... or mine libido
The Bike Man was quickly replaced by hormones and desire. I'm totally PMS'd or pregnant, the latter which seems impossible at this time but - as every month - I worry. Really, I should just get my tubes tied and find comfort in knowing that using a condom will not result in any offspring. But, I'm not one to say 'never.'
And then...
Friday, 12:21
...nos vemos el sabado?..
I giggled in happiness. Of course, I knew the Economist was coming back from Spain on Saturday, but was half sure that he wasn't interested or that I wasn't going to show any interest. After all, despite a lazy bougeouis ignorance of email, he could have emailed once over three weeks. But then, I didn't, so whatever.
We want what we can't have.
I showed the Russian friend the SMS and was momentarily excited in our depressing last days of working together. I felt this way - depressed at good-byes - when our first year grad school classes ended. I had been distracted with the Butcher and decided not to see my Canadian friends, with whom I bonded closely, before they left - for good, to other schools for the second year. And such went with the Russian. The last week was a strange dance of her coming closer, more needy, and me, pushing away, believing I had serious work to focus on or she was big enough to do things on her own. She hurt her hand biking to work and I wanted to help and we visited the doctor together and the radiologist and I translated French to English (a minor accomplishment in language learning). But at the same time, I was trying to push her away a bit. It's my historical response to these things.
I'm not sure when I learned it, but after moving so much in life, at some point I realized there was no use in suffering the departures of friends or my departure. Maybe I got this when I got to high school. When we all had to pretend to be cool with emotions. And now it's a biological response. A repulsion to the person once it's established we're not to share the same geological positioning. I tend to find fault then. Tend to find other endeavors. Other occupations and preoccupations. It's an obvious defense mechanism, and I'm not letting go yet.
But then, when she came around to say goodbye, all I could think was to hug her, strongly and closely - instead of the 3-times cheek-kissing of Geneva. It's not sexual of breasts touching, but of placing hearts close. I learned hugging from the hippies in my life. Their overly-long embraces, their strong grasps, their sighs of "can you feel that? our spirits are touching!" Or whatever. But after a while, I got it. There is something funny about our US culture. When we meet people, we send the distance orb out - this is my space, that is yours - shake my hand. The Europeans and South Americans have developed the cheek-kiss. It breaks barriers and makes us human. But it still is a formality, where the hug is a breaking of all barriers. Husky, strong firemen in NYC will do it for bonding, girl friends do it for closeness, families do it for assurance. I miss hugs. And I tried to cling to Russia for a bit and she did that patty-pat-pat on my back, trying to break free. I understand completely.
So, I waited about 7 hours to reply to Economist. I was a silly schoolgirl. Don't reply quickly - too obvious and needy and eager. Don't reply too late - he'll make other plans or be put off. So, in the evening, after dinner (after thinking all day and night about what to say), I SMS'd back, "Pourquoi pas?" Why not?
Of course.
Saturday I kind of mourned the Russian and got up lazily and slowly. There were things I wanted to do and see but without a partner it was different. Got out the door and on the road at 2pm to the cemetery here to pay homage to Borges and Calvin and found so many others of note. Spent a good hour there and then trekked up on bike through the western part of town. (We never went south or west since the Russian couldn't cross into France without a visa.) Climbed a hill along the river and up to another cemetery and along the river and on and on. The Economist SMS'd me "...un whiskey a las 20h?" A whiskey at 8pm? I sent back, sure.
Kept on biking. I had to find myself again.
Came home and made dinner. And just as I was fondling myself for pre-relief, "..a las 20h en la terraza de siempre.. gusto de verte.." (At 8pm in the terraza like always - pleasure to see you.) What's with all the periods? Of course, in the terraza where we first met, like has been our short-lived habit. I was late and nervous. He was early and oh so tanned. From being on his boat in the Med, sailing and drinking and fucking and bathing nude. He was cold and did I want a drink or get one back at his place? What was the rush, I wondered. No, one here first would be good. We went back to his place and I did not perform well at all. I was super PMS girl who had political arguments and griefs about the world, but I asked how his trip was and who he fucked and how fishing was. He fucked a friend of his, and he wasn't sure if he'd forgotten or not noticed, but she got new tits. I don't like new tits, but I loved his description that they looked, while she was reclined on the boat, nervous. Nervous tits. Shaking a bit. Trembling. A nice visual.
There was no coke this time. But he offered me a smoke of hash cigarette (they don't smoke the maryjane here). It was like usual, a missionary fuck (which I had commented earlier bored me - when he asked what I didn't like or liked in men). He twisted my nipples and filled me like Andy could, god praise southern cock and northern cock! Then I passed out. The smoke gets me all the time now.
"I wanted a scooter when I was a kid," he said. "But my mother said it was too dangerous. So I asked for a telescope so I could see the moon. So I could see the American flag there. ... I memorized the terrain of the moon," he told me.
I slept off and on while he would get up and change the music, smoke some more. Leonard Cohen - Suzanne. Opera - wistful. I asked him if it was winter time. He said no. I said, I thought you only listened to opera in the winter? He replied, I was mistaken, and changed it. It is the coming down from vacation, I thought. Not that he wishes to love fake-tit girl. Not that he isn't enjoying my dozing off. I don't care. I'm tired. .... His skin, like Neapolitan ice cream, brown and raspberrry mixed. There is a slight less tan where his swim suit bottom would be. His skin, slightly scratchy from repetitive sun. His skin, warm. Like a cookie. His cock, too big for my mouth. My body - not entirely free.
I had not spent the night before and it's not that I regret it now, but I do wonder what I gained or lost. I slept for shit. With intermittant music, getting up and fucking, thirst, sunshine, elevator, snoring. I got up when the sun was starting to peek in and debated - take the sleeping pill or leave. I decided that since I couldn't find my clothes easily without waking him, I'd pop the pill. Finally, I slept a bit.
You know those weird moments where someone wakes up, goes the bathroom, and you, in desperate need of more sleep and something to drink, get up, run to the kitchen, drink a gallon, jump back into bed to pretend not to have woken at all? I think he did that while I was in the bathroom. I heard the wood floor squeaking and water and then quick run back and he was in the same, albeit slightly awoken, state as when I left him for the bathroom.
This kind of bums me out. I try to establish with all my lovers the freedom to do and do as pleased. Don't want to touch me in the morning? What do I care? Want water and to keep sleeping? Do it.
So, we had morning sex instead of sleeping. And he slept on - or wanted to sleep on - and I dressed and left. The morning at 10am on a Sunday is a delight to see for a short while.
I ate a huge bowl of cereal and drifted to sleep reading about crazy Gilles. The cat drifted in and out and I ignored an SMS from Bike Man.
Photos, writing, lazy masturbation, and a decision that I need sun but couldn't leave the apartment today and need to see the sun tomorrow made me decide to call in sick tomorrow. (Shut up, DU) So, I lazed around, cooked food when I had to eat. Read when I wanted to lay down. Played with photos. Played with myself. And then wanted more cigarettes. So, I ran down to the plaza cafe, where they have a machine. Ha. Of course. Economist in jeans, white shirt, flip-flops, sitting at a table with a brunette and a chiller for champagne or white wine or something. Out of the corner of my eye. I'm not a stalker. I get my smokes and leave, looking for a second as he is up and arranging the table for something.
I get home and go back to work, thinking a bit about him, and get "...placer de pasar esa noche 'missionaire' contigo..." Pleasure to pass this night "missionary" with you. Ha ha and ha. He's a very good playboy, or a very deceptive man or a nice guy. I'm not so sure about these things. I follow my gut through most of my life and my gut tells me that there is something very out-of-place with him. Nothing hangs on the walls. Nothing occupies much space in the bathroom - no bathroom mirror hiding spots. Glasses in the kitchen are different. But I've seen the closet and the depressingly similar work suits. And the strange porn.
It reminds me of the rich old man who tried to seduce me in his "bachelor pad," although that featured photos of his family and more lived-in look.
I do want to believe the scenery isn't changing between visits. That
that everything
but then.. KEXP plays Nick Drake's "Pink Moon" after I had sent him the album, thinking he'd like it considering his wistful smoke to Leonard Cohen. And, considering, I haven't heard that song in forever.
I do want to believe.
Because after his SMS I sent, "Placer de verte - you look good in white tonight." (Pleasure to see you ...) and he replied, "..Ole..."
We want what we cannot have.
While Bike Man hoped to see me before his week-long bike around the lake - he told me he was hungover, too, when I replied that I was too hungover and needed sleep. And he ended the SMS that he missed me, bitch. And I knew he had bought a new riding crop. And I know my tits and body are sensitive - too sensitive to be beaten, and too distracted to see him.
The playboy distracts me.
We want what we cannot have. What seems to be out of reach. What seems good and we want to return. What was good and ends up not being the same.
A lesson to remember when I return to Cinque Terre. I
I am not trying to recreate a feeling. I am not trying to have what I had before. I am trying to see if things mean the same again. I am trying to find myself. My heart. My heat. My place. My space in this world.
He collapsed on top of me after fucking. His cock almost hurts my cervix, it reminds me of Andy. Bracing himself with a bit of his left arm. A cookie burnt red arm. I found myself unable to lay there motionless, and raised my hands to his back to caress it, his arms, his back, his shoulders, the valley of his spine, the sweat spot above his ass, his round ass, his formed ass, his tanned ass, his thighs, his arms, his neck. I behaved like my men have with me and opened an eye to look at him laying beside me. His tanned, bronze face like every 1950's movie star. Fake sleep, real sleep. The intrigue is the insecurity. What makes this man even consider spending time with me? There are so many others. His lips. His nose.
we want what we cannot have - ever.
Showing posts with label balls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label balls. Show all posts
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Monday, October 8, 2007
finalmente
It sounds like "fee-nahl-mohnt" and it means exactly what it looks like.
Well.. well.. well... heh wink wink nod nod the Lola-caper strikes again! I remember Andy saying that he was jealous of the guy walking around Paris, oblivious to what I'd do to him, oblivious to what was coming.
Well, I was supposed to meet Julien on Friday night and we were supposed to go to a punk rock indie lesbian show at La Fleche D'Or (thanks to Wilfried for the link on the show, thanks to some random Parisians on the Siene at sunset who gave me the first hint to the place). But I had the opening welcome with cocktails for my program at 5:30pm and then we carried the party out. We went over to the student director's apartment - this flaming Indian guy who laughs like silver and stinks like earth, who has the best edgy, crazy, border-break-down-insanity personality. So, I made a big deal (to myself and Julien) to call him and apologize for ditching last minute but this was a unique opportunity. Well, I thought it was. It was the first party time that 1st and 2nd year MPA students would hang out. 2nd years are like oysters, they have rich information about 1st year (if they went here and aren't dual-degreers from Columbia NYC or London LSE or other places) and they're delicate to pry open. So a bunch of semi-toasted 1st years hopped the metro - with our school books, bookbags, and boring cocktail attire - and headed over to the party. We bought crap wine on the way over (it's ironic, but there is crap wine in Paris - the 4E slightly bitter wine from cornershop groceries .. which I hear are called "Le Arab" because they're almost all run by Arab folks. This doesn't mean only Arabs have crap wine, mind you. It's just what I heard the cornershops are called.)
Mingle mingle with the students and then Colombian Ana shows up with 2 of her Egyptian friends. You see, there is literally an Indian CEO of software company in my class, Korean journalist, member of the Ministry of Finance of Japan, etc... Colombian Ana was a marketing specialist of some kind who travelled all over and made friends all over. So, Egyptian guy is an illustrator/comic book guy and he's hot. We make conversation in the kitchen and I get swept away with the Egyptians, Ana, and a couple of other colleagues. I ditch my bags at Gay Indian's apartment and only leave with my wallet. Egyptian boy starts chatting up Iranian girl (who is in a steady relationship) and gives up on me. Whatever.
We end up at some tiny, smoky dance club in the 5th neighborhhood. We get in and go upstairs for our bigger group. The waiter/server is only wearing tighty whiteys and some kind of gripping surfer shoes. He gives us menus, comes back and goes around the table one-handed unsnapping each girl's bra. He then climbs over the table, over to me, pulls the straps of my bra out of my sleeves, down my biceps and over my arms and then crawls up on my chair and pulls the bra out of the of top of my shirt. I guess there are photos - which will for sure be here when available.
The kids go downstairs and dance it up. I'm feeling overly tired and decide to head home. Only, I left all my things back at Gay Indian's, including my map. I have no idea where I am and it's 2:30am so the metro has stopped running. I have no idea how far I am from home so I don't want to hail a cab. I start walking. Guessing a direction and heading in it. I'm tired, a bit depressed, a bit drunk, a bit lonely. I stop at the bus stops and try to ask people if the Noctillen (night bus) runs this way to my neighborhood. No one seems to know. So, I keep walking, realizing luckily I'm on a street that I know.
Ok, so it was only 2 miles or so, but I was starting to feel the cold, tired, desperate, lonely side of Paris. All the cabs - even when I realized it wouldn't be that far or that expensive - were full. Not a single one empty. It is not like NYC at all where you can walk a foot and hail one. So I kept trudging along. I was about to cry. I tried to call people. I didn't want to have walk the whole way. Whine whine.
Anyway. Here's my walk. I stopped after befriending some fashion model boy from Faith who explained that it was Fashion Week in Paris so, of course, there'd be no taxis. But if I waited in this line for 5 minutes (ahem, 30) then I'd get a cab. When I got one I invited him in thinking that I could do him a favor to get him closer to his destination -- no, not that I'd get in his pants. I'm sure he was gay.
So, relief. At like 4am.
Saturday day I walked around in lovely strength. You know, challenges just make us stronger. Friday night I was alone and tired, cold and weary, all I wanted was to get home and had to walk this long, strange, dark way home - feeling rejected by every cab and more alone in this huge city. But I remembered to befriend myself and was able to turn a dragon into a princess. (Thanks to Andy for the reminder.) So Saturday was full of sun and made for living contentedly. I went down by the Hotel de Ville where they were showing the rugby game on big screen (just like this, but less people and more sunlight).,
Saturday night Julien and I met up and had a beer. He invited me to go to a friend of a friend's birthday party and then do the Nuit Blanche tour. I'm starting to understand more about this boy. The birthday party was of this lovely Iranian goth chick in her boyfriend's place. Only about 10 people were there so it was nicely intimate but I did not have the best time of my life. I'm really not into goth so much. Hell, I'm not into dressing up so much which seems to be the way that Europeans celebrate their subculture. I'm not saying it's bad - I mean liked to dress up a bit for Halloween or for a bdsm event but even that dressing up was minimal and really only consisted of throwing on a corset, a stripper latex skirt, fishnets, high heels. I barely wear make-up and I'm not hiding a closet of kink anywhere. It's just a different culture so I keep thinking how I need to go out and buy outfits and get some crazy make-up so I can make the most of the bdsm events -- which are more called s&m or fetish events. I'm learning a lot.
Anyway, after all our SMSing (not texting here), and all the playing hard to get, Julien came up and we talked shyly until we finally got to the futon.
I realize I really don't miss bdsm so much when my basic needs of sex aren't met. It's only after I can be fulfilled in the most basic, boring way do I note the craving for kink. Submissiveness and bottoming is always in my soul and I know it's yearning and starving and craving, sadly unfulfilled. But so is my lil devil cunnie, trapped inside dying and hungry for touches. And, usually the latter wins out as the more important necessity. So, I crawled on top of him and undressed him and gently bit his nipples (sigh - total wuss, too, I mean I wasn't even biting it was like pressure not even a nibble). I haven't given head to an uncircumsized cock in a while so that was an interesting twist under the influences of drinks and excitement. I put the condom on. I sat on top and took my own slow pace to break my 1-1/2 month virginity as he said, "Gho slohwleee Looolaaaa.. gho sloh."
It wasn't fulfilling in the least, but it was a Big Mac with no meat and a side of fries when my sugar level drops and I go slumming. Ok, ok, it wasn't that bad either. He was very nice and it was kind of sexy. I was just .. I guess so built up with desire and he'd played hard to get so I was expecting a bigger cock (I've been spoiled) and more interaction. Instead, after we came, I curled up and tried to explain how I was more like a man than a woman in that I could totally go to sleep - while he stared longingly at me.
[insert throwing up sounds]
Sunday I meant to go do the walk against breast cancer, but that just wasn't going to happen this year. Cheers to Wilfried and Sarah who did I'm sure. Instead I lazed and did laundry and read 100 pages of homework on the balcony while I peeled off more and more layers during the nice sunny day [finally in my bikini top and boy shorts].
A week or so ago the neighbor across the hall, Eric, was hanging out the window into the courtyard chatting to a guy across the way. Eric gave me his wifi password at that point and I met the Scottish neighbor. A few days ago when my landlord came to take me to Castorama (essentially a Home Depot, but picture it in an old building, expanding into the basement to seem huge) to buy bar stools for the kitchen, we ran into the Scottish neighbor. "I'd like to invite you over for a glass of wine," he said to me. A guy about my age, about my height, nice jeans, nice smile, short blond hair and short close-cut beard.
We finally arranged that Sunday at 6pm would work. After all the laundry was left hanging to dry, I headed over to the Scot's - literally my floor (6th) up all the stairs across the courtyard. I wasn't sure what to wear. It was like, hm, maybe he'll pop his girlfriend out or maybe he's gay, maybe it's just a friendly glass of wine, or maybe I can get some tail. So, I went with jeans, a black low-cut tank, and black Converse no socks (Converse are a total fashion item here for some reason).
We chatted nervously for a while until the wine took hold. He's been in Paris for 3 years and remodeled his apartment to put in a -gasp- bathtub (a rareity in these parts) and expand the bathroom and kitchen. He was a software designer in Edinburgh and ditched it to live here after he'd grown up rather transient. He's headed off to the south of France where he bought a barn and is going to convert it into a house. So, we're on a short time which is always refreshing. No commitments, no holds barred.
After our second bottle of wine and lubricious talk of French lovers and independent fucking, he offered to be my neighbor-of-need in case I wanted and then suggested perhaps he should kiss me now. He put his glass down and took mine, leaned in and two lush, full lips slowly peach-kissed me.
Again I found myself rolling over to straddle him on the couch. His hands pulled my tanktop down and lifted my tits free. Back into his bedroom I slipped him out of his pants and inwardly sighed - yes, I have been spoiled by many but at least he was a mouthful! Such a delightful surprise when men are trimmed, too. Smooth balls I put into my mouth and in a wine haze I remember "God, my prick is so hard... Yes, yes, god that feels so good...." and moans. I love vocal lovers. He pulled me up and over and forced me into a 69. I wasn't sure he wanted to be there really - it's my own insecurity. So I lifted up from his cock and stared at the darkness around us. "Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, do you like doing that?" I peeked down between my legs at his chin and lips. "Yes, I want to do this! And later I'm going to eat your ass!"
Pudding heart, taffy knees.
When I crawled off him, he told me to turn around. I got on my hands and knees and asked for a condom. He put it on and grabbed my hips slowly sliding in from behind. Ohmygodyes. The slow pick-me-up rhythm, that slight friction from being lapped up dry, the re-start of sex drool all over his cock, the expanding and contracting as his cock slid in and out, arching my back and looking upward, leaning my face downard into the bed, reaching back and finding my clit, looking back over my shoulder, his hands on my hips, his hands on my ass, his hands on the small of my back, "God you're so fucking sexy... fuck your skin is so soft..." And then the pace picks up. His fingers tighten around my hip bones using me like a handled lovetoy. His smooth balls slapping the tender, sensitive V of my lips, sliding my hand under them. I know I could go on and on like this tonight. Take it from behind and above and backward and over and over again, but I say the magic words, "Fuck I'm going to cum all over your cock!" And I grabbed the bed in my left hand and push the clit button with the right to speed up and get there.
I don't have to ask him if he came like I did to Julien. I can tell he's fucking cumming over and over by the way he gives the last grasps and pulls me hard into him.
We lay down and he doesn't peel off the condom, but we lay and breathe and wish we knew each other last week. It's 1am and I have to get up in 5 hours for my first French class. There are more soft, jello, suction kisses and a walk to the door. It's too bad I've had too much wine to climb over the rooftop so I go back down and back up to my apartment. He waves from across the way.
I accidentally set my alarm to 6:30PM and scramble out of bed when I realize it's 7:20AM and I have to take the bus which takes 25 minutes and I have to make coffee and shower and brush my teeth. I make it 25 minutes late but get to speak French without a hangover and make it all through my day until 5:30pm (with one 15-minute lunch break and one 1/2 hour break).
I'm hoping I get to see the Scot again before he leaves for the south. Aside from the sex, he had some great suggestions of places to go - like Hotel du Nord, rue Cail for curry, metro Barbes for wonderful fruits and veggies, and rue de la Goutte D'Or for food.
Finalmente, indeed. I have popped my Paris cherry and am so much happier and nicer for it.
Well.. well.. well... heh wink wink nod nod the Lola-caper strikes again! I remember Andy saying that he was jealous of the guy walking around Paris, oblivious to what I'd do to him, oblivious to what was coming.
Well, I was supposed to meet Julien on Friday night and we were supposed to go to a punk rock indie lesbian show at La Fleche D'Or (thanks to Wilfried for the link on the show, thanks to some random Parisians on the Siene at sunset who gave me the first hint to the place). But I had the opening welcome with cocktails for my program at 5:30pm and then we carried the party out. We went over to the student director's apartment - this flaming Indian guy who laughs like silver and stinks like earth, who has the best edgy, crazy, border-break-down-insanity personality. So, I made a big deal (to myself and Julien) to call him and apologize for ditching last minute but this was a unique opportunity. Well, I thought it was. It was the first party time that 1st and 2nd year MPA students would hang out. 2nd years are like oysters, they have rich information about 1st year (if they went here and aren't dual-degreers from Columbia NYC or London LSE or other places) and they're delicate to pry open. So a bunch of semi-toasted 1st years hopped the metro - with our school books, bookbags, and boring cocktail attire - and headed over to the party. We bought crap wine on the way over (it's ironic, but there is crap wine in Paris - the 4E slightly bitter wine from cornershop groceries .. which I hear are called "Le Arab" because they're almost all run by Arab folks. This doesn't mean only Arabs have crap wine, mind you. It's just what I heard the cornershops are called.)
Mingle mingle with the students and then Colombian Ana shows up with 2 of her Egyptian friends. You see, there is literally an Indian CEO of software company in my class, Korean journalist, member of the Ministry of Finance of Japan, etc... Colombian Ana was a marketing specialist of some kind who travelled all over and made friends all over. So, Egyptian guy is an illustrator/comic book guy and he's hot. We make conversation in the kitchen and I get swept away with the Egyptians, Ana, and a couple of other colleagues. I ditch my bags at Gay Indian's apartment and only leave with my wallet. Egyptian boy starts chatting up Iranian girl (who is in a steady relationship) and gives up on me. Whatever.
We end up at some tiny, smoky dance club in the 5th neighborhhood. We get in and go upstairs for our bigger group. The waiter/server is only wearing tighty whiteys and some kind of gripping surfer shoes. He gives us menus, comes back and goes around the table one-handed unsnapping each girl's bra. He then climbs over the table, over to me, pulls the straps of my bra out of my sleeves, down my biceps and over my arms and then crawls up on my chair and pulls the bra out of the of top of my shirt. I guess there are photos - which will for sure be here when available.
The kids go downstairs and dance it up. I'm feeling overly tired and decide to head home. Only, I left all my things back at Gay Indian's, including my map. I have no idea where I am and it's 2:30am so the metro has stopped running. I have no idea how far I am from home so I don't want to hail a cab. I start walking. Guessing a direction and heading in it. I'm tired, a bit depressed, a bit drunk, a bit lonely. I stop at the bus stops and try to ask people if the Noctillen (night bus) runs this way to my neighborhood. No one seems to know. So, I keep walking, realizing luckily I'm on a street that I know.
Ok, so it was only 2 miles or so, but I was starting to feel the cold, tired, desperate, lonely side of Paris. All the cabs - even when I realized it wouldn't be that far or that expensive - were full. Not a single one empty. It is not like NYC at all where you can walk a foot and hail one. So I kept trudging along. I was about to cry. I tried to call people. I didn't want to have walk the whole way. Whine whine.
Anyway. Here's my walk. I stopped after befriending some fashion model boy from Faith who explained that it was Fashion Week in Paris so, of course, there'd be no taxis. But if I waited in this line for 5 minutes (ahem, 30) then I'd get a cab. When I got one I invited him in thinking that I could do him a favor to get him closer to his destination -- no, not that I'd get in his pants. I'm sure he was gay.
So, relief. At like 4am.
Saturday day I walked around in lovely strength. You know, challenges just make us stronger. Friday night I was alone and tired, cold and weary, all I wanted was to get home and had to walk this long, strange, dark way home - feeling rejected by every cab and more alone in this huge city. But I remembered to befriend myself and was able to turn a dragon into a princess. (Thanks to Andy for the reminder.) So Saturday was full of sun and made for living contentedly. I went down by the Hotel de Ville where they were showing the rugby game on big screen (just like this, but less people and more sunlight).,
Saturday night Julien and I met up and had a beer. He invited me to go to a friend of a friend's birthday party and then do the Nuit Blanche tour. I'm starting to understand more about this boy. The birthday party was of this lovely Iranian goth chick in her boyfriend's place. Only about 10 people were there so it was nicely intimate but I did not have the best time of my life. I'm really not into goth so much. Hell, I'm not into dressing up so much which seems to be the way that Europeans celebrate their subculture. I'm not saying it's bad - I mean liked to dress up a bit for Halloween or for a bdsm event but even that dressing up was minimal and really only consisted of throwing on a corset, a stripper latex skirt, fishnets, high heels. I barely wear make-up and I'm not hiding a closet of kink anywhere. It's just a different culture so I keep thinking how I need to go out and buy outfits and get some crazy make-up so I can make the most of the bdsm events -- which are more called s&m or fetish events. I'm learning a lot.
Anyway, after all our SMSing (not texting here), and all the playing hard to get, Julien came up and we talked shyly until we finally got to the futon.
I realize I really don't miss bdsm so much when my basic needs of sex aren't met. It's only after I can be fulfilled in the most basic, boring way do I note the craving for kink. Submissiveness and bottoming is always in my soul and I know it's yearning and starving and craving, sadly unfulfilled. But so is my lil devil cunnie, trapped inside dying and hungry for touches. And, usually the latter wins out as the more important necessity. So, I crawled on top of him and undressed him and gently bit his nipples (sigh - total wuss, too, I mean I wasn't even biting it was like pressure not even a nibble). I haven't given head to an uncircumsized cock in a while so that was an interesting twist under the influences of drinks and excitement. I put the condom on. I sat on top and took my own slow pace to break my 1-1/2 month virginity as he said, "Gho slohwleee Looolaaaa.. gho sloh."
It wasn't fulfilling in the least, but it was a Big Mac with no meat and a side of fries when my sugar level drops and I go slumming. Ok, ok, it wasn't that bad either. He was very nice and it was kind of sexy. I was just .. I guess so built up with desire and he'd played hard to get so I was expecting a bigger cock (I've been spoiled) and more interaction. Instead, after we came, I curled up and tried to explain how I was more like a man than a woman in that I could totally go to sleep - while he stared longingly at me.
[insert throwing up sounds]
Sunday I meant to go do the walk against breast cancer, but that just wasn't going to happen this year. Cheers to Wilfried and Sarah who did I'm sure. Instead I lazed and did laundry and read 100 pages of homework on the balcony while I peeled off more and more layers during the nice sunny day [finally in my bikini top and boy shorts].
A week or so ago the neighbor across the hall, Eric, was hanging out the window into the courtyard chatting to a guy across the way. Eric gave me his wifi password at that point and I met the Scottish neighbor. A few days ago when my landlord came to take me to Castorama (essentially a Home Depot, but picture it in an old building, expanding into the basement to seem huge) to buy bar stools for the kitchen, we ran into the Scottish neighbor. "I'd like to invite you over for a glass of wine," he said to me. A guy about my age, about my height, nice jeans, nice smile, short blond hair and short close-cut beard.
We finally arranged that Sunday at 6pm would work. After all the laundry was left hanging to dry, I headed over to the Scot's - literally my floor (6th) up all the stairs across the courtyard. I wasn't sure what to wear. It was like, hm, maybe he'll pop his girlfriend out or maybe he's gay, maybe it's just a friendly glass of wine, or maybe I can get some tail. So, I went with jeans, a black low-cut tank, and black Converse no socks (Converse are a total fashion item here for some reason).
We chatted nervously for a while until the wine took hold. He's been in Paris for 3 years and remodeled his apartment to put in a -gasp- bathtub (a rareity in these parts) and expand the bathroom and kitchen. He was a software designer in Edinburgh and ditched it to live here after he'd grown up rather transient. He's headed off to the south of France where he bought a barn and is going to convert it into a house. So, we're on a short time which is always refreshing. No commitments, no holds barred.
After our second bottle of wine and lubricious talk of French lovers and independent fucking, he offered to be my neighbor-of-need in case I wanted and then suggested perhaps he should kiss me now. He put his glass down and took mine, leaned in and two lush, full lips slowly peach-kissed me.
Again I found myself rolling over to straddle him on the couch. His hands pulled my tanktop down and lifted my tits free. Back into his bedroom I slipped him out of his pants and inwardly sighed - yes, I have been spoiled by many but at least he was a mouthful! Such a delightful surprise when men are trimmed, too. Smooth balls I put into my mouth and in a wine haze I remember "God, my prick is so hard... Yes, yes, god that feels so good...." and moans. I love vocal lovers. He pulled me up and over and forced me into a 69. I wasn't sure he wanted to be there really - it's my own insecurity. So I lifted up from his cock and stared at the darkness around us. "Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, do you like doing that?" I peeked down between my legs at his chin and lips. "Yes, I want to do this! And later I'm going to eat your ass!"
Pudding heart, taffy knees.
When I crawled off him, he told me to turn around. I got on my hands and knees and asked for a condom. He put it on and grabbed my hips slowly sliding in from behind. Ohmygodyes. The slow pick-me-up rhythm, that slight friction from being lapped up dry, the re-start of sex drool all over his cock, the expanding and contracting as his cock slid in and out, arching my back and looking upward, leaning my face downard into the bed, reaching back and finding my clit, looking back over my shoulder, his hands on my hips, his hands on my ass, his hands on the small of my back, "God you're so fucking sexy... fuck your skin is so soft..." And then the pace picks up. His fingers tighten around my hip bones using me like a handled lovetoy. His smooth balls slapping the tender, sensitive V of my lips, sliding my hand under them. I know I could go on and on like this tonight. Take it from behind and above and backward and over and over again, but I say the magic words, "Fuck I'm going to cum all over your cock!" And I grabbed the bed in my left hand and push the clit button with the right to speed up and get there.
I don't have to ask him if he came like I did to Julien. I can tell he's fucking cumming over and over by the way he gives the last grasps and pulls me hard into him.
We lay down and he doesn't peel off the condom, but we lay and breathe and wish we knew each other last week. It's 1am and I have to get up in 5 hours for my first French class. There are more soft, jello, suction kisses and a walk to the door. It's too bad I've had too much wine to climb over the rooftop so I go back down and back up to my apartment. He waves from across the way.
I accidentally set my alarm to 6:30PM and scramble out of bed when I realize it's 7:20AM and I have to take the bus which takes 25 minutes and I have to make coffee and shower and brush my teeth. I make it 25 minutes late but get to speak French without a hangover and make it all through my day until 5:30pm (with one 15-minute lunch break and one 1/2 hour break).
I'm hoping I get to see the Scot again before he leaves for the south. Aside from the sex, he had some great suggestions of places to go - like Hotel du Nord, rue Cail for curry, metro Barbes for wonderful fruits and veggies, and rue de la Goutte D'Or for food.
Finalmente, indeed. I have popped my Paris cherry and am so much happier and nicer for it.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Forced (Sex) Change
[Earlier in the broadcast.]
I hate morons today. Humanz are such morons. Maybe I'm completely anal retentive and think I'm better than everyone else. But it's true. I... am .... not.... a ..... moron. Really. I'm not. I'm too self-conscious to be one. I would never say "um" 50 times in a 5 minute speach. I would never write a strident letter to the CEOs of 5 corporations claiming I supported something that was actually incorrect science. I would never not BCC an email to my secret friend's email address and her parents. Because I'm not a moron.
But there are those among us.
I'd like to see the apocolypse of zombies versus morons. I'd like to see their heads fucking ripped off.
[After a cool down.]
I suppose it's all well and good. I was due for a change anyway. I'm no longer seeing James on a boyfriend/girlfriend basis. I helped win an election. I'm going to grad school. I'm getting the fuck out of this dumb town. I'm going to find a city where I can wear sexy clothes to a packed club and be fondled by nasty people. I'm going to find a dirty nasty kinky strong dom. I'm going to work for the United Nations and wear leather panties under my skirts. I'm going places. I'm going to write a book on a beach of south Spain. I'm going to own a flat on the 10th floor of a grey building on the edge of a park in Buenos Aires. I've saved a ton of cash. I'm going to start dating again. I'm going to learn to swallow all of his cock. I'm going to exchange unpleasantries online to anonymous people. I might even get myself arrested sometime. I can see the tiny buds of balls growing below my pussy. I'm going to re-swear allegiance to the devil. I'm going to get my way. I can not care and it's fine.
[Static!]
Fine. It was time for a change anyway. But fuck you, moron, for forcing it upon me. That's not acceptable. I don't care if it was an accident. I hope you die an unpleasant death by zombie. Fucker.
[Zombies.]
I have a clitoris. It's quite possibly 3-4" long. Deep inside my soul are a pair of steel balls. My pheremones are still "oozing sexuality" but I've come out of this sex change a new woman. If you find yourself into transexuals or translations or transparencies or transnationals or transcontinentals, please drop me a line and ask me on a date.
I hate morons today. Humanz are such morons. Maybe I'm completely anal retentive and think I'm better than everyone else. But it's true. I... am .... not.... a ..... moron. Really. I'm not. I'm too self-conscious to be one. I would never say "um" 50 times in a 5 minute speach. I would never write a strident letter to the CEOs of 5 corporations claiming I supported something that was actually incorrect science. I would never not BCC an email to my secret friend's email address and her parents. Because I'm not a moron.
But there are those among us.I'd like to see the apocolypse of zombies versus morons. I'd like to see their heads fucking ripped off.
[After a cool down.]
I suppose it's all well and good. I was due for a change anyway. I'm no longer seeing James on a boyfriend/girlfriend basis. I helped win an election. I'm going to grad school. I'm getting the fuck out of this dumb town. I'm going to find a city where I can wear sexy clothes to a packed club and be fondled by nasty people. I'm going to find a dirty nasty kinky strong dom. I'm going to work for the United Nations and wear leather panties under my skirts. I'm going places. I'm going to write a book on a beach of south Spain. I'm going to own a flat on the 10th floor of a grey building on the edge of a park in Buenos Aires. I've saved a ton of cash. I'm going to start dating again. I'm going to learn to swallow all of his cock. I'm going to exchange unpleasantries online to anonymous people. I might even get myself arrested sometime. I can see the tiny buds of balls growing below my pussy. I'm going to re-swear allegiance to the devil. I'm going to get my way. I can not care and it's fine.
[Static!]
Fine. It was time for a change anyway. But fuck you, moron, for forcing it upon me. That's not acceptable. I don't care if it was an accident. I hope you die an unpleasant death by zombie. Fucker.
[Zombies.]
I have a clitoris. It's quite possibly 3-4" long. Deep inside my soul are a pair of steel balls. My pheremones are still "oozing sexuality" but I've come out of this sex change a new woman. If you find yourself into transexuals or translations or transparencies or transnationals or transcontinentals, please drop me a line and ask me on a date.
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