the game of text tennis

He's 50. I don't remember what conversation points couched that number, but I do remember that he kind of paused and looked at me, just like he paused and looked at me when he said he was married but that it was a long story. I don't really care. It's fun to flirt and I'm not really aiming for this to go anywhere, actually I secretly prefer it doesn't because I'd like to see if I can make friends with men and not have to sleep with them. Not many hetero men I can count that fit in that category, but I'm metamorphisizing in AA. Some men have girlfriends in the programs, fiancees, or are plain ol' single - and I'm learning not to flirt with them, to actually accept them as friends - not conversation partners with cocks.

Doesn't mean I don't like flirting with The Lawyer.

He's at the beach right now - ooh la la. And we exchanged banter about feminism yesterday. And he chided me about how sunny it is where he's at. I'm a masochist.

There are my new girlfriends Mo and T. Mo's at her sponsor's wedding in Michigan. She saw me through the last few weeks of back-and-forth with the Investment Banker. I saw it as sober dating practice, but was lured by his awesome amazing apartment on the 4th floor with a bay window tower looking over the city and a rooftop with gazebo and bonzai. Also, the super expensive, fast car in his garage; and the super cool cat; and that he has a military background; and that he related to so much. Alas, he was interested only on his timeline and couldn't fess up that it was more about sex than dating. I felt pretty strong when he wondered if my silence meant I didn't want him to email me anymore and I said yes and wished him good luck.

T sat through my entire 5th Step (confess your sins to your Higher Power and another human being), which was hardest when discussing my resentments toward my dad, my kissing cousins stories, and my petty grievances over my mother (she doesn't wipe her mouth when she eats -- how shallow am I?!). And she hasn't changed her love for me since those humiliating descriptions (we'll love you til you love yourself, AA says). We've also been pinging back and forth during her trip to NYC and my week-long flu.

There's a potential date who's camping in the hills of Tennessee who thought my fever-induced IM chat was endearing.

There's my sponsor who I thought was a lesbian based on so many stereotypical clues. Check-ins over time.

There's my awesome ex, who still talks to me and lunches with me despite going through the hot mess of my last months of my drinking.

And then there are the texts that I don't send, but think about sending sometimes just to say hi and I love you to my dad.

My thanks

Dear Lola,
I just read your blog for the first time in a very long time, and I wanted to give my regards with respect to your father's health. I know this is a very belated, 'out of touch friend' type of email, but I hope everything went okay and that he is doing well, and that you are doing well too. No need to reply if you're busy, just wanted you to know I am here.


&&&&

I almost had a baby with this man. Well, not almost. Well, not even close. But we could have. And it wouldn't have been a bad decision. I mean, considering his wonderful personality. I'm so happy he has his own family now. He really deserves the best of life.

She would have been a red-haired fiery demon. She would have been six years old now, this month.

Thank you

Every year, without fail since I've known him, noman, a dear friend and secret lover of mine sends a birthday gift. I'm sorry, noman, but this year, well, it was a bit of a distance enjoyment.

So, after this email exchange with my mum, my dad dropped an email that if I'm still online, could they Skype with me for my birthday? I said sure and got on Skype. Went to call them, and, ironically, dialed Mr FD instead. (We had chatted for an hour and half before hand.) We laughed and laughed and I apologized - total Freudian slip to call my Daddy when I meant to call my dad. So funny!

Then, dad and mom called. The screen was all weird and pixely with funky rainbow colors. I could hear them but could not see them. Must be the laptop. Hit it a few times while they kept saying, "Hello? Hello? Hello?" Then, I hung up the call and called back. Same screen visual and they told me to just wait a second. All of a sudden, they came into view behind a piece of paper and sang the complete version of Happy Birthday to You. I laughed. I cried. It was so sweet and silly of them (unlike them actually). I laughed so hard.

Then, they showed me the package from Amazon. It was big. They said it felt heavy. Having looked over at my kinky Lola Amazon wishlist page, seeing that my address for the wishlist was France, I figured that anything in the box must be from the other safe Lola family-friendly wishlist. I asked my mum if she'd gotten my last email, that I wasn't doing anything shady or .. she finished my sentence "harmful to children or pets." Ok, so, well, there you go, dad, now you know I'm bisexual. Hahahah I was laughing. He said I was getting too silly (his way of dealing with uncomfortable levels of open expression, I guess).

So, they opened it. I asked who it was from. They said noman. Ohhh, noman! Such a good friend that I know from Madison. What a sweet friend to send a gift for my birthday!! Mum held up the first book, Revolutionary Road, and then the second book,



















Oh, I started to laugh and laugh.

Dad picked up the card again and I said I wasn't sure if he should read it out loud - did he want to read it? I was laughing. He was smiling but being serious and "Sure. It's nice. Here, listen." He read it.

First, my birth name is not Lola. Indeed, it's something different. Dad read this. "Dear Lola - is Lola you?" I was still laughing. "Yes." "Because if it's not you, maybe these gifts go to someone else?" He was smiling.

noman had recently read Revolutionary Road and thought I'd like it. noman had read some of my writing lately and thought I might like the Secret Identity book, as well.

What a sweet friend, I sighed.

My parents quickly changed the subject after the gift opening and we moved to talk about lawn de-thatching, birthday day tomorrow, and laughed again about their surprise birthday song to me. Pretty gutsy and cool for Midwestern folk. And, so damn sweet and nice and thoughtful of noman. He's meant a lot to me over time but I never thought we'd still be friends for this long. Thank you, noman. No worries on the how it happened. It ... just so happens. And it's probably a destiny waiting to happen, actually, that my parents get eased into Lola and my lifestyle. After all, I do aim to write a book or three on the matter and would rather a toe-inching-into-the-pool than a grand dame of heart attacks.

Thank you again, noman. Really. They'll be shipping the books tomorrow so I get them before end of month. I'm so looking forward to seeing them on my shelf and reading them.

You gave me a belly ache of laughter and some tears of joy. What a great way to start a new year of life!

So much love to you.

xoxoxo

Lola
with a Secret Identity

Back from Croatia

I had a great time, but am down for the count with a horrible cold/flu/sinus thing. I'm leaning to it just being a cold, but feel like a train is running over me again and again. I guess it's time though, haven't been sick in a long, long time.

I started writing a post about little girl lolita while in Croatia but haven't finished and am too tired to write much right now.

Went out one night to a dance club with some locals. Walked around quite a bit and agree with the Lonely Planet that one only needs about 2-3 days in Zagreb to see all the sights. Had success in school work with my team there. Ended up totally drunk one night and let the Filmmaker have his way on me. It was okay. Mostly I was too drunk to know what was going on. I was singing all the Devotchka albums, drinking wine, and then all of a sudden he was next to me leaning over to kiss me. The other team mate sharing the apartment reminded me the next day that we actually were loud for a long time, which reminded me that he'd fingered me for quite some time before having sex. It wasn't sad sex, which Mr FD was hoping I'd stop having. It wasn't oh-so-much-fun. It just was. I did feel a bit strange telling Mr FD about it. Not that I had to, but I'm not good at secrets from people I care about and if it came out later it would feel to me as if I was hiding something. He was happy I had fun and not strange about it (as I could tell).

But I did/do feel a bit odd. On the one hand, Mr FD was entertaining a play date over the weekend and neither of us is interested in monogamy. I still want this freedom to see other people and have fun, but I also felt like it was some minor kind of betrayal. Like, I'm really into Mr FD and the Filmmaker was only so-so. I have my focus kind of on Mr FD but want to keep my options open. I don't know. ... I've always told every lover that I'm not monogamous, but even when I told James this I ended up accidentally monogamous with him for 2 years and it was he who had dates toward the end. So, I guess I've never really been in a polyamorous or non-monogamous actuality. While in Zagreb, I spent a lot of time with the team mate who suffered the sex sounds. We spent a lot of our in-between work time at cafes drinking wine in the sun and talking about sex and relationships. I told her all about bdsm, Mr FD, and his playdate. Over time, I felt much more comfortable explaining bdsm (my 2nd conversation recently about it with people who had no prior knowledge), comparing her return from Seattle with bruises from sex spanking to my return from Switzerland with bruises from spanking and whipping and the like, comparing the marathon she'd run to masochistic activities of endurance that I went through (the "what the fuck am I doing?" to the "I'll never do this again" to "Oh my god, this is so awesome" to the aftercare we both got: poncho to blanket, food and water, hugs from loved ones, pride, tears, and the great high), etc. And talking about Mr FD's playdate made it easier for me to think about and easier to actually believe the things I thought about the whole deal. He has skills that should be shared with other hungry subs. From what I know of her, she seems like a good person for him. Polyamory doesn't have to necessarily mean that people have primaries and secondaries and so on, but that each person has a place in another's heart. That my insecure mind, trying to compare myself to her (what little I know of her) is just silly, because if you lined up my lovers next to each other I could tell you that each one brings something different out of me and gives me something different. So, while I'm sure my team mate learned quite a lot - I probably was the one who gained even more from the conversations.

That said, when Mr FD and I started emailing again in regularity yesterday and Skyped today, I still felt removed. Granted, I've got a fever brain and I am not in the best of form. And, remembering that it's been a week of an email per day if that -- from regular exchange and frequent Skype. Still, there was a moment when I thought that I should cool down a bit of the other fever I've got for him, be careful a bit more of my heart and take a bit more time to fall into him. ... It's much more of the rational adult in me talking, but it's something I'm feeling. I hate the idea of it, but it might be worth contemplating. .... Or, maybe it's just temporary fears, which will all vanish in three days when I'm back at "homestay" again.

Who knows. And since I'm not thinking all too clearly, it's time to put fever girl to bed.

Fuck chess

I've been trapped in a catch-22 checkmate leapfrog wrestle-crush. Out of nowhere and completely visible. I let this happen and I am the only one to blame.

All I can fool myself into beleiving is that he is at home thinking the same things, saying he shouldn't call, we shouldn't hang out, distance is best. Otherwise, I am the fool. The smell of this clothes, the flip flops crushing bees, the way he looks just like a 10-year-old boy in certain light, the way I started to see other sides of him, the way he opened up my ass slowly over candlelight.

I am fucked.

Fucked.

Fucked.

Fucking how this happened.... fuck.

And then, it is only logical and reasonable and the next best move to be retreat. Protection and calm and far from assault or risk. All my balls landed in his court. Although I played it cooly, I still gave more than he did. I risked greater distances across the board. In my honor, I did verbalize my recognition that in no way was he manipulating me since I was compliant and interested in all the activities. Granted, in my admission, I wonder if I wasn't completely transparent.

I can only hope he's not fucking "Catwoman" or maybe I hope he is.

God, I need the vacation in Cinque Terre. I do. I do. Get back to myself. Get free again. Be quiet and solitary with a good friend. Drink wine and eat pesto. I need to get out of here.

Fuck.

I hate this part of the beautiful living.


.......

Addition:

It's not love. It's some crazy lust.

I know this because I have no fashion on making him a life partner or fostering children from Africa or my own belly with him. I could never see a life where we lived in the same apartment or visited every weekend. There's just not enough substance between us.

It's just that he's so damn nice on the eyes. And somewhat aloof. And can give a crazy ass hard spanking. And is free in that kind of rich-guy freedom, where he can go to work with slicked back hair, a suit, a tie, and use a shoe-horn to get into his expensive shoes. Then, take the hour lunch on the beach, swim for 20 minutes, lay on the sand, have girls laugh because he thinks his balls might be hanging out since the suit is torn, go back to work, catch the train, be back by 4:30pm to ride out to bees. In a painter's suit. And flip-flops. And Captain America motorcycle helmut. And a gay scarf. And then, to kill bees with his bare hand, make honey, steal stealthily from bees, organize things in an OCD fashion like stacking bee houses, tell me to be calm when I freak out, and then grab a beer on the terrace afterwards, get Thai food, eat, and use the same manipulation tactics to touch my cunt, finger my ass, fuck me silly.

These are ... a few of my favorite things.

Power, money, freedom. Who wouldn't fall for that?

So, to have it and then to not have it is a jolt.

My god he's so beautiful. And simple. He thinks I'm a spy for all the photos I take of everything. I think he's an impostor for how simply he lives.

Why have I fallen so fast and hard?

Tales

Cheating Death Once Again: Tales of Modern Romance

No, I'm not all that romantic am I?

CDOA: Tales of a Third Generation Anais Nin

No, I'm not that egotistical to think I could even be close to her. (And, frankly, noman, I had to put her diary down for a while. Man, did she whine quite a bit about her lovers and circumstances with them... God, do I do that?)

CDOA: Tales of Modern Lust

Perhaps. But I am more than this.

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

The beginning. A very good place to start, so said the nanny. Let me count the ways. Let me be free.

Each orgasm is never like the last and none are like when I do it myself. Now, it's straight to Literotica chat to talk about naughty age play. I am not a roleplayer now. I am a dreamer - a what if we could, a what if I pretended I would, a place as they all are for us to fantasize (the magic word that lets - let's - us all say the things we'd never enact). And while the boring introductions roll through to me (Hi, I'm 47/m/UK - or - you are late from school and i must punish you as your step-father - or - you catch me sniffing your panties.... after all Lola states no limits and asks for pervy men), I open the other window to You Porn and scroll through the new ones or search for the fantasies: older men, creampie, anal, glory hole.

And I turn the egg vibe up slowly and push my clit out like a cock. (When did the male rooster become the object of my desire?) I can feel what (and with) men do. The rising up the scale of arousal, concentrated like a pulsing red target between my thighs. And there are those moments when I can catch it and slow down the vibe to make it last longer - an hour if I like. Or, days when it escapes me and I'm only mid-way through the most depraved "Best ANAL compilation yet.... ASS BUTT..." ["stick that ass up - there it is baby - it's in my ass - your cock is in my ass" and "mmm I like that... bitch, you like that? where you goin'? where you goin'? put that fucking leg down - put those knees on the floor!" and the grand finale with the pretty chick freaking out with a cum on her face "get back here, suck it out, don't open your fucking eyes, just suck my dick.. say good-bye plastic man... good bye plastic man.") And I just can't hold back. It's pulsing and contracting, its pulsing and contracting and then to shut off the vibration because it's too much then.

I am thinking of the nice slowness of the butcher and how he entered my raised ass with his fingers and hands and then his cock, only to sag at seeing blood, thinking I was in pain when I was only in excitement. The first ass fuck in so long, too long. I am picturing when I'm on my back and wanting to be on my knees and why he thinks he's taking me when I feel myself bouncing back on to him. I am thinking of the fuck we tried to have on the side of the road in rural France, when my knee started to sting and I looked down to see tens of too many red ants swarming our knees and how he suddenly felt the sting and we ran back to the car with burning all throughout our bodies. I was prepared to ignore it and bend over into the car to finish when a very old, wrinkly man and his dog came around the corner of the abandoned farm house.

I am seeing him on the floor of the cabin when we arrived and me squatting over his face, thinking back to the squat over the roadside toilet and pushing but not pushing to let the piss come out and down to his pursed lips and then sucked into his mouth. I cannot replicate this. It feels too wrong for me to give this way. My entire body fights against his request for this. He should be peeing on me. And then along the road with a perfect sunset on a castle miles in front of the car. I am leaning backwards across the passenger seat and over the gear stick, my knees are wide open and he is licking me with the passenger door open. Tourists are coming. I can see the sky the green grass his head the bright daylight.

I am feeling red slaps on my ass and homemade whips on my back - enough to break skin just before bathing suit time in Italy with my sister. I am reading so many SMS from him when I wanted short words.

And then, there is Italy. We drove to Cinque Terre and stayed in a quiet hotel that felt old and empty, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I caught a glimpse of the speedy motorcycle couple. They only travelled with the thick, protective moto suits and light tee-shirts and underwear under neath. She was drying her shirt on the terrace adjacent to us and was wearing the smallest bikini bottoms I'd ever seen - her thong, duh. They'd come to dinner in moto wear since it was the only clothing. An young man with shaved head, looking a bit skinhead and an older woman with dyed black straight hair.

And one day we parked and blocked a Harley guy from entering to register at the hotel. We joked and made eyes. Later that night he and his friend were at the table together and we made more eyes. He must have been in his late 50's and his friend in early 60's. Seeing the older of the two go out for smokes on the terrace from the dining room, I wanted a smoke. My sister acquiesced to my leaving the table for vice. I wanted the younger of the two but he tsk'd tsk'd me on smoking. My sister joined the Harley Younger at the table while Harley Older and I talked on the terrace. Pretty soon more wine came, we laughed the other 4 patrons out of the restaurant (old, unhappy couples), we got kicked out and took a bottle of wine to the Harley Older room. We laughed and talked and smoked and I started cuddling up to Harley Older, and Harley Younger started grabbing my sister's ass, but she felt uncomfortable (I remember drunkenly telling her, "Don't do anything you don't want to do."). Harley Older closed the door behind them and locked it and I know he said, "Ride it. Yes, yes, cum." And I don't think he could last very long, that German Swiss man.

I was defiant in another town in Italy and found a quiet cobblestone road to pee on and then argued with the local Italian men we met about why men can openly pee but women can't. It was the first fight of me and my sister and I stayed out with the men we met (celebrating a married friend) and got walked home by a man boy who couldn't kiss to keep me out from swerving to the hotel room.

In the last city, my sister and I missed our return flight. I thought it was Thursday but it was Wednesday. The extra 100E we paid was for being one more day together and it was great. An enormous storm came in and threatened to flood the already watery town. We laughed and ran together in the rain.

And forseeing nothing here in Geneva, my destiny found itself. I returned to Paris once for the aforementioned fucking in rural France. And after, I decided I needed to buy a bicycle to avoid paying 4-7 chf a day to get to and from work with stops between on the bus. Plus, it's more of a bike town than Madison, but perhaps equal to Amsterdam (from what I've seen). I sent a general message to the other interns and got a secret from one of the Americans. A small indie bike shop, owned by a Scot guy, who makes bikes for you or sells cool ones. Not like the other options of buying from a [insert Wal or Targ like store in the US].

Of course, I had already called out the bike I wanted to the gods: subject: women's bicycle - Negotiable on cost. Used or new. Women's style or men's style frame. Need a decent bicycle to get around town on. Bonus if it is more mountain bike and less racing bike; has a basket or back seat shelf; water bottle carrier; and has been loved. Thanks!

So, when I visited it was genius. I followed Google Maps (what did we do before this?) and found the store with bikes lined up outside. Walked in to find a guy over an upside bike. He looked up and I was hit with cupid desire. One bright blue eye, one black as night eye (not color, but defect). I mentioned the above and we bantered back and forth, flirting as Western cultures do. An excerpt:

"I'd like a bike, not for road cycling or mountain biking but for going about town, something around 140chf, is it possible?" I asked.

He scoffed a little, moved around, turned his back to me to put a tool down, and mumbled that most of the bikes in view right now were going for 260, but he didn't turn down the beginning of our bargaining. "It's possible, I mean what kind of bike do you want? A man's frame? A woman's frame?"

"It doesn't matter so much. A bike that needs a little repair but something I can have soon since I'm only here for 2 months. Nothing too new. Nothing too shiny. A little character would be great. It'd match me. A bike that's been loved."

He turned back around and looked up. "Loved? How am I supposed to know if it's been loved?" He asked me a bit smiling, a bit sarcastic.

"Well, we don't know how the owners treated the bike, but I'm sure you love each one of them as you work on them."

He showed me a couple of bikes that basically need a bit of repair. Depending on the price and time it would take to repair leads us to the final bidding price. Some gorgeous 1950s bodies. One was a possibility but the other needed too much work/time. "Well, I guess you want to see the back then?" he half-asked, half-said. "I don't know. Do I? What's back there?" I mean, how was I supposed to know. I didn't know the place. He went outside, around to the back of the building where there were 3 bikes laying around the walls surrounding the yard - he pointed to each and told its brief story and how much work / too much work. Then, we walked further back through the yard to a storage / garage, he opened the door and the whole thing was filled with bikes: bikes with rusty chains, bodies on twisted tires, bodies with handle bars that needed adjusting, bikes with crooked whatever, rusty this, broken that. But anyone who saw this could tell that he was a master of his trade and wouldn't mess around with quality. He'd do what you paid for and he'd do just enough but he'd do it well.

I didn't spot anything in the garage, turned around to go back to the front of the store, and it clicked. That one. Against the wall. The one that needed some work, but not too much, the one that survived a fire, was a bit blackened, a bit in need of fixing up, but the survivor. That's one hell of a tough bike. It's not ready to give up and it needs some love.

It's a Swiss-made bike, which he said meant it was well-made. It has a woman's frame, bell, light - all that need a bit of work, along with the chain and needing new, second-hand tires. "So, when can I pick her up?" I asked. He offered a week, I offered 10 days (since I wouldn't be in town the next Saturday). This will give more time for more attention, I hoped. He grabbed a pad of receipts. "Can I have your number?.. and name." I gave it to him and then asked him, "And, what's your name?" Eddie. "And, can I have your number?" I was just poking a bit of fun. He gave me his business card, "I've prepared for that question." He smirked.

I fell for the bike guy there. I've been back twice. Once for a sticker that is insurance - and he said I'd better come back and what does he do on the weekends or when he's not working, I asked. He sleeps. And would I like to sleep with him? A bit too forward for the second. But I went back for an alignment and a seat adjustment and I got grease on my leg and he pointed it out. I said it didn't matter. He got down on a knee and wiped it off and pretended to fog my calf with his breath to shine it.

And one night, after biking 50km (to another town with my girl friend from work and biking back), I wanted a whiskey and a smoke so I parked the bike inside the building and went to the nearby plaza. The plaza which dates back to Roman era and heralds back to days of beheadings and hangings (a very detailed article I read told of how the merchants from out of town would arrive to the city gate and find it locked, knowing there was a beheading happening, would wait until the body was thrown over the city walls knowing that they'd be let in at that point; and tales of whores 2 streets over; and then Voltaire and then Calvin - who I was told fucked boys). I got a Red Label straight and was given 2 cigarettes by a nice guy and then closed out some guy who sat at my table - the plaza bar seating is always packed, and with rich people.

And then, one night, after hours of sorting and editing and uploading and titling some photos (I started with 2000+ and I'm only up to Italy in June now). I wanted a smoke and whiskey so I went back to the plaza. Cased the place and found no seats. Was fake SMS sending to appear like I was with friends and then spotted a guy smoking, asked for a cigarette and got 2 (they are so much nicer here than in Paris). Walked away and decided to ask if I could sit at his table. We chatted and I got whiskey and I ended up speaking Spanish with the Spaniard and then going back to his place for more whiskey and ended up fucking him.

I'm not sure about this guy. His story seems to be that he's from here, a dad that's Spanish, a mom that's Swiss. He's forty, owns and lives in a sparse apartment in this part of town (which means wealth) and rents out a furnished apartment in another part of town (which means more wealth). He's an economist by trade and just finished dating some woman who bore his kid. He's a bee keeper and gave me honey in a jar with a label with his name. He's off to Spain this weekend to sail and catch huge calamari with his father. And he can't keep an erection. But he can make up for it with dildos and licking and fingers. And he's got a great collection of classical and flamenco music.

The second time I saw him he invited me for a drink on the plaza and then back to his place. It's becoming a ritual I guess, based on our third date. And then, we talk and drink whiskey on the rocks and he adds coke to his and then later offers me coke - up my nose. I haven't done drugs in a long time, but I took a line and thought, well now we'll see how his cock behaves. And, again, up and down like a rollercoaster. Dependent upon nothing, reacting to no one. Coming and going. The second date, he took his cock and rubbed the head up and down my slit. Over and over again. And, on coke, let me tell you... It feels almost greater than my own private vibe. Pulling my knees apart wider and wider and feeling this sensation of hunger and thrill and sensitivity. The last time I saw him somehow a porn of lesbians ended up on his tele screen. And he tried to fuck my ass but it wasn't happy enough for this. So, he stayed hard and fucked me for longer than I could handle - or what seemed long, when really it wasn't so long at all. We ended up laying down watching a Vigo Mortensen film while he caressed me - all riled up from the coke, each stroke felt like my skin was missing and all I had was nerves feeling his slow hands. And, then, I left. It's good to leave and especially at 12:50am. Enough time to crash before work, enough space to pass out, enough promise that I will get sleep.

And then, back to Paris. The butcher enticed me to cross the border and accompany him to a huge family celebration. It was overwhelming and I said no at first, and then he lobbied me (his words, genius). A sociological study, a tradition of France, an interesting circumstance, a photographic exploration. I had to do it. And then, there were so many people who were impressed by meeting me. And then, he didn't help the situation of my commitment and seriousness fear. He told me how so many people asked if I was "the one" and he told me that the told them no.

But really, it's a French cultural thing - from what I gather. While we Americans are so pragmatic and slightly cold and removed. The French are latin. They say I love you early (the butcher said it after a month of dating once a week, and said "Would you mind if I told you I love you?" I said yes without a beat). They say I love you often. They hold and cuddle and kiss and embrace and make out in public. They swoon and woo and romance. They eat love and hearts and cupid and romance for breakfast, lunch, apertif, and dinner. So, he followed his nature and we agreed to follow and allow our own natures. He'd say out loud what he thought and I'd brush it off. We agreed to act naturally. So, when we went to the full family (cousins from 5 to 80, parents, aunts, uncles, friends), I knew what *I* was doing - removed and observing. And he knew what he was doing.

I left the weekend feeling a genetic repulsion and a need for space. While I want him, I want it in context and within reason. I did feel days of longing for him and did feel moments of love. But they were subsumed with strange pushing away. I had to break away and stay away. When he asked if we'd see each other in 2 weeks I said I had writing and photos to attend to, I had to get to know this new city and get out on bikes. All of a sudden I felt put on a pedestal and too high for comfort. I felt needed and wanted nothing of that.

I also left with an infection - curses, batman! So, I had a week of getting to know the medical system in this city. Again the mixing of holes for poor Lola. She is so sensitive. My body reacts to the slightest disagreement, the slightest imbalance. My feet can't handle the round bars of the ladder to my flatmate's loft bedroom. My skin is burning brown from the sun here. My emotions make the sun follow me from city to city without rain. My cunnie is too precious for combinations. I went to the family planning place in town and they literally only do that - no tests, only words, and only help for pregnant women. They sent me across the street to the hospital maternity ward. They wanted 500 chf (1 chf = 1 USD) deposit for a consultation. The receptionist sent me to some urgent care clinic and a gyno doc. He was awesome. In the business for years and years and years. We spent an hour together. Me detailing my history. Him asking questions and making inappropriate jokes and over-sharing about anonymous patients who thought the suppository was for their mouth. He showed me where to give the pee test (the WC - which they called Winston Churchill room for a while). He let me stand in the lab while the pee test ran and he chatted in French on the phone, almost pulling it off the desk. He invited me into the stirrups and I undressed in front of him and then he described each manouever into me and then invited me to view the slide he'd made under the microscope. He recommended homeopathic remedies. They didn't work. I went back and waited an hour to see him for test results. He called the lab on Friday night and put them on speaker so I could hear. He reluctantly prescribed me antibiotics -- we are so accustomed us Americans. Our alternate bodies in another reality hugged goodbye. I biked on my super bike to the only open pharmacy after 6pm and got drugs that fixed me up. I want to finger paint a drawing of happy sun and beach and grass and send it to him.

And now. Here I am.

Finally. The stories of this moment told.

I have no idea what will happen but I'm on AFF and ALT and planning to replace the Spaniard with the bike shop owner. I'm totally mad for the butcher but have to space myself. I don't love my internship but I'm growing to love the city. I have a great girl friend who is Russian and who intrigues me to no end. I have bicycle freedom to take me through the city and learn me the one-way streets. I miss my Paris and my apartment and my bread shop and hookers. I am not sure why I am here or what I should do. I keep whispering over and over to people that I will (am) write a book here. But I have thousands of photos first. I have no interest in finding a better internship or working too hard, in fact I wanted to quit due to almost complete boredom. But there is a culture of sorts which I like. And a morning bike ride which tests my strategic senses and a bike ride home which gives me air. There's a cat that brought me a gift (ask if you want more info - it's a good story). And ghosts that live in this apartment (suicide makes them linger). And a good flatmate who reads my tarot and allows me to be. Things are too perfect. I wonder when they'll break. Or perhaps, I already know this. As I've said - I won't make it to 40. So, maybe, this is my living the fullest now. Perhaps the crazy dream feeling is a reality and I'm fortunate enough to know and now can't do anything other than feel it. Be it. Be here now.

latest photos and girl love

I posted the humiliating photos from Lola's flash at the Soiree Blanche. It wasn't like it was some professional party, but it probably wasn't completely appropriate for me to flash my tits. You can see this in my friend's look of horror captured at the same time. Then again, I wasn't caught naked with someone not my husband like some others were. These photos have given me pause to wonder if I should just keep the 32-year-old tits inside my bra. Maybe I'm too old, they're too old.

I also posted copies of a polaroid I found pre-move to Paris. I'm twelve years old and posing in an -ahem- provocative way. It's 1 of a series of me and my girl friend. By the fireplace I can tell we lived in Texas at that time. It wouldn't be appropriate for me to post the polaroids of her. I guess we were just playing dress-up for the day but this one came out rather, well, telling.

I'm also about to post some from the other night in Berlin. A few of us students went up there for a conference and stayed for vacation days. We joined our colleague to go to a goth party. He'd attended the Berlin Masters program and then transferred to our Paris Masters and I guess he'd extended the invite to his other colleagues and they never joined him to a goth party. Perhaps we're a bit more adventuresome. I have to admit I hesitated, wondering mostly if I'd / we'd 'fit in' at the scene. I remember becoming extremely fed up with the punk scene in Minneapolis - they were supposed to be punks who accepted and embraced any people of alternative life choices/styles but instead it felt more like a constant judgement of who was more punk. Bleh. The goth party was quite the opposite though - at least, I didn't feel judged in any way. Although I did feel drunk and wild. At one point I chatted briefly with 2 women in the bathroom since English is the universal language of choice - a German woman, a Polish (I think?), and me the American. (In Paris, all would have been forced to use French - a slight difference between the French and German cultures.) So, somehow this lovely German woman asked my colleague/the host about me and somehow she and I ended up making out the rest of the night, which felt like 70 hours but was probably just 3 or so.

It's funny, I had a variety of reactions to this whole hook-up. I was pretty drunk since I chose to drink whiskey on the rocks (always a bad idea, I know I know). But I was also in vacation-wild mode where anything can go. At points I felt like I had to be the masculine half of our duo, and the top half as we both identify as bottoms (this I learned from my colleague who basically translated the whole night for us). At points, when she'd go off to the bathroom or something, I'd half freak out to my other colleagues there that I really wasn't sure what I was doing, etc. The last time I had a girl make-out was probably about 5 years ago during the waiting tables at the Orpheum / pdh relationship / Jen Bunny wildness. Or, maybe it was at the spin-the-bottle portion of bd's party in '03/'04. I didn't really make on chicks while James and I dated.. did I, honey? Pipe in if I'm wrong here.

A part of me thinks I look less feminine since I cut my hair. It's not that I'm afraid of being bisexual or afraid of making on chicks (though you all know I'm totally not into going down - a bit more whiskey that night and I very well might have just for old time's sake), but I am absolutely terrified of losing guy possibilities if they peg me as solely a lesbian. And I certainly don't want my colleagues boxing me into that category and since they don't know me well, I felt I had to clarify a bit in my drunken state. So part of me freaked out. And part of me loved her lips and her hips and her skin-tight dress and biting her bottom lip and pinching her nipples and god, she smelled exactly like my old ex-girlfriend the stripper. [I can't link to this story right now, sorry, but briefly: 1999, last year of college I dated a stripper and her husband, we went to Vegas on a trip, played around with bdsm, he started to want to see me more than I felt was a good idea, she wanted to do more girlie things than I thought were a good idea so we broke it off.]

The cute German and I made out a bit, I got a bit wild on her, she was a bit shocked, we danced, I bought her a drink, I danced with my colleagues, and it was like 4am and we had to leave. She wanted my contact info and I kept pointing to my Berlin colleague that he had it and saying I'd love to go home with her but I had to go. There was just no way I would have been able to go home together, waking up next to her would have blown my mind more than I could handle at that time. I went to get my coat from the coat check and found she had followed me there for one last dramatic kiss. Oh, right, by the way, she was 23 so maybe that explains quite a bit about this whole story. Me, feeling like the old, experienced, dyke chick and her as the young, eager, experimental bi girl. Yeah. I had to go back to the hostel with my colleagues.

Right. So, those photos will be up in a little bit. I thank my Berlin colleague tremendously for even taking photos because, you know, I had beer goggles on and really wasn't sure the next day if she was hot or not. The photos prove it. Quite the night for sure. Quite the night.

A small world

Any of you lovelies on this social networking site?

First person on earth, last to know

It's funny. I feel like I'm the first person on earth to ever move to Paris. So, I'm perusing The Paris Blog which is like a hub for all-blogs-Paris. Down the rabbit hole and I'm discovering that I'm really not the first. Not the first American, probably not the first student, not the first hungry, not the first wide-eyed, not the first trying to figure out why calls to the USA are free, not the first wondering about my living situation, not the first having anxiety attacks.

I kind of want to be the first.

But I know that I will be the first with my own viewpoint which will definitely tell more [or less, depending on my class schedule and load].

....................

I'll have photos soon, but last weekend I went to visit the parents and went up to Minneapolis. I swung by the parents so I could meet with the lawyer and finalize my Last Will and Testament along with all the Powers (of Attorney and Health Care). It's weird realizing the end and recognizing it and detailing what I want if I become a vegetable - or people think I'm a vegetable.

Friday I met up with a high school friend B. It was his pre-birthday party and we had dinner at Psycho Suzy's. I met all his professional friends - all doctors and most some kind of crazy (the obsession with marathons and triathlons!). I was designated driver so he could party it up.

I took my underwear off in the car at his request.

He and I have gotten together once in a while over the years. He reminded me of a weekend when Lola was a Drunkard and a bunch of us met in a hotel in Minneapolis. I ended up half-naked in the hallway over some truth or dare. Then there was the parking ramp when I gave him head. Then back at the hotel room after a friend of ours' 30th birthday party when he crawled on top of me and shoved his cock in my mouth.

["The Dead Flag Blues (Intro)" and lyrics

the car's on fire and there's no driver at the wheel
and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides
and a dark wind blows

the government is corrupt
and we're on so many drugs
with the radio on and the curtains drawn...

When we got back to his place we did two shots of Maker's - mood enhancer or relaxant, you be the judge. Over dinner I had nonchalantly told him about SirMax and James, rope and spankings. I was sitting on the stool in his kitchen when he got up and laid a heavy handed smack on my ass.

we're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine
and the machine is bleeding to death...

He came back from his den with a thin make-shift, regular hardware, white rope. He tied my wrists behind my back and looped the rest up through my mouth like a gag.

the sun has fallen down
and the billboards are all leering
and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles...

[It went like this]

"Crawl up the stairs."

I had to do it on my knees alone with no hands to help.

We got upstairs and he put me on the bed, took off my clothes and left my fuck-me-boots on.

"You're not putting up much of a fight."

My mouth free, I warned him, "Are you sure you want me to fight you? Because I will, but I can't be held responsible for how I do it."

I wasn't drunk. I'd nursed 2 Fu Manchus over 5 hours, stopped at The Red Dragon for 2 shots of buttery nipples, and then the 2 Maker's - I'm a Dorothy Parker.

So, I giggled.

You know, that giggle when your dad spanked you once and you were expected to take it seriously. Or, when your drunk mum says you're in deep trouble for missing curfew. Or, when your older sister was so angry she twisted your arm and dug her nail claws in. I laughed in his face of aggression. And, then I kicked.

[Kiss me you're beautiful]

And he flipped me over and sat on my legs. Then he flipped me over and spread my legs wide.

The camera went click click.

I kept kicking and squirming and trying to get free from this tight rope around me and his 6'5" rower/swimmer/runner/basketballer frame.

And then I rested, out of breath, exhausted but not worn out. While he went to his closet and brought back a belt.

He looped the rope through my mouth again - like a drooling pig, like a bit in a pony mouth - flipped my fighting body over and whacked my ass.

I wanted to believe he was a natural. I could fall in love with someone who rejects who they are.

Such goofy big brother drunkenness at midnight, such silly butt moon as we walked under the full moon back to the car, such hesitancy to verbalize demands, such aggression and use.

Use is the word.
Because I know I couldn't
wake up and go running,
read the paper on the porch,
balance checkbooks,
water the new plants in the dry backyard,
smile and chat with the neighbors,
befriend and best friend the blonde OB-GYN who can't stop complaining about being on call when she's making 6 figures.

But I could totally go for more of this. Belt on my ass. Legs spread and click click like he's never seen a pussy or like he's going to cum to this one over and over.

I wished for the lesbian encounter that he's been jacking off to over and over again in his den.

He barely let me lick his cock.
He wanted me begging with my actions.
Raising up on my tied arms, stretching my neck, sticking out my tongue.

As the sweat built up and the endorphins raced, I started to feel drunk.

I wanted to fight and get on top but there was no way that would happen.

I wanted his thick cock inside me.

I had been thinking about this since I sent the proposing email that we hook up - on Tuesday.

Instead, he finger fucked me and teased my mouth with his barely bare touches to his cock.

He rolled me over and close to him.
"I want you to fuck me."
"You want me to fuck you? Where?"
"In my cunt."
"You want me to fuck you?"
"Yes. Do you want to fuck me?"
"No. I want you to suck me."
"Why?"
"Why? ... Because that's what I want to do."

His legs spread and my hands tied behind me, my head bobbing, stretching the rope to let my hands free to touch him and to touch me.

"You whore. You filthy cunt. Yes. Yes. Suck me. Suck me, dirty whore."

He snuggled me at 4am.

I let my fingers fall on his back - tracing and soothing and touching at 8am. "You have an amazing body."

I let myself give him tenderness. Just like I let myself ask him earlier in the afternoon, "How was your day?"

Sometimes Mother Teresa of Love knows better how to treat my lovers than I do - or would.

Sometimes it's appropriate to let her in, to let her take over.

Just as Penny Paris Fate moves into my body and makes me type 'Paris apartments' and 'Stafford Loan' and 'Macbook.'





I hate waiting, but I waited for him to get back from his morning swim in the lake - training for the triathlon. We met up with another couple and their baby daughter and some young 20-something snotty pants swimmer for breakfast. Conversations can be so shallow sometimes. And even more for me when I haven't had coffee. I'm more of an apparent airhead, nodding and smiling, not talking. Brain neurons not connecting.

We hugged good-bye.

I wandered Lake and Lyndale, Lake and Hennepin. On blazing hot sun boiling days this area of the city can seem so run-down and lonely and poor and tired.

[we woke up one morning and fell a little further down -
for sure it's the valley of death]

So I bought shoes.

My feet are like duck's feet - narrow at the heel and wide at the toes. Girlie shoes never fit me well. So I spent way too much money for a pair of these and man, do I love them. I guess the more money, the better fit.

[i open up my wallet
and it's full of blood]

Ms Lucifer called me and I pulled over as I had pulled out of the Calhoun Square parking garage. Ms Lucifer is the Italian from Montreal who lives in NYC but has owned an apartment in Marais for 15 years. The space is 50m2, kitchen, bathroom, great part of town. She's only there a week every 4 months or so. She sells Freixenet brands in NYC. She says the apartment is decked out in Ikea-type furniture. ... Have I died? I want to do a colocation [aka roommate] situation to bring down the costs and to have some tie to the city to drag me out when I'm feeling trapped, freaked, frozen. But I also want to be able to fuck who I want, come and go as I please, cook for myself, masturbate loudly, be on my own schedule. Of course, as you all know me, I'm responsible and kindly - not about to trash her apartment or disturb the neighbors. So, she and I chatted and I'm hoping for this.

In the meantime, I've also gotten a kick-ass, considerate invite to apply for the apartment my new pal Wilfried has advertised with his lady love. Wilfried got connected to me via Alixxx. Thanks to Hex I knew who Alixxx was and thanks to Alixxx for putting 2+2 together. Wilfried and I have had some amazing conversations via email and I can't wait to meet him and his lady.

["Rehab" by Amy and Jay-Z ... just as I was about to hate this fucking song.]

I shoved off from the parking garage in Minneapolis and met up with my sister. I don't like her new boyfriend and there's all this drama with her, her choice of boy, and my father. I'm not going to go into it but suffice it to say she hasn't made the best choice here.

Dinner and drinks over on the Mississippi River and early to bed, falling asleep on the couch while watching Hannibal Rising. Just before that my pregger friend A called. Woman is due on Saturday and yet she's going out to a friend's 40th b'day party - way to show the world that pregnancy is not a disability!

Sunday gal pal A and I had breakfast. She drove, all basketball belly. We had a great time catching up - we went to study abroad in Spain together in '97 and kept in touch when we got back but lost touch when I moved to Madison. Then I drove back home. A sunny as fuck day with mayflies dying on the sidewalk and on the car. Summer air and a sunroof rental.

Tonight my friends pooped out on me and I'm home adding to the new 'Oui Oui Paris' links on the blog. Pretending I'm the first person on earth to go to Paris.

A couple of new photos on flickr, too, from nights with Phillip.

noman

is some man.

If you haven't visited my friend noman over at my secret life you really need to do so. He's such a wonderful writer with such beautiful attention to detail. A sexual encounter can be dirty and grimey or sensual and angelic. I love popping by his blog and finding things like this "There's something about an oiled-up hand job, especially after being rubbed down so expertly everywhere else, that draws something primal out of me - my whole sense of being focused on those few square inches of skin and muscle engorged with blood, sending a feeling through my core and out of my throat as guttural moans."

Joys of a Whore

To be nobody but yourself
in a world which is doing its best
- night and day -
to make you everybody else
means to fight the hardest battle
which any human being can fight;
and never stop fighting.
e. e. cummings

Updates:

*PhD2006 comes to town and fingers me for an hour at the Great Dane bar, alas ends poorly.

--> I had a business dinner and then walked the block over to the bar to meet PhD2006. Never a good sign, and recommended that you never do this boys: He actually emailed me earlier saying he wanted to be in a bar where he could "watch the game." I totally thought he was kidding, but it turns out he wasn't. We didn't go to a more comfy, sexy bar at all but stayed in the not-so-sexy, pool hall bar. Regardless, nothing gets a whore down. Make do with whatcha got, and dump it if it's not enough. Anyway. We chatted a great deal about what he does, what I do, and then he slowly started raising my skirt. I was wearing a knee-length, kinda loose & swishy, nice black skirt. We were sitting facing the bar and he'd requested that I not wear panties. Let me summarize by saying there were multiple fingers up multiple times and that skirt went to the dry cleaners. But I'm a polite and professional woman, so the moans were contained and the eyes didn't roll back into my head. I did get glassy-eyed and dreamy and tingly. And it was very exciting to be doing this in a public place with a guy sitting close to my left and another guy rather close behind PhD's back. It was going all well and good, but he was going to drive the 2 hours back to his home and I had to get off to bed. So he offered me a ride in his car. Oh, lordy. Not that I'm that particular, puhleez. But at a certain age in life, it's a good idea to have some of your life in order - especially if you claim to be a dominant who can and wants to play with young lady submissives. He walked to me his car, told me to close my eyes because it was a mess, tidied up a bit, and actually laid a towel down on the passenger seat for my very nicely dressed ass. I felt like a high schooler. I felt bad for this man. I didn't feel sexy and I felt slightly repulsed. I know, I know. I drove a rickety old car for years and left it cluttered with my crazy life - when I was 22. Totally turned me off. ... I did email him my "concerns" and he emailed back saying he was getting a car loan approved for the first of the year. I emailed that I was eager to meet again. Apparently I got busy in the rest of my life and he sent me a Dear John IM - I'm now not on his IM buddy list anymore. Juvenile.

*Roger Z is a sub, I'm sure of it.

--> Or maybe just in his core he plain' ol' wants to please is all.

*Why can't I get accepted TODAY to a school in some more exotic locale?

--> Cuz that ain't the way the cookie crumbles.

*Frustration and patience. My middle names.

--> They both pay off in overdose in the end.




I was going to write a re-make of the reindeer song [on Dancer, on Prancer, on ...] with the names of my current lovers, but I thought it childish.

So before this week and year are over, here's what's been making me glow like I've been re-born. Vacation really does look good on me....!

Monday, 18th, I had the work dinner and met up with PhD2006. Tuesday and Thursday I chatted with a yummy dirty sick pervy online - well, a couple of them actually. One who lives in NYC and is writing a book, Roger - not the aforementioned one. He indirectly kicked Jim Carroll's ass; he's been spotted by Gawker and hated it; and he's a yummy pervert to chat with. Then, there's Joe who is a college student in Ohio and gets off by writing nasty pervy incest chats for women to get off on. Apparently he only squeezes his cock on a break between typing but gets his thrills off of the woman's participation. Yes, I did ask, "How do you know if the woman's getting off?" It is true though - some people can cover it up well... ho hum I'm so bored, "ooo ooo yes yes!" And others can't express themselves well at all when totally turned on, "o my. yes. yes." And there is a a way to read a chatter. So what if some of the ladies lie to him? I'm just not good at faking it so I go deeper and deeper into horrible fantasies. The youngest boy I've chatted with in a while. Vacation rules.

Wednesday [as you saw below in the garters, fishnets, and lacy slip], Andy generously stopped by in the early evening. I know it's mutual and that I excite him as much as he does me, but I still feel lucky to have him available and interested. This was the first re-introduction of my sexy parts in about a week and a half. The last visit he paid me ended up turning my bumstar into a sad, sad, dim lit pucker. Of course, bumstar was off limits this visit, but the rest of me was eager. I'm still perfecting my ability to take all of his length into my mouth and learning to relax my throat so I don't feel the need to gag immediately. The sex... oh my. We both give and get.

Oh, yeah, I also shopped for xmas presents and got out of the apartment. I've been making sure that I leave at least once a day and work out at least twice a week. You know me, I could hole up for days in here with enough groceries, booze, music, and workable vibrators. I'm such a dirty boy on the inside. Amused with my own buttons.

Friday I got my hairs cut and had dinner with James. We ran into each other at the gym and worked out, then were going to part for a few hours, meet up again for dinner. But we moved dinner up and I texted that I was hoping he'd want to fuck me a bit afterwards. It's good to put my desires out there I've decided. Some people can't read my gestures, some people can't guess, some people aren't mind readers. And I should ask for what I want, dammit. We had sushi and almost rushed back to my place. He wanted to show my his new rope tricks, tossed me into a shower (since dinner was almost 1/2 hour after working out), and started prep. I came out to see something like 8 piles of rope laid out cleanly down the bed, ready for use. My chest was bound first, separating and lifting my tits. My wrists and arms tied together on top of my abdomen next. My lower calves, sitting Indian style were bound together next. For the finale, he tied a sort of noose around my neck which connected directly to the rope around my calves. Helpless, he had to push me onto my back. He had to hold me in position while he fucked my face. He was able to cock slap my cheeks and humiliate me. Helpless, he had to roll me back up to my haunches, turn me, push me back down again and find my cunt. The rope tied at my back started to press deeply into my skin and my cunnie tunnel was shortened by the angle so every cock thrust topped out at my cervix. It wasn't comfortable, but not painful. And, that's how he wanted it. And that's how we both came. Together. Waves and waves of relief and confusion rolled out through me.


This is what I had pictured for the last year. My sex infused with kink in every second. From the humiliation, the bondage, the gagging, the dirty words, the pain in my back, the delicious rope marks afterwards. This is exactly how I wanted it. And I got it.




I did cry a bit as he untied me. PMS? Emotion? Overload? Love? I don't know. But he was great. He held me from behind as he untied me. He caressed me and shhh'd me, calmed me. .... And, like I like it, he left me.

Saturday I was hooked on making phonics. Rented a car - which I thought was styling but my dad later informed me was Buick's attempt at making a not-so-old-lady car. Then, swung by and had a lovely, and slightly nervous visit with Ms. M., one of the current lovers of my ex-lover pdh. [Are you keeping up? Sadly, CDOA v.2 will not be made available for cross-checks or previous references for a bit so just go with it for now. If you're like, who is James? Who is pdh? Hold tight. It will all fall into place over time.... UPDATE: CDOA v.2 is available but not in use.] I dare not say why it was slightly nervous. But she was a doll for giving me a great present to take to my sister for xmas, which made shopping way less painful for me overall. I am so much more into people who give xmas lists over people who generalize, "I like fiction books." Grrrrreat.

After our sit-down, I got lost looking for a stupid store to buy some ingenious gift for my pops since he's the hardest to shop for. Stupid west side of town. I was starving b/c I find I'm wayyy more horny on vacation and wayyy less hungry. So, I did the kiss-of-death stop. The once-in-a-year stop. I drove in the parking lot, up to the drive-thru, paid, and looped back around to scarf back in the parking lot... and I know it was just condemned for the E. Coli, but I had a mad craving for 2 bean burritos & nachos & crazy melted cheese whiz from the Bell. I only got the nachos & 1 burrito down before I almost heaved, but it was soooooo worth the break down. Man, I love that grease.

Really, I was routing around and rooted for food, not only because I was hungry, but also because I was waiting for the XM radio to kick back in. The rental car subscription apparently cut off right after I left Ms. M's apartment. So, I signed back up knowing the rental car folks would reimburse me. XM was pretty fucking cool, too. Although, they had like, singularly focused channels - a hip hop, a hardcore rap, an 80s, a chill, many world music stations featuring mostly French groups, something called "Ethel" and "Lucy" of kinda alt music either from my college days or current. It would have been fucking rocking if they had a compilation or mixed channel though. Incorporate a bit of all of it together to keep me on my toes and diverse.

Family gatherings have fallen into tradition of sorts so I went off to Whole Foods for my 4 special cheeses and crackers. My sister makes the pies now and I'm the cheese girl. Fucking bitch though, doesn't remember that I started the pie making scene. Back when I was so super poor I could only afford to eat rice, tomatoes, and tofu stir-fry for every dinner; oatmeal and raisins for breakfast; and whatever I could scam at the pizza restaurant for lunch. I learned how to make cheap pies then. Made my own dough with flour, sliced up butter, salt, and water. Rolled it out for a bottom and top. Cut up apples and sprinkled in a few slices of butter, some brown and white sugar and a slight drop of salt. No credit where credits due when she makes an apple & cranberry pie, pumpkin pie, mincemeat. I started that, bizotch, and don't you forget it. Next she'll be cutting in on my cheese business.

I stayed up way too late chatting and fiddling my diddle. Sunday, Christmas Eve day, I was planning on leaving at about noon. I got up at 10am and craved one last wank before leaving. Subconsciously - and knowingly - I had no interest in getting to my parents at all. I found my college boy Joe and came sooo hard while my laundry spun and the minutes were passed noon.

"i want him to climb on top of you, your legs still in the stirrups, he places his raging hard cock inside you, your pussy is still just a massive pepsi can sized hole. and he goes balls deep in you, making sure his piss stream goes as deep into your body as possible. you nasty slut, take your doctor's piss"

"you are like the 109th patient he is breeding. he is still using his strong arms to pin your shoulders down. but the mating at his hips, is passionate. you are the best patient, giving him the most pleasure, because you are the first patient he has allowed free of the stirrups. he LOVES how you wrap those thighs around him. he knows his slippery cock is working, because you are panting. you aren't even fighting the rape anymore. but he still knows who is in charge, he still calls you slut. he says, first my piss, now my seed, you're going to be my bitch"

"'Sweetie, it's no good, Daddy can't finish up with your tummy.' said her father, slowing his tummy-fucking and releasing his vice-grip on her chubby little body. Mary was crestfallen but she was prepared mentally. Now she would have to accept her father's blood-engorged stiff cock up into her own little body, where hopefully there he could relieve himself of the terrible hurt that Mary knew happened every day in Daddy's testicles...............Drawing his hips back now he reached down and gripped his own cock and angled it down between his very own daughter's smooth thighs. It was Mary's turn to grunt as the blunt pre-cum-slicked head of her father's cock prodded inquisitively at the sensitive little slit between her legs."

Don't judge me, dear reader. When in the mood, I can be completely vile and sick.


@@@@@@@@@@@


We interrupt this broadcast. 9:30am CST. Saddam is dead. Honest, I have mixed emotions. I don't like capital punishment and as my dad says, if he's left to live his life in prison in the Middle East he could be freed. I know this, but I also know our own President has committed some of the same crimes only more covertly. Will he then experience a week-long observation like Ford or will he get what's due? And there are others. I certainly do not support the mass slaughtering of innocent peoples in Kuwait or Iraq or other countries. Not at all. But if we hang one, shouldn't we follow that policy to charge and hang the rest of his kind? And where do we draw the line? Robbing the poor to give to the rich - is that not a heinous crime? Starving your own people. Assassinating pools of your own people. Sending your own people off to die. Corporate greed. Where do we draw the line? It's a difficult thing to reconcile. He deserved a hell fire burning and an anal rape and licking the depths of the gutter with his cock cut off - for the rest of his life, yes. But I'm not sure that he deserved to not suffer these the rest of his life. .......... And, yes, I do worry for the judge who sentenced him.


@@@@@@@@@@@




Do not judge me. You may feel all liberty to swear at me and to call me names and to live vicariously or think I may have stepped over the lines. But until you can rest your body into mine, do not even think about judging me.


Dinner with the family was fine. We had my sister's ex-step-kids over --- no, Hex, not those step-kids. I don't terribly hate all kids, and I do like these ones a bit. But I was cornered on the couch with a 20-days-away-from-turning-18 year old girl. Blabber blabber someone save me blabber impress you blabber blabber. My internet boys had all chided me not to think dirty thoughts while at home. I couldn't help it when her younger brother, a sweet 16 year old baseball jock boy talked to me. His nicely, still tanned, toned arms, his sweet innocent smile. His slightly blushing looks. I could only hope that he'd touch himself later thinking of me. And their younger brother, 13 years old. Such a darling. Wants to go off to save the world but is afraid of the homeless. How was I not to laugh? I'm sure I was laughed at as a child. My dreamy aspirations colored by ignorance.

Xmas day we opened up gifts with our mentally-failing grandmother. I love her dear soul but feel like she's slightly like a shadow of a woman I knew before. And then... the torture. We had almost 4 hours between gift opening and dinner. Boredom. Pure and total boredom. It tested me and almost killed me. Our family doesn't fancy walks, doesn't see the need to be busy. So, we sat there. My sister made pies. My mother chastised my sister's unruly dogs and helped with pies. My grandmother was forced to read some dumb book. My father read and chastised his mother for speaking unclearly. I sat, curled in the corner of the couch and read Persepolis, the entire first book [totally fucking awesome by the way, a graphic novel about a girl growing up in Iran and then the second book about her becoming a woman in Europe and going back to Iran]. I read a book and a half in those hours. Wishing I would just disappear. I tried to explain to them the night before why I'd appreciate them moving from this house of my childhood. But even if they moved, I'm sure I'd still find myself tortured with the cemetery silence and boredom.

Dinner was great. My maybe-pervy uncle and my favorite aunt. Great food. Good conversation. But I still counted the hours until I could drive home. I finished the second Persepolis book in the gues bed that night. In the end, I got good food, good presents from Santa and family, I was loved... but so bored.

I got home and washed myself over by indulging once again in my existence.

Wednesday was dinner with SirMax [which I have made into its own post - either click the link or scroll up]

.........................................

The story does not end there. Oddly, I had almost double-booked my life. Thursday, I was due for a day date with Roger Z from 11am until 5pm. PMS girl who was tapped out had to reinvigorate, rest and re-horny.

But this story, and the second visit with SirMax, and what I hope to create tonight on New Years Eve - these will all have to wait, darlings.

I bet you'll read this on 01-01-07 ----- 007! ------ and please let my words of well wishes, prosperity, superior health, amazing sex, heartfelt love, and fucking right-on karma reach you on this day, darling.

All my love to you, dear reader.

And, while I don't encourage skipping ahead, I will tickle your ear and tell you that there are all kinds of new photos in Flickr just waiting to wish you a Happy New Year, love.

Minnie-Apple part 2

So, back to Minneapolis for the rest of the weekend. I wasn't awake when James called Friday night because I had to give a presentation on Saturday morning. It was fine. The day was fine. Lots of flirting eyes and boring workshops and lame presenters. The Mister Mister from Friday night texted me mid-day to say he could think of a better way to spend his time, but I wasn't interested. I could tell he was hungry - like when you get a yummy cookie and want another the next day.

Dinner was pretty cool. We were going to eat at fancy pants Solera but it wasn't the right atmosphere for our rowdy, chatty group of all women + Paul Rogat Loeb (a not-so-inspirational speaker at our lunch earlier that day, although I was thrilled that every conference participant got a free copy of his new book!). So, instead we went to Rock Bottom Brewery.

My sister joined us which was fine. You've heard about my divorce from her and all. I wasn't thrilled by her presence but it was nice to see her. At the end of dinner, Mr. Clichemonster met up with us which was awesome. I'm sure that not all meetings of internet friends in real life turn out so well, but this was really nice. He totally knew how to roll with the whole "we've known each other a long time" story - after all, I did go to undergraduate in Minneapolis and no one got too close to ask him if he had lived there that long.


My sister did pull a funny and a shocker at one point though. She recently returned from a week in Japan and brought me presents not fit to present at xmas. She stopped off at Condomania and brought me back a few cool gifts.

This Choco Magic one is hilarious. "Shake Before Serving" and "Finest Quality Chocolate" - I am totally looking forward to tasting that quality chocolate. Despite the fact that - with men I know have been tested and have no STIs - I prefer latexless.

While I do love strawberries, midnight, and being called Sweety (or is that Sweetie? or is that supposed to be Sweaty?), I'm not sure that calling a condom "Rubber Yum" will make me want to put it in my mouth. I do love their disclaimer though "Highly effective against pregnancy and helps reduce the risk of spreading many sexually transmitted disease." I like "Highly effective" a lot. I think it's accurate.

The best present though was this little Hello Kitty charm for my cell phone. I took it out of the bag and laughed so damn hard. I had to show Mr. C who would be the only one in the room to know how much it would mean to me to get a Hello Kitty called "Pour Lolita." (It's a gothic Kitty!) Little did I know, my sister knew, as well. I pointed out the tiny "Lolita" script to Mr. C and started to try to explain to my sister and she goes, "I know." Of course, she elaborated. This guy she was dating this past summer tried to google her to find dish. And I guess one of the places (jump in here, Mr. C, if my explanation is wrong) he looked was on nerve.com - instead of finding her, he found me. Now, HOW he knew it was me is beyond all our comprehension. I'm pretty good at keeping my fullfrontal face off the 'net, but maybe it was through her Friendster page to my Friendster page to my full frontal face to match it on nerve.com. I'm not quite sure how it went, but what he landed on was the old "Looking for a third" - the personal ad that James and I used to find a guy for our love triangle. Of course, my name on nerve.com is Lola or Lolita. So.... sis pulled a cool shot. Yay, sis! (Don't forget to click on the images for larger versions. I especially love the Hello Kitty back panel - check out the danger-of-choking image.)

So, we all had a good laugh over sister's smarts and the awesome gifts. From dinner, a couple of us (Mr. C, my sister, 3 WI interns, the MN Conference Planner and her boyfriend) went over a couple of blocks to Lyon's Pub, and on the way made a stop at Shinders for cash. Man, I miss living in Minneapolis. Downtown is so seedy despite its attempts at cleaning up by adding Block E. The club we went to was quite fun and I had no idea that our interns dug hip hop or that we were such good dancers. Although, MN was playing IA that weekend and there were some total lame ass drunk boys on the dance floor - one which kept dropping ass bombs. I mean, literal shit stink bombs right in the middle of the dance floor. So uncool.

[Lola & Clichemonster - wait.. wait... we're not ready!]

The funniest scene though. Shouting in the bar. Ms. MN Planner says she likes to workout to "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard" and I had the realization that when that song first came out my sister and I were talking about it and she goes, "You know what that song's about, right?" "No. And I don't think I want to know." Because, of course, I'm thinking it's about a baby mama serving up her milky tits on the playground. Or, maybe it's about a guy cumming in some girl's ass and another girl drinking it. Because, of course, my mind goes somewhere worse than other people's minds.

So, I tell Ms. MN Planner and shout to the other girls, "What's that song about anyway?!"
And intern1 goes, "It's about a money shot!"
I go, "What's a money shot?" and I think I know what it is, but I'm not sure I do, so I lean over to Mr. C and yell over the music, "What's a money shot?!"
And he looks taken aback. He leans away from me in near shock, "You don't what a [muffled] shot is?"
"No. What is it?"
"It's a drink!"
I lean back to intern1 and go, "It's a drink?!"
She laughs so hard, "NO! It's not a drink! It's jizz on the face!" And makes the motion of jacking a cock.
I turn to Mr. C and go, "A drink?!"
He laughs so hard, "I thought you said body shot!!"
Of course, intern1 later can't believe she said "jizz on the face" to one of her bosses.

Maybe you had to be there, and be slightly buzzed.

No drunkeness for us that night though. Mr. C walked us all back and while I tried my best to lay some cute moves on him as a gesture of goodwill, my sister lingered at our goodbyes and all I got in was a great bear hug with Mr. C and a cheek kiss. It's all good. I'm a whore, he's a nice man.

Got back to the hotel and thought for sure Mister Mister would text me as we'd texted a bit during dinner hours. It was 1 in the am, but he's one of those guys who doesn't sleep much. Didn't hear anything so I didn't feel badly. Sunday we packed it up and left.

All in all a good trip.

I took Thanksgiving week off. Tuesday was all about a very, very nice late afternoon tryst. Which you'll have to come back to read about. As a teaser, it involves a schoolgirl outfit and lolipops.