going to come by over lunch break. The date's a rather stereotypical looking bear daddy who is married, living a quiet life over on the other side of town. My friend put us in contact via email to assuage any nervousness on the part of the date: who is this chick, what does she want, is she for real, etc...
We chatted a bit over email and I sent him the nudey lola with socks photo and the nudey lola riding the sex toy photo. I guess he was convinced because he replied with "OMG!!!!!!" Flattery will get you everywhere.
Got over to my friend's house and poured a small whiskey (all work being done for the day). My friend got all dolled up in his slutty CD outfit with black stockings, black top, and heels. He was quite a sight with his plaid lumberjack robe on top. The Date arrived. We were all a bit nervous - least of all was my friend, most of all was The Date. His hands were shaking when we introduced ourselves and his voice cracking and rapid, "So, this is your first time?" (He'd already asked me that in email.) He pulled out the poppers and put it on the table. They both took a hit and my friend, with lovely moaning porn on his laptop in the background, got up and straddled The Date on the couch so his cock was well positioned for The Date's mouth. I watched from a comfy chair across the room: hand in my tights, slowly finding my clit and working myself up.
My friend came over and put the poppers below my nose. Having never indulged, I thought poppers were pills (poppers, uppers, same idea in my mind), so I'm sticking my tongue out a bit waiting for him to drop one and he says, "You inhale." Of course, I blushed, but then the blushing turned to red balloon fire inflating of my cheeks as the rush hit me. I'm not sure it really did anything for me - and we sniffed a few more times - but damn if my friend's cock wasn't enormously hard and bursting at the seams.
My friend called me over to the couch to fondle myself there, in view for him and The Date. I wasn't planning on participating really. In my mind, I'd just envisioned being an onlooker, like some Eyes Wide Shut masked observer. Power in my distance, cooly watching as if they were my actors, or my homemade porn. I guess I'm like a bitch in heat though - a cock is around, I can sniff it out, and damnit I want it. I was a bit reluctant because the spontaneity did catch me off guard. How far would I go? Did I want to fuck? Did I want cum on my face or in my mouth? Did I want to be sucked? Thankfully, time was in check. This was a lunch date, not an all-nighter. The Date touched me tentatively and I let him. I played with his cock in my hand while he sucked off my friend and my friend sucked on my tits. It was a tangle of limbs - so much so that a leg movement and my friend almost bonked The Date.
It was super fucking hot to play with my clit and watch these two. The Date's lips tight around the head of my friend's cock, and his hand just below, gripping and stroking. A man who knows how to touch another man. Sure, there are chicks who know how to give blowjobs and handjobs well, and I'm damn fine myself, but there's still never quite perfection for me. I don't have this body part. I don't want to hurt it. I don't want to grab too hard or pull too much. My friend tells me he doesn't like wet things - isn't into kissing, doesn't like saliva much, hates gum. Me? I prefer slobbery wet blowjobs. I want spit on my face, trails of drool from a cock to my mouth, swallowing multiple pools of saliva. The Date knew just how much pressure in his hand, how much spit was needed. It was horny perfection.
My friend pulled my sweater off. (I'd already taken off my tights to show my little red cherry thong.) They both went at my tits and I kept my finger on my clit. The Date went back to my friend's cock and he shot his load as I moaned along.
Then it was done. Clothes put back on. The Date said I was hot and wiped up a bit of dripped cum on the floor with some toilet paper. I thanked them for letting me watch. My friend was like, fun and gotta run back to work.
It all happened so fast. Truly, a half-hour can go by like a wink. In my mind, I think I was imagining a drawn-out porn hour-long fantasy. Different positions. Some unplanned fucking. I wanted to see cock in ass. I wanted to roll around on the floor and call The Date "Daddy" and pretend my friend and I were siblings in some wack incest roleplay. Or, maybe they'd push the coffee table out of the way and get into a 69 while I touched myself, viewing from the couch. I'd pulled out my silver underwear bag thinking I might want the egg vibe - but there wasn't time. It was all over so quickly. Guess that means there's room for more expansion on this. Guess that means I can add it to my list of "Things To Explore More Fully." At least I got a good taste.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Almost caught
I've done this a few times. It meshes with my trucker fantasy. But today, I was spotted, and not sure how much or what he saw.
Between cities. I pulled over to the rest area. Further from the other cars, but not so far as to be suspicious -- I guess? (As if I have this figured out.) I pull out the mobile to pretend some work call is coming in. Of course, that's why I pull over. I am a good citizen after all - don't want to drive and talk. Whip out the laptop. Reach behind into the roller suitcase, pull out the silver underwear bag. Laptop in lap. Pull out my trusty egg vibe (this one from the sex store in Paris). Slide the seat back. Facing the big, heavy, resting trucks. Dirty trucks. Some with headlights on in mid-day. Some just pulling up. Are the men napping? Do they have girls with them? Are they getting sucked off? Are they shooting up? My dirty dream to connect somehow and - of course - am serviced and fucked. In a cab. In one of those awesomely dirty, messy, lived-in cabs, with rosaries hanging from random hooks, velour red (blood red) curtains, a small college dorm-sized fridge, a mattress?, a cushion? what the hell is in the back of these cabs? how big are they?
I put the egg in under the open zipper, under the soft pink fabric of my thong. Put the laptop crooked-wise in my lap and pick the one video where the hairy French guy is pounding the nubile girl from behind and she's into it but her moans are screams. Side by side next to the one of "hungry joe" - some guy I friended years ago who likes exhibitionism and makes videos of himself jacking off. In this one he's using a see-through fleshlight. She's screaming (I turned the volume up as the car engine runs), he's lubing up the fleshlight, the phone is by my side, my hand in my pants, I change one of the batteries out, turn it up high high high, not enough time to work up to it.
I look up and see the rest area janitor guy at the trash bins in front of my car. Fuck! Slide my hand out from my underwear to the keyboard. I feel the instant blush in my cheeks. Cover the open zipper with my sweater. He looks at me. Looks back to the bins. I toss the egg vibe to the floor of my car. Pick up the phone. "Oh, hi, yeah, so I found the document.." He empties the bins. I try to mouth words in fake conversation and attempt to quickly calculate his viewpoint angle. Was the laptop hiding my hand. Was the cord obvious? Did he hear the screams? He moves on to the next bins.
I pretend the fake call. He finishes this stretch of cleaning and walks past me. I try to smile innocently as he walks by.
Out of view, I pretend a trucker has binoculars on me. Staring. Watching. Wondering. Knowing I'm faking my phone call. Watching me put the phone down, jack up the videos again, quickly place the now dirty and dusty egg vibe into my pants (I wipe it a little beforehand but the dirt makes me feel more naughty), and and and and .... quick, pulsing release. The blood rushes to my cheeks. The inside walls clench and contract in spasm. I close my eyes in orgasm like an addict feeling the kick in my veins. But quick. The janitor might have seen it all and called the cops. I'm running late anyway. Battery out. Egg back into the bag. Bag into the suitcase. Laptop closed. Pants zipped. I step out for a smoke. (I have quit, but it's my rebel behavior on these hormonal trips that makes me want something between my lips.) Pretend - again - that I'm on the phone.
Climb back in. Pull the seat forward. Reverse. Pull out.
Ahhhhhh, yes....
Between cities. I pulled over to the rest area. Further from the other cars, but not so far as to be suspicious -- I guess? (As if I have this figured out.) I pull out the mobile to pretend some work call is coming in. Of course, that's why I pull over. I am a good citizen after all - don't want to drive and talk. Whip out the laptop. Reach behind into the roller suitcase, pull out the silver underwear bag. Laptop in lap. Pull out my trusty egg vibe (this one from the sex store in Paris). Slide the seat back. Facing the big, heavy, resting trucks. Dirty trucks. Some with headlights on in mid-day. Some just pulling up. Are the men napping? Do they have girls with them? Are they getting sucked off? Are they shooting up? My dirty dream to connect somehow and - of course - am serviced and fucked. In a cab. In one of those awesomely dirty, messy, lived-in cabs, with rosaries hanging from random hooks, velour red (blood red) curtains, a small college dorm-sized fridge, a mattress?, a cushion? what the hell is in the back of these cabs? how big are they?
I put the egg in under the open zipper, under the soft pink fabric of my thong. Put the laptop crooked-wise in my lap and pick the one video where the hairy French guy is pounding the nubile girl from behind and she's into it but her moans are screams. Side by side next to the one of "hungry joe" - some guy I friended years ago who likes exhibitionism and makes videos of himself jacking off. In this one he's using a see-through fleshlight. She's screaming (I turned the volume up as the car engine runs), he's lubing up the fleshlight, the phone is by my side, my hand in my pants, I change one of the batteries out, turn it up high high high, not enough time to work up to it.
I look up and see the rest area janitor guy at the trash bins in front of my car. Fuck! Slide my hand out from my underwear to the keyboard. I feel the instant blush in my cheeks. Cover the open zipper with my sweater. He looks at me. Looks back to the bins. I toss the egg vibe to the floor of my car. Pick up the phone. "Oh, hi, yeah, so I found the document.." He empties the bins. I try to mouth words in fake conversation and attempt to quickly calculate his viewpoint angle. Was the laptop hiding my hand. Was the cord obvious? Did he hear the screams? He moves on to the next bins.
I pretend the fake call. He finishes this stretch of cleaning and walks past me. I try to smile innocently as he walks by.
Out of view, I pretend a trucker has binoculars on me. Staring. Watching. Wondering. Knowing I'm faking my phone call. Watching me put the phone down, jack up the videos again, quickly place the now dirty and dusty egg vibe into my pants (I wipe it a little beforehand but the dirt makes me feel more naughty), and and and and .... quick, pulsing release. The blood rushes to my cheeks. The inside walls clench and contract in spasm. I close my eyes in orgasm like an addict feeling the kick in my veins. But quick. The janitor might have seen it all and called the cops. I'm running late anyway. Battery out. Egg back into the bag. Bag into the suitcase. Laptop closed. Pants zipped. I step out for a smoke. (I have quit, but it's my rebel behavior on these hormonal trips that makes me want something between my lips.) Pretend - again - that I'm on the phone.
Climb back in. Pull the seat forward. Reverse. Pull out.
Ahhhhhh, yes....
What wasn't, now can be; what isn't, just might
I've heard about the transformations people make. Mostly it's from socialist, hippie freak punk kids to conservative, blue-grey haired cranky old people. I very well might be progressing along that line, but I'm doing a rumba as I go.
It's such an odd life.
And I sometimes wonder who's really living it.
I know nothing at all about Scientology but someone told me once that it has something to do with humans believing they're actually aliens inhabiting a human form. Well, I feel that way all the time.
"This can't really be my family."
"Yeah, well, I'm trying out the hair dryer and make-up. Learning to be a woman."
"What would it be like to work for the Federal government?"
It's all so curious. My father and mother are aging before my eyes and annoyingly so. I don't like seeing it. I don't like realizing that I'm actually smarter than my dad right now, more nimble than my mom. But I haven't suffered much. I mean, I've always been this way: grumpy in the morning, independent in the afternoon, and more friendly over wine. I have no office in their house so I'm using the dining room table to set up my computer. (After I Skyped with my friends in Portland who smoke the jones, I realized I needed to be able to find a space where the laptop could face a wall and not have my parents stumble behind me to see Jane and Michael pulling on the bong.) I end up sighing a lot. I breathe a lot when I'm stressed. And there one of them is - "What? What's up?" I call it hovering. Stop hovering, I say. My father stands there, in front of me or next to me. He wants attention. But I refuse to acknowledge him if he doesn't say anything out loud. He needs a volunteer job for fuck's sake. Instead, they've been building an eco-friendly house in the woods 2.5 hours from here. But he won't tell his sisters and mother (who live in town) or his brother or friends. It's a big secret because he's ... well, selfish and sneaky. So they get all busy with this house but don't warn or tell anyone they're packing up and leaving town in a few months. This leaves his sisters to take care of their mother, who lives in an assisted living home. I don't think it's fair to not be open. I don't think it's nice to lie through omission. I find it hard to fake through answers to "What are your parents up to these days?"
But, the fascinating thing is that I'm so much like him. Self-absorbed. Attention hungry. Me first and the gimme gimmes.
My mother putters on. I'm not sure who she is. I can see her eyes frantically searching my face and eyes every time she talks to me. A look of hoping that I'm understanding her. A look of worry that she's boring me. This intense desire to be loved by me. But at the same hand, she'd turn and chop me off any block. She's such a strange person to me. So nervous in company - but I remember when I holed up in Paris and didn't speak to anyone for days and would go out into a party and worry about controlling myself, trying to be a person after forgetting, after living in a den of routine and killing comfort. So, I'm trying to accept her. Love her through my eyes.
But damn it all if I'm not impatient and annoyed with my lack of individual space. I have nowhere to hide during the day when I want to work. What does it matter though? I'm about to sweep away for a job.
The internship in Madison has gone really well, but the networking in other circles has gone better for now. DC might be calling. I'm hesitant for this transition, and not sure I'd pass their tests to get there. I wasn't sure about interview #1 but I got #2 from it. I wasn't sure about panel interview #1, but got offered a job from it. Now, the time for sitting alone. Now, the time for a tarot reading.
I know it's hippie. I know it's weird. I can't explain it, but I can. Sure, it's mostly the research, the outreach, the work I do to get there. But then there's the secret rituals I do to throw out there my dreams, my needs. I sometimes call it "God" or "Mother" or "Destiny". I meditate. Driving back and forth between Chicago and Madison, Madison and the river. Hours to listen to NPR and catch the college radio stations, fantasize about truck fucks in the road stops, and meditate, think, dream.
I cannot stay much longer with my parents. I love them. I am fascinated by their process and our interactions. I cannot stay. I need my own space. My own kitchen. My own center. I need to pay off the debt. I need the next level in this game. I need to see who I'll become next.
And this all just might take me to DC, into the fray, the speed, the honey bee hive, the lies, the masks, the ambitions, the desires, the steam, the cold, the bones, the waves of change.
After all those prayers of meditation, all this work of humility and drive. I really am not driving the train. As I wasn't when I followed art to Minneapolis, Fernando to Costa Rica, Ryan to Madison, school to Paris. Once I launch the dream of hope, the hunger for experience - someone else starts conducting me there.
I have no idea why or how or wherefore. And, the background checks might prohibit this path. But for now, well, it looks damn near close to the Capitol.
[no editing this one]
It's such an odd life.
And I sometimes wonder who's really living it.
I know nothing at all about Scientology but someone told me once that it has something to do with humans believing they're actually aliens inhabiting a human form. Well, I feel that way all the time.
"This can't really be my family."
"Yeah, well, I'm trying out the hair dryer and make-up. Learning to be a woman."
"What would it be like to work for the Federal government?"
It's all so curious. My father and mother are aging before my eyes and annoyingly so. I don't like seeing it. I don't like realizing that I'm actually smarter than my dad right now, more nimble than my mom. But I haven't suffered much. I mean, I've always been this way: grumpy in the morning, independent in the afternoon, and more friendly over wine. I have no office in their house so I'm using the dining room table to set up my computer. (After I Skyped with my friends in Portland who smoke the jones, I realized I needed to be able to find a space where the laptop could face a wall and not have my parents stumble behind me to see Jane and Michael pulling on the bong.) I end up sighing a lot. I breathe a lot when I'm stressed. And there one of them is - "What? What's up?" I call it hovering. Stop hovering, I say. My father stands there, in front of me or next to me. He wants attention. But I refuse to acknowledge him if he doesn't say anything out loud. He needs a volunteer job for fuck's sake. Instead, they've been building an eco-friendly house in the woods 2.5 hours from here. But he won't tell his sisters and mother (who live in town) or his brother or friends. It's a big secret because he's ... well, selfish and sneaky. So they get all busy with this house but don't warn or tell anyone they're packing up and leaving town in a few months. This leaves his sisters to take care of their mother, who lives in an assisted living home. I don't think it's fair to not be open. I don't think it's nice to lie through omission. I find it hard to fake through answers to "What are your parents up to these days?"
But, the fascinating thing is that I'm so much like him. Self-absorbed. Attention hungry. Me first and the gimme gimmes.
My mother putters on. I'm not sure who she is. I can see her eyes frantically searching my face and eyes every time she talks to me. A look of hoping that I'm understanding her. A look of worry that she's boring me. This intense desire to be loved by me. But at the same hand, she'd turn and chop me off any block. She's such a strange person to me. So nervous in company - but I remember when I holed up in Paris and didn't speak to anyone for days and would go out into a party and worry about controlling myself, trying to be a person after forgetting, after living in a den of routine and killing comfort. So, I'm trying to accept her. Love her through my eyes.
But damn it all if I'm not impatient and annoyed with my lack of individual space. I have nowhere to hide during the day when I want to work. What does it matter though? I'm about to sweep away for a job.
The internship in Madison has gone really well, but the networking in other circles has gone better for now. DC might be calling. I'm hesitant for this transition, and not sure I'd pass their tests to get there. I wasn't sure about interview #1 but I got #2 from it. I wasn't sure about panel interview #1, but got offered a job from it. Now, the time for sitting alone. Now, the time for a tarot reading.
I know it's hippie. I know it's weird. I can't explain it, but I can. Sure, it's mostly the research, the outreach, the work I do to get there. But then there's the secret rituals I do to throw out there my dreams, my needs. I sometimes call it "God" or "Mother" or "Destiny". I meditate. Driving back and forth between Chicago and Madison, Madison and the river. Hours to listen to NPR and catch the college radio stations, fantasize about truck fucks in the road stops, and meditate, think, dream.
I cannot stay much longer with my parents. I love them. I am fascinated by their process and our interactions. I cannot stay. I need my own space. My own kitchen. My own center. I need to pay off the debt. I need the next level in this game. I need to see who I'll become next.
And this all just might take me to DC, into the fray, the speed, the honey bee hive, the lies, the masks, the ambitions, the desires, the steam, the cold, the bones, the waves of change.
After all those prayers of meditation, all this work of humility and drive. I really am not driving the train. As I wasn't when I followed art to Minneapolis, Fernando to Costa Rica, Ryan to Madison, school to Paris. Once I launch the dream of hope, the hunger for experience - someone else starts conducting me there.
I have no idea why or how or wherefore. And, the background checks might prohibit this path. But for now, well, it looks damn near close to the Capitol.
[no editing this one]
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