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.

Lately

Good days, bad moments. It used to be doing dishes I would cry. One week it has everything to do with the vortexes that suck me in: the German girl on the bus wearing eyeglasses - towards the end he suffered cataracts and so badly wanted the surgery; trying to explain to someone the trial of what I lived - a vision of his fragile bony body like a concentration camp victim; and always, always, always, the one-on-one conversation we had where I told him how much I loved his hands and knew he'd always be with me because we had lived so many lives before together and he whispered, "L... I love you, too."

It's 8.5 months sober now. I feel amazing, life is awesome. No shit. Through all this bullshit, sadness, depression, missing my father, worrying about my mom's drinking combined with Ambian, struggling to form a real relationship with my sister, working non-passionately, war, famine, pestilence and all of life's tragedies - I am sober. I am feeling it. I am living it. I am awake. I think that's the biggest thing. I am awake. And I am making choices. It's incredible, really. Painful, ugly sometimes, confusing a lot, but thoroughly better than how I had been living.

I don't crave booze, I crave cock. And the healthy brainwashing of AA has me turning my focus on my sexual proclivities. Is it a craving - a verifiable craving of the chemicals in my brain that want sex? Or, am I simply a woman with a healthy sex drive? Am I replacing something with all the cock? Am I seeking something that is void in me? Or, am I feeling the pressures of society - thinking I should settle down, have babies, partner up. Am I a bonobo by nature or is it another chemical imbalance?

There was the monthly screw with Joe Awesome from January to June. Then, I introduced a date with Chris Depressed that opened a door for possibilities. A desire put me out on Craigslist again and in touch with Carl the writer, who I've seen twice and enjoyed thoroughly. A random decision to say yes to Will Rooftop and 2 hours of incredible, exhibitionistic sex on his open air rooftop terrace and another date filled with brutally honest discussion that made me feel like I was on a date with a mirror.

I don't feel desperate, I feel hungry. I want to justify that I'm still date-able, attractive, together despite these 2 overlapping current-quilts of personality change and disorder. I feel shifts within. I want the libertine freedom and independence, but I miss the partner that sticks by my side through it all. I want to cook together (albeit, I'll wear a maid's apron and nothing else). I want to clean our place (with nipple clamps and a hood). I want to go to the movies and we plainly share popcorn. I want to cuddle and wake up hungry. I want to be there for the tragedies that shake a person's orientation - my old boss, after his parents died "It's very disorienting" a perfect description. And celebrate the hurdles and wins.

Carl said his (ex-)girlfriend (debatable at this point), 15 years his junior, doesn't want to take care of him when he's in diapers. I don't know that I do either, but I want to take care of someone when he's in diapers. I've done it. I've see it. I'm not afraid.

I want love.

Mad, passionate, life-filling, prick our fingers blood-brother/sister swearing, television watching boredom, soup making when we're sick, swinger party exploring, whole and entire trust foundation love.

Life is changing on me, in me.

Or is it the same fabric, different shade?

I am the whore evolving. I wonder about pregnancy, but turn away at the prospect of swearing allegiance for 18 years and 50 more on top.

.........

And then there's Salvador the cat. He's amazing. It's a lot of fun to have a lovable creature in my life. I think he likes it here with me. He seems to have missed me when I went to my mom's for a week. I had a friend stop in - the first sober share of my flat, the first lady friend to see my cave. He enjoyed the company, but I think he missed me. He's supposedly 27 pounds big - a large breed naturally and a bit over-juiced before I got him. We eat less together and we play with racing around the flat. He sits on my chest at night and we purr together. I wake up at 6am on a Saturday sneezing my eyes out, but allergy meds clear it all up. A small sacrifice, as I'm finding. Pets do matter. I'm starting to get it. He's pretty cool.

..........

I wouldn't know where to start at all, but I'm dreaming more and more of putting some kind of book together. I have no idea what the running theme is or how to connect it all. There are bits and pieces and some good stories. A book of short stories? Ala "Little Birds"? It seems like so much of a business, something I would have no idea how to navigate - and not sure I'd want to. I wish I could just ship all the notebooks and all the pages off to some super scribe. I've already written it - I don't want to re-live it again.

This is of late.

All Hallow's Eve tale

Tis the season.
So, here's my story.

I was dating this guy in Minneapolis.

28 Nov 1994

To Lola

One black night
covers the day in white
The first snow
a season of white darkness
a season of long nights
and three hour days.
We move back to the
Womb, the cave
the introspective flip side
of green and blue.
the naked tree
the naked branch stands alone
the swollen fruit
its withered vine
the seeds have all fallen
covered to rot, to wait for spring
which has no place here.
<3: Crow.


Tuesday, March 23, 2004
strangest dream

reality first: i dropped out of college after freshman year because i was doing too many drugs and enjoying too much of life to really study anything. went from first quarter A's to third quarter C, D, and Withdraw. decided it'd be best on the family pocket if i dropped out and worked, found out what i wanted. during the spring i'd met a bunch of punk rock kids when i'd frequent the local co-op restaurant. it must have been mat. he invited me over. so i took his directions and hopped on the bus -- out of the safety of the fishbowl of university town into the real surrounding city. it was while riding the bus that i saw the outside world and how i was so alienated, even at big ten school in a big ten city.

mat lived with 4 other roommates. i remember there was pizza and tv, pot and conversation. after i dropped out of school i moved in with them. i was already dating someone within their circle so it fit in well. that summer i spent the majority of my time at adrian's apartment and not so much in the house where i paid for a room. i broke up with adrian because i smothered him too much and he'd met some cute skater chicks.

late summer of 1994 i met crow. i think he was just hanging around our house, knew my roommates.

i was a hippie punk skater then. hair dyed or long. phat pants and a phat skateboard. i had quit working at the YWCA in uptown near adrian's apartment and started at the co-op where i first met the non-conformists. crow was calm, tattooed, he called people 'brother' and 'sister', he had a sparse apartment with bongos and liked walking and finding old bikes and giving them away. he had dark hair and was my height, a gote, a perfect smile, and knuckles tattooed with L-O-V-E and H-A-T-E. i fell.

we'd been dating for a couple of months when he said he had something to tell me. we sat on my futon in the cramped bedroom, low on the ground, surrounded by a couple of candles.

and then he started his story. he wanted me to know the truth. he didn't know if i knew, but he wanted me to find out from him and no one else. "ok, crow, tell me." the year before he'd been in a dark place. (hard for me to imagine of this mellow, friendly hippie.) he came from a wealthy family and rejected it all. and he found himself in a very dark place, living with a friend who was in the punk scene and into dark ideas as well. they hung out at the hard times cafe.

one night they broke into the lakewood cemetery and walked through the gravestones. "i was in a dark place. i wanted to know more about death. what it looked like. how it felt. what it really meant." they found an open grave, dirt dug out, deep pit into the ground. crow climbed down into it and lay down. he said he could see the end of a casket and wanted to climb inside it. he didn't know how.

but this didn't satisfy their intrigue. their deep, dark, empty curiosity about death. so they decided they needed more. more information. hands-on information. they decided to go to "The Memorial Community Mausoleum and Columbarium at Lakewood offer alternatives for above ground entombment. The Mausoleum accommodates 3,000 crypts in corridors or semi-private alcoves. There are also several Columbarium rooms with more than 2,000 individual and family niches for cremated remains. The Pool of Reflections and adjacent garden crypts lie between the Mausoleum and Memorial Chapel."

and, according to his telling of it, they went at night. into the mausoleum. there were video cameras but they got in. and they searched. they found temporary crypts for bodies not yet buried. they found one. took the body out. put it in a large plastic bag and walked back out. they got on the bus. and i remember this clearly, "we rode the bus back to our apartment with the shoes sticking out of the top of the bag." "but, crow --... didn't anyone notice?! didn't anyone say anything?" "no, lola. i don't know why... no one asked us anything."

they took the body back to their apartment. he slept with it that night. and they explored it. not in any sexual manner, but in a pseudo scientific manner. "what happens to bodies when they die?" the next days they cut off the boy's head, hands, and feet to explore what they couldn't get out of themselves. crow reiterated how he was in a dark place and was out of that now. but at the time, he couldn't stand life, the living, and the living dead -- those business men on nicollet mall, the shoppers, and people not living with a full love of life. one day, he said, they went to the top of a downtown city building and threw brains over onto the passersby.

i sat there. listening. it was too out of my realm to understand. and too far away to comprehend. but coming out of his mouth so close to me.

they'd sworn to keep secret about these disturbing deeds. but his roommate, and partner in crime, started talking around hard times. the cops were investigating. his friend was talking. so they took the body and chopped it into smaller pieces and tossed it in the mississippi river. he wanted to get better.

his friend fled and crow fled. they were caught.

9 Oct 94
"While Crow put his bike in Tina’s car I made mention of how cute he was (is!) and she said he thought I was beautiful, too. I totally needed that, too. To hear I am beautiful. I was feeling very low lately. Very out of touch with myself. I've been consumed with doubt, fear, things negative. I was regressing into a shell like in middle school. Surrounded by people I'm in awe of -- physically, intellectually, and spiritually. It's sad that I can fall into such an unstable feeling of uncertainty and then become consumed by it. I start feeling negatively about myself - even when I am smoking pot. Worse when I'm smoking pot b/c it is then that all true feelings are revealed and increased -- shown through the opened doors of perception.

We all piled into a car and laughed heartily. We dropped Crow off at his grandparents and went to Nancy's... We drove back to Cafe Wyrd. We were to meet Crow there to then go to the Y for saunaing. We waited an hour and then realized he'd been sitting three tables ahead with his back to us! ... Crow and I sat in the back on the way to his home. I told him how I'd like to quit the YWCA and he mentioned how he and Chris, this paraplegic brother he takes care of, are looking for one other caretaker for trips to Mexico. So if the Riverside Co-op doesn't hire me and I'm ready to quit here then I could do it. I thought about it last night. Taking care of someone .. I don't know if I can , but I can do and be anything / anyone I want, right?"

sometime between then and 14 Oct 94:

"I don't know what the date is. But it is Thursday and I am up north on Snake Trail Road with Crow. We are cleaning out Chris', a quadriplegic whom Crow takes care of, cabin.

"Walking alone in his garden once, a poet saw a broad leaf move, revealing a tiny procession that bore a body on a rose-leaf bier. It was a fairy funeral."

14 Oct 94
"My fingers are filled with blood. Pushing their skin out. Filling up immensely.
I'm very happy and very confused. In a state of clueless anxiety and ever peaceful happiness. Crow -- Willy Crow Mojo. And Merry Sunshine. Together we have been.

One Sunday I walked into my house and found Jim calling Hazeldon in a very anxious negative energy. I walked into Tina's room and found her doing --- so yes, so, I've met Crow.

So, all my meeting of Crow and hanging with beautiful sisters happened on Saturday. On Sunday I got home and found 2 beautiful messages on my door -- both from Tina -- one on how the Riverside would enjoy my presence for a second interview at 6pm that evening. The other was about how her friend Crow called and would like me to call him, or he'd call me later.

I was ecstatic! I called Amtrak for prices on one-ways back from San Francisco. It would take 3 days. Then I called the Riv and accepted the 2nd interview -- the hiring interview! I then called Crow -- he was very surprised I called! I told him about the Riv and decided we'd see each other that night later on. -- So many days gone by -- so much happened. Well, long to short, Crow and I started hanging out more and more. That night he'd biked over and we went for a long walk into the graveyard by Uptown and around.

God, I dunno. In the past couple of days I got salmonella, called in sick to the Riv, quit the Y by telling them I was leaving for San Fran immediately (a lie) and drove up north with Crow to a cabin where we stayed Tuesday - Thursday.

It was beautiful. Deer, sunshine, reds, oranges, yellows, mice, wood-burning stove. Long walks to beautiful ponds painted in fall colors. Star-filled skies, sister moon, bathrooming in the outdoors - a primitive cabin. We cleaned out all this junk that a guy who was one of Chris' caretakers, Petrich, left there. He is schizophrenic and an "artist." He had all this creepy stuff -- funky collages, etc.. we slept together but did nothing. My body was burning to be touched, but we didn't and I'm glad.

We stopped at Kmart on our way there for a Janis Joplin tape -- just spontaneous. We stopped at Big Lake, MN, to wash a bit at a lake there. We were free. I didn't want to come back -- back from being tomboys, from rolling down hills, playing in the leaves, reading by a pond in the sunshine. My body needs to be out there.

So, Crow, he makes $1500/month by caring for this man, Chris. Crow lives on the second floor of this beautiful house that Chris owns. And for a while he was sleeping - nothing else - with another caretaker, Katie, who lives in the house. And from when he met me he called the night sleep arrangement off with her. But he eased into the transition quicker than she has. So I'm now in his home with big windows -- a round sun of leaves through one -- and wooden floors and cozy chairs. Katie is here and I can feel the anger and heart breaking. No matter how strong one is.. I can feel it.

And, man. Crow said Chris is looking for another caretaker. I'd love to -- flexible hours, live in the same house, freedom. But, man, I don't know.

I said in the woods near the studio/cabin that I wanted to leave my brain in the woods and only feel. I don't want to work. All I want to do is travel, be outdoors, eat, sleep and enjoy my Mother Earth. I don't want to have to pay rent or shit like that.

But the things that must be done with/for Chris.. tough."

15 Oct 94 Sunday
"I am at Crow's but my mind and body are tense with elsewhere. My head aches and i feel lonely -- a state which only I can cure. Crow is eating with his roommates -- a private moment for them, as I see it. I don't want to interrupt -- I want to leave to better light and more space. I am about to embark on a journey. A chapter of my life has ended and I am starting another. I have known Crow for a week and he has respected me and my body and my space and frame of mind. It is a struggle -- being with someone and giving them the freedom to be free. ...

"Crow. A wonderful person. He says what he most appreciates in me is my androgyny -- man/woman likeness. It is the same for me. In his facial features to his walk to his ideas. He is wonderful. He is earth, water, wind, fire. He has traveled, he has stayed. He's lived with nothing but the clothes on his back. He has been rich. He plays drums that stir my sexuality, my soul, the marrow in my sleepy bones. His rhythms make me dance, make my hips and arms vibrate and move like never before. He has nearly died and cured himself with his own body and deep meditation. When I kiss him he feels it. When he touches me I am Merry Sunshine. He continually praises me; reminds me of my womanliness, my beauty, my strengths, my energy. I am speechless to those words. Speechless to these feelings. My replies can only be in my eyes, my body, my silence... for words, for once, fail me. He reinforces the spirit I've been of late. Nothing is too new, but amazing just the same -- that another wonderful being is in my plane of being. We are parallel.

"Yesterday he quit his job. He worked for Chris. Chris is in a lot of pain -- continuous pain all night and day. He snapped at Crow and disrespected him. He disrespected the man who, in the mornings , comes in to wake Chris up with hand massages and envisions a beautiful peace symbol radiating in his palm. Crow sent so much energy to this man. It had happened two times before, this disrespect and Crow vowed to quit if it happened again. He can take care of himself, I know, but I am sorrowful for these events.

"Crow looks like an owl.
His sister, Jessie, a swan.
I am blessed."

"The day after our first walk together, Monday, 9th, he placed ten apples at my bedroom door. Ten giant seeds of friendship.
"He looks like a raven when he wears my backpack.
He is good.
And I am blessed."

11 Nov 94
(after my trip to the west coast alone)
"We had an interesting moment at one point. I was totally wanting to sing and jam in my room and he wanted to be quiet and peaceful. So, well, at first it bugged me 'cause I didn't want to "give in" but then I realized that feeling and thought about why it would be giving in and why I felt that way. Then I realized I'd rather give that space away 'cause it wasn't a big deal to me -- being silent or not. he's a silent person sometimes. He said he lived in silence for many months many different times. Which made me think about how many things I want to do yet in my life."

13 Nov 94
"... I gotta be somewhere. I don't know. Crow on probation. It's weird. Why do they have him on that? To monitor him? Does he have a freak streak that could blow any time? I see a dark side on him / in him that is often stronger than the light side. But he knows everyone and everyone knows him. I love his sisters. He's got a weird relationship with them. So close -- maybe too close. I dunno. Maybe I just was never that close with mine."

the cops put crow and his friend on trial. crow came back voluntarily when he was caught. his friend tried running. when it was his time to explain himself all he could talk about was a dark place in his life. the cops had pulled the body remains out of the river. and crow told me how he finally really realized what he'd done while sitting there, opposite the family. the young boy, five years old, easier to take from the mausoleum to their apartment, had died a natural death by drowning. it was a second blow the parents.

crow was sentenced to jail and probation.

maybe it's because i was so vulnerable. maybe because i was stupid. maybe because it all seemed like a dream at the time. maybe because i was so high most of the time it all seeped together. or maybe because it was so foreign to comprehend i had no idea. but i kept seeing him. i forgave him. i accepted his awkward past and took him for the man he was towards me. he had found peace.

i can't remember why we stopped dating. i can't find that journal right now. i don't think it had anything to do with his past.

when i asked my friends if they'd known they said yes, and thought i had. no one had thought to tell me while i was dating him.

i had gotten to know his sister jessie really well. she was into pot and the afro culture. she dated the big drug dealer in the neighborhood and danced like she wasn't white. she had a smooth drawl, a cool, a jive to her. she wasn't even out of high school.

i left minneapolis in 95 for a year. after living with a man 16 years my senior, i lived with the punk rock kids again in a 3 story house with 9 kids in 96. i came back to get away from him and start school again. in 97 i went to spain for a year of study. i came back to my own studio apartment and school.

i got back from spain in the summer of 98. a while after i got my apartment i went out around town to re-visit old haunts. found myself at another co-op restaurant (ours had gone out of business). after i placed my order i started out toward the back court seating. i passed the cork board announcements and looked briefly. there it was. her face. jessie's face. her young, vibrant smile. her squinty eyes. "Alive in our hearts... Jessica Miller 9-28-76 / 7-13-98" i asked around among my friends.

jessie had hit a bottom. they'd put her in an institute because she'd been hearing voices. doing things unnatural to herself. she'd been there for a few weeks when she took her sheets and hung herself.

the next time i saw crow was at her memorial. he played drums center-stage of the ethiopian restaurant, the nile. i danced, i hugged friends i hadn't seen in a while. crow and i didn't speak.

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

bd and i went to bed early because we'd both been away this weekend. i was in DC for work, he was in LA for spring break. i'd arrived at the airport in the morning after getting up at 5am to leave DC. i went home and wrote a bit, checked emails, masturbated, read. then i went back to the airport to pick him up at 5pm. i brushed my teeth, put on some nice smells. i was in my 2nd wind and wanted to roll around in bed for a while. try doing it and getting out of our sexless rut. he remembered he had a class meeting he had to go to. i didn't mind just picking him up from the airport.

but i got home and found myself resenting it. now i was tired. now i didn't feel funky fresh. but we hung out anyway. and went to bed early.

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

DREAM: in my sleep crow had beaten his girlfriend. she was the girl i knew years before. blond, soft, sweet. i knew he'd got on a bike and rode from minnesota through central america after his sister died. but i hadn't heard of him in years. all of a sudden i was brought back to minneapolis. he'd done something out of the ordinary and we were worried.

my dad was with me. he drove me over to crow's house with some girlfriend of mine. the house was a mess. chaos. books misarragened on shelves, dinner plates scattered, dust, lamps, a dirty couch covered in a flimsy shawl. crow was out of sorts. not surprised by my visit. my dad was finding parking outside. he'd wait there. my girlfriend sat on the couch and i stood. looking around. eyes wide but sad. frightened and worried. sad. sad. i half-smiled to crow as he paced around.

maybe others came and went. maybe i thought crow was sleeping, but my girlfriend and i were exhausted and so we fell asleep. her on the couch. me in the chair. dozing. trying to keep my eyes open. worried.

i woke up and knew something was bad. he was already gone. i climbed the stairs of his apartment. dark. nighttime. got to the top of the stairs and there was a hallway with a bathroom door at the head of the stairs. the light was on and streaming out through the half-cracked door. the water was running. it wasn't through my ears, but through my head that i heard him say, "warm running water.. you know..." i could see behind the door through my eyes. his body submerged. a deep ceramic bathtub, old kind, with claw feet. water was running over the edge and his blood started to mix. stream out and over the tub.

i felt so deeply sad. like i knew there was nothing i could do. it was to happen. and to stop him would defile him. he was dying.

and as i stood there seeing this from behind the door, with the light shining on my face, a body ran by. so quickly. just flicks of a body. his body. his ghost. soon leaving. he ran by my face, around the corner, and into the other bedroom. in flashes. leaving. not yet gone, but leaving. and that's when it hit. he didn't want to go. i had to do something. he's not ready to go. do something.

i was trying to dial but my fingers were frozen. the numbers weren't real. i couldn't dial 9-1-1. i ran outside and got in my dad's car. where's your cell?! i screamed. call 911!!! now!! hurry! we still have time! he didn't have a cell. so we ran back inside. but it was all futile.

i was in the back seat of the car. my dad was driving. and crow just sat there all of a sudden.

and i've never ever seen anything so brilliant in my life. in all my dreams or nightmares. or in reality. someone so bright and real. i looked over and he was just sitting there. i asked my dad if he saw him, he said no. are you sure? don't you see him? don't you see crow sitting here? no, he didn't. he was more real than any reality. and i had so many things to say. to talk about. and it all happened on that mind level that you don't hear, but you read about. and all in some time that isn't counted. so quick. so deep. he handed me a letter in an envelope. there were four lines on it. scrawling of some kind. i know it was mailed to me. i took it. and looked at him with so many more questions.

i think we went to other places. where our friends were around. and i kept asking, don't you see him? and i wanted to ask him what he thought of bd. ask him to look down on bd's sleeping body, and what do you think?

but then.. i was snapped awake.
my eyes flew open.
/DREAM

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

i stretched in that half-sleep world and rolled over and held bd. i made him wake up with my tossing and turning.

i told him the whole thing. and in my mid-sleep, tears ran down my face. it seemed so real.

and, i tried to replay it so i wouldn't forget any detail. i know i have. but the ones i remember are the ones that count. that i think it's real. that he did just finally give in. that i was actually there, in some other plane, to witness it. that he did want to go, but wasn't sure. that his presence was the most amazing i've ever witnessed in all my life. so alive and so real. nothing i've ever seen in reality or dreams before. a glow. a feeling. a connection. nothing like i've ever felt in all my life.

and i rolled. tossed and turned. looked out the crack in the shades. what did it mean? if he didn't really die somewhere, what does it mean? if he did, what would that mean? why did he come to me after six years? why now? why me? my mind raced. and all i could come up with was that ... he did go. he was inflicted with the same schizophrenia his sister had. and that he came to me only because i cared. and didn't care. when he told me about his dark moment, i didn't care. i cared more about him, than what he did. i cared. and he never forgot that. it got him over stigmatization. it let him really move on from his past. that i had, in my own ignorance or bliss, had not gotten hung up on a momentary digression in his life. i had loved him. i had revealed all of myself to him and held nothing back. and loved him.

...when i got up just now to go to the bathroom, the front door of my apartment was unlocked. a crack. again, like i saw in my dream of the bathroom. like i'd stared at when i woke this morning. i had locked my door when i got home tonight.

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

i'm sad. i'm deeply sad. mourning. but i can't help but feel that image. that image of him sitting in the back of the car with me. so bright. so real. more real than ever i've seen. .......... love. deep love. unknowing love. just a feeling of life. knowing he wasn't real. that i was dreaming. but that he was still.... real.

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

DATE: September 1, 1993
VOLUME:
SUBJECTS: Grave Robbing - Cases
Youth - Crime
NOTES: "Nice, sweet kids [from] good families", and part of the McPunk "modern primitive subversive scene", Crow and Bxxxx dug up a little boy's body and cut off his head, feet and hands to "enhance their curiosity about death".

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

Date: Wed, 24 Mar 2004 08:07:53 -0800 (PST)
From: D
Subject: Crow

Lola,

I was fascinated by your last entry in cdoa2. I'm not sure if you only listed the cryptic last reference from the Minneapolis Public Library because you didn't want people to know the full story.... maybe protecting Crow's identity?... of if you may have wanted to list more but it was hard to find?... Maybe you just wanted some kind of proof to back up what might be seen as an utterly fantasic and unbelievable tale.

I believed you. But I analyze things. Reseach things. I'm a scientist to my very core, so I had to look it all up. If you're at all interested you can look below. You might not want to.

D.

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

[ST. PAUL Edition]

St. Paul police Thursday investigated the possibility that a mutilated and embalmed boy's body found in the Mississippi River was stolen from a Minneapolis cemetery crypt last month. Police and cemetery officials didn't tell the boy's parents about the theft, reported on Jan. 23, until the mutilated body in St. Paul was linked to possible grave-robbing and occult rituals this week. The missing body is that of a 9-year-old drowning victim who was entombed in an above-ground crypt at Lakewood Cemetery last spring.

Ron Gxxxx, president of the Lakewood Cemetery Association, said the first known theft of a body in Lakewood's 119-year history was kept secret in hopes of sparing the boy's family further anguish.

The boy's parents were told of the still-unsolved theft Wednesday by a clergyman and a funeral director who know them, he said.

An attorney representing the family confirmed yesterday they had not been told that their son's body had been taken before this week.

"They were very disturbed they were not told the grave had been disturbed or the boy's body was missing," the attorney said. "They are just trying to find some serenity."

Meanwhile, St. Paul crime laboratory identification experts struggled yesterday with poor prints, both from hospital birth records and from the headless and handless body that is believed to have been in the river several weeks, Deputy Chief John Nxxxxx said. Work was suspended late yesterday and will resume today, he said.

"I don't know if we'll ever get anything conclusive," Nxxxxx said. If not, police may use DNA genetic testing in an effort to match the body with the parents of the boy whose burial crypt was robbed. That would take at least three months, said Sgt. Daniel Harshman.

Police also are comparing the mutilated body's toeprints with those of a missing boy whose parents had expressed concern for his safety, Hxxx said.

Police Chief William Mxxx said Wednesday that investigators believed the body, which was found near the Ford Dam on Tuesday, might have been dismembered as part of an occult ritual.

Sgt. Jon Hxx, the Minneapolis police expert on occult crimes, has investigated the Lakewood theft. He said he has noticed an increasing amount of cult-type activities and growing numbers of young people interested in them.

Lakewood workers discovered the theft of the drowned boy's body on Jan. 22, Gxxx said. Thieves are believed to have broken into the boy's outdoor granite crypt on Jan. 20 or 21, he said.

Workers found that the boy's casket had been opened and his body removed. Nothing else was amiss and there was no note or identifying material left behind, Gxx said.

"We were certainly appalled by what happened," he said.

Lakewood increased security after the theft and was considering further measures yesterday, including putting guards on duty around the clock, Gxx said. He said the cemetery, one of Minnesota's largest, covers more than 250 hilly acres with monuments that provide easy hiding places.

Gxx said the decision not to tell the boy's parents of the theft was made "in cooperation with the police to keep it low-key, pending the outcome of the investigation."

Minneapolis police, citing concern for the boy's family, also declined to issue reports of the theft until late yesterday. Deputy Chief David Dxx said: "I was told the management of the cemetery had decided not to inform the parents."

Gxxx said, "I feel comfortable with the decision we made under those circumstances. We're going to reevaluate that for sure. It's a very difficult question. We hope we never have to make that decision again."

According to Howard Fxxxxx of the Minnesota Cemetery Association, it may be a decision that no other cemetery manager in the state has ever had to make. Fox has worked with the association more than 40 years. He said he had never before heard of a grave robbing in Minnesota.

Gxx said he believed there may have been previous grave robbings, especially in rural areas, "where it went totally unnoticed." He also acknowledged "some reluctance to report it" on the part of cemetery managers.

While the January incident is the first confirmed theft of a body from the cemetery, Lakewood has had several previous instances of grave tampering, Gxx said.

Last October, the steel vault holding the body of a man buried in 1912 was pried open. Another grave was being dug nearby, which made the underground vault more accessible than usual, Gxx said. Police were called, but it was hard to tell if anything was taken from the coffin, he said.

Extensive vandalism occurred in 1975 at several private family mausoleums, but again, it was not known if remains were taken.

Also yesterday, the Ramsey County medical examiner's office said identification of a second body recovered from the Mississippi Wednesday had been delayed until dental records could be obtained. It was found during a search for missing body parts of the boy. Police said the body may be that of a missing 59-year-old St. Paul woman who was seen jumping from the Ford Bridge in December 1988.


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

[ST. PAUL Edition]

The mutilated body of a boy found in the Mississippi River was identified by police Friday as that of a 9-year-old drowning victim whose body was stolen from Lakewood Cemetery in Minneapolis last month.

Identification was made by comparing toeprints taken from the body with birth records of the boy, St. Paul police said. The unusual procedure was necessary because the head and hands had been removed from the body and are still missing. One foot also was severed, but was found near the body.

Police have said they believe that the body was dismembered as part of an occult ritual. No suspects have been identified. Cemetery officials discovered that the body was missing from an outdoor granite crypt Jan. 22 and reported the theft to police the next day. The boy's family was not told until this week.

David Dxx, deputy police chief of Minneapolis, yesterday defended withholding the information as an attempt to spare the parents anguish and to assist the investigation. But a lawyer for the boy's father said the police "have an absolute duty to disclose to victims that a crime has been committed" against them.

The boy's father "feels strongly that there has been a breach of trust and that it has added substantially to the pain that the family has had to endure," said the lawyer, Brad Exx of Minneapolis. "The next of kin had a right to know if there was a problem of security at Lakewood and a right to know long ago that their son's body was missing."

Dxx said, "Based on prior cases nationally, human remains taken from cemeteries are rarely recovered. Informing parents would also mean informing them of how bodies are treated ritualistically by those that take them. There were no investigative leads, and to tell the parents at that point could have resulted in their having to bear an immense burden for the rest of their lives."

He also said that if the theft had been publicized earlier the grave robbers might have disposed of the body in a different way. Police might withhold information again from families whose relatives' bodies are stolen, Dxx said. "It depends on the circumstances," he said. Grave-robbing is prohibited under Minnesota theft statutes and carries a maximum penalty of five years in prison and a $10,000 fine.

Meanwhile, the boy's body remained at the Ramsey County medical examiner's office in St. Paul. Exx said the parents, who are divorced, had made no decision on reburial.

"The priority of the family at this time is to deal with the grief by turning to prayer and their family," he said. "The tragedy of the drowning was devastating and the current events are overwhelming. The family is distraught.

"The father's immediate concern is for the welfare of his family, and he is choosing not to apply his energy at this time to the failure of Lakewood Cemetery to notify the family that the grave had been disturbed and the body removed."

The body was found Tuesday in the river just above the Ford Dam. The severed foot was found nearby. An extensive search for the head and hands was unsuccessful.

During the search a second body was discovered in the same area of the river. It was identified yesterday as that of Carol Michael, 59, a St. Paul woman who was seen jumping from the Ford Bridge on Dec. 7, 1988.


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

[METRO Edition]

Warrants have been issued for the arrest of two men police believe stole and mutilated the corpse of a 9-year-old boy from a Minneapolis cemetery three years ago.

Police have charged William Cxxx and Wxxx with theft of a corpse. Jewelry was taken from the corpse, said Lt. Brad Jxx.

Neither man is in custody. Both could be in San Francisco, Jxx said Monday.

The boy's dismembered body was found in the Mississippi River in January 1990. It has been stolen from a Lakewood Cemetery crypt. The boy had drowned and his body was entombed in an above-ground crypt in 1989.

Jxx said police got a recent tip that somehow 19-year-old CMMxxx of Minneapolis, charged last month in connection with the strangulation death of his great aunt, might have known about the case. Jxxx said police interviewed CMMxxx. The two men were later charged with the theft based on statements police received from witnesses. CMMxxx has not been charged in connection with the theft of the corpse.

Lakewood Cemetery workers had discovered the boy's casket open and his body missing. Authorities didn't tell the boy's family about the theft until the body was found.

At the time, Lakewood Cemetery officials said the theft was the first in it's 119-year history.

Three years ago, St. Paul laboratory identification experts struggled with the identification of the headless and handless corpse. Authorities also believed the body had been in the river weeks before it was actually found.

Police had believed that the dismemberment of the body, which was found near the Ford Dam, might have been part of an occult ritual.

Lakewood increased security after the theft and considered further measures, including 24-hour guards.

CMMxxx, in a complaint filed in Hennepin County District Court, said he was angry at his aunt for several reasons and choked and strangled her, punched and stomped her head and neck. His aunt, Frances Wilson, was found dead in the triplex apartment she owned in the 2500 block of Emerson Av. S.


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

[METRO Edition]

Charges were dismissed Thursday against a Minneapolis man accused of taking a corpse from Lakewood Cemetery more than three years ago.

Hennepin County District Judge Wxxx dismissed the charge of theft of a corpse against Bxxx, 21, after Corty's attorney successfully argued that the three-year statute of limitations had expired.

Cxxx and Wxxx were charged in February with the January 1990 theft of the body of a child. Corty's attorney, Bill Mxxx, said the charges should have been filed within three years of the crime.

Cxxx, however, pleaded guilty to theft on May 19 and is serving a nine-month sentence in the county workhouse and is to undergo treatment.

Cxxx had been out of state for a time, which stops the statute of limitations from running. The prosecution claimed that Corty also had been out of state and could still be charged, but Posten disagreed.

The body was reported missing from an above-ground crypt at Lakewood Cemetery in Minneapolis in January 1990; it was found weeks later in the Mississippi River. Three years later, an informant told police Wxxxx and Cxxxx were involved.

Mxxx said Wxxxx was a troubled adolescent at the time of the theft, but has matured.

"He feels badly for the parents he knows he caused pain," Mxx said. "He has expressed that to them."


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

[METRO Edition]

The family of a boy whose body was stolen from Lakewood Cemetery in 1990 has sued the Minneapolis cemetery and the two men charged with the theft.

The 9-year-old boy was killed in an accident and buried in May 1989.

The body was taken in January 1990. It was found weeks later in the Mississippi River.

Three years later, an informant led police to Wxxxx and Bxxx.

The suit filed in Hennepin County District Court alleges that the cemetery and Miller and Corty withheld information from the family about the violation of the burial site and removal of the body. It says the cemetery failed to disclose that trespassing and vandalism were prevalent concerns and that the body of another person was stolen in 1989.

The men's actions of removing and mutilating the body and displaying it to others were extreme, outrageous and beyond the bounds of decency, the suit says.

It says that the actions of Lakewood Cemetery, Cxxx and Mxxx caused the family personal and emotional pain and seeks damages of at least $50,000.

The complainants include the boy's father, stepmother, sister and half-sister.

Charges against Cxxx were dismissed in July 1993 because the statute of limitations had expired.

Mxxx pleaded guilty in May 1993 and was sentenced to nine months in the Hennepin County Workhouse.

Luckiest girl in the world - major update

I will publish this regardless if I have time to edit it.

Preface.

There's so much living going on! I really had no expectations for DC. Sure, there have been Madam scandals and all the politicians and all their cigars, but I really had no idea I'd have my dance card filled within 2-1/2 months.

How to run down the fun? How to describe the emotions? How to re-tell the stories?

Oh my. It's a huge feat.

I guess as a framework for it all, as a backdrop, a foundation... I've got to wake up at 5:45am Monday-Friday. And I'm a whore for sleep so I'm popping a Tylenol PM by 9:00pm to wind down and in bed by 10:00pm - or so I try. Weekends I've found myself waking up at 8 or 9 or this past weekend 10 for a nap at noon. Work days are full of steep learning curves, political savvy, negotiations, leading the charge, demonstrating my abilities, performing at top notch. It's a bit stressful. My division is 1500 people. My agency is over 150k. There's a lot of learning going on. My dad is undergoing chemo for a new cancer that has appeared. He seems to be doing well under the circumstances and our family is tight regardless distance.

So, in the flip-side of time, in my nights, I like to release.

There is the Mother Teresa of Love:

Mother Teresa of Love - first writing


11/17/2001



{{{{i took a break from writing this and started to get ready. it's 713pm and i'm sitting in my finest under garments, make-up on, hair settling into place, "out of control" by the chemical brothers is on, and i'm sipping some shiraz while reflecting for a moment. i think, some days, that i'm the mother teresa of love. i skip like a magical rabbit from lover to lover, spreading confidence, assurance, connectivity, inhibition, the light of the sun, the nectar of the flowers. how many times have people contacted me, years later, and told me what an impact i had on their lives? NYC hip-hop boys, blue collar mechanics, tree-huggin' hippies, spotlight strippers, high-tech wizards, photography geniuses, record-spinning stylies, artists-in-residence. maybe i won't be the one to settle down, marry, to-have-and-to-hold-from-this-day-forward-for-the-rest-of-your-life-i-do. maybe my calling in life is to preach love indiscriminate. it's a blessing and a curse. to connect with everyone on the deepest level. "who knew?" he asked me last night. "who knew? i've never felt this way before. this has never happened in my life." i knew. i have. this has. but it's always different, don't get me wrong. it's always different, beautiful, and special - even the fuck'n'chuck booty calls. that's why i felt so rejected days ago, while waiting for him to call. because, in some spiritual/religious way, i knew i had something to bring to him and he was wasting time. not my time. he was wasting HIS time. i'm off to the art opening - i'll continue the digest of the above stories later.}}}}}

There is the submissive pain slut.

The babygirl to Daddys.

The lover to lovers.

The porn star to photography.

The forever teacher.

I feel best describing things by time, by people. If you asked me if I played sports ever, I'd have to go back in my mind and think: soccer - volleyball - field hockey; age something - lived in Germany for the soccer so ages 6-9, volleyball in Oklahoma and Wisconsin - ages ...., field hockey - Argentina. And then my mind wanders to who was there. My life is categorized by places I've lived, then remembering what ages that was, then who was there.

So, here I am in DC. I'm 35. My colleagues thought I was 25-30. I feel younger than ever, and older than ever. I am life embodied in time.

And I never expected so much joy from this place in the world, so much action, so much fucking, so much feeling.

There is DCDY, the Dominant Couple (aka previously just DD - the dominant daddy), the Soccer Player, the Musician Daddy, the Poly Daddy (aka Hill), the Pet Daddy, and the few between: the SleepCreep, the Photographer, the Younger One, the Choker Yoga Guy, the IM chat Daddys.

And it's strange, because when I ride the bus, ride the metro, walk around - except for the tourists - this city is all women! So, how have I been so lucky??

DCDY - gives me rides home from work sometimes, we kiss in his car, sometimes he stops up with a gift and a cock to suck, a short distance cock fucking, a shoulder to cuddle on. He's been a CDOA reader for years and knows who I am - probably more than anyone in this city. He is not jealous. He is not a time-taker or time-waster. We have our obligations and our time together. He is the person I would call in an emergency. He is the Daddy I'd lean on if I needed propping up. He is a friend. He is - and this so important that it needs to be said again - the person who knows ALL of me.

The Dominant Couple - we played alone together a few times. He and I alone, then the three of us alone, then at a play party at her house, and another play party last Saturday at her house. She's well to do, married to a cross-dresser, hosts parties out in their beautiful house with a full dungeon for the younger generation of kinksters. He's a family man, works downtown, and is her Dominant - she used to be a Pro Domme. And I wasn't so convinced about him until I met her. He's more rough, brusque, non-social. I thought him a bit thuggish. But she balances him out. She knows the rules of play, the safety, the sensations, the care. She holds me as he beats me. She caresses me and tells me what I slut I am as he flogs me. She whispers into my hooded ears what a little beautiful slut I am while he face fucks me through the mouth hole. We get compliments after about how hot the scene was.

The Soccer Player - I fell for him but am moving myself out of that. We share a sad commonality that our dads are dealing with cancer. He loves wine more than I do and is a connoisseur. We did a wine tasting and touched each other slyly like we were teenagers. We love music - he more avant-garde, more reggae from Jamaica. We can carry on a conversation while caressing each others' legs. We fuck with passion and I'm turning him on to Daddy/little girl play. I started missing him as our schedules didn't permit, but it turned out it was on purpose because he wants things I can't provide: steady, long-term dedication. I had visions of poly with him, us being primaries and fondling others on the side, but I don't think that's in the cards for us. I'm re-adjusting my view on us. Retrieving a bit of what I put out there, recalling a bit of my heart.

The Musician Daddy is about my age and brings a sly, good gift of smoke when he comes. We fuck raw and naughty. Daddy/little girl all the way. Apparently, I'm the only one in his rotation that craves this, although he played with an ex before in this realm. We talk music, politics, family - all briefly before he leaves. A short visit.

The Poly Daddy - I fucked him once while his baby daughter slept in the other room. We looked at photos of him and his wife with another couple. I went over again to their place to play with them both. She's pregnant. They were fucking when I walked in - a true, straight-to-the-point hello. I hadn't licked a cunnie in years until hers. It was nice enough, but I'm still firmly a whore for cock. We had good chat. She cried after he fucked her - a release, and an overwhelming feeling of bringing me into the mix that night. We chatted more and kissed while he fucked me from behind. All nice, all ethical. He wants to visit me alone and do more Daddy/daughter.

The Pet Daddy is learning bdsm. I was hesitant to meet him for this reason, but he seems to have an idea of how to go about things and does them. We had drinks and dinner and I crawled up into his lap to kiss him. We were alone on the patio and it seemed apropos. Another night, he came over and spanked me in a long, slow, sensual, built-up spanking and finger fucked me until I was a wild beast on the bed. He was the first to sleep over and we slept well. In the morning, I sucked his cock and he fingered me over and over because I couldn't get enough of his hands, his arms. We share common work interests and common bdsm ideas. This time, he wants me to start as a girl and be trained into being a good pet puppy. Bondage tape to bind my arms, knee pads to scurry about, bondage tape on my feet and hands. A collar. A leash. A dog bowl. And who knows what kind of training. Fetch? Simon Says? I'm excited to see.

The SleepCreep wanted to play out Daddy molesting his sleeping babygirl. I had had several drinks on the weekend and popped a Tylenol PM. I buzzed him into the apartment and he fucked me slowly, without waking me (although I was entirely conscious, just drowsy). Came. Left the rubber as a note. Left as quietly as he entered. I never opened my eyes. Anonymous completely. So fucking hot. Our schedules don't match up and he's got a new lover so I'm not sure if we'll play again.

The Photographer was in town one night and on CraigsList. He came over and made some lovely photos of me - posted on Tumblr. He's kinky and poly and smart and fun. I hope he comes to town again.

The Younger One from a Southern state. New to life. New to sex. New to wanting to be fucked by men and fuck women. He's wound up and long-lasting although without rhythm to get me off. He is sweet and working for good causes. He's also younger than me. The first in a long time. But dirty dirty.

The Choker Yoga Daddy - Sounds so strange, but he's newly divorced, exploring, discovering, realizing he likes to use his extensive skills from hardcore martial arts wrestling something rather to choke girls out lightly and have them come to while he's fucking them. I have yet to actually have a date. I'm hesitant for all the right reasons, but enthralled by the idea of losing consciousness to wake to find I'm being fucked. He's also into tantric sex and I'm dying to learn about it.

And then, some free time with IM Daddys. Two of which live in the city. But to realize our naughty chats into real life would make the world explode in firey sparks.


&&&&&&&&&&&

Time management, I guess. And, unpacking the nest, setting up the living situation, making myself at home, getting the rotation in order, feeling free and fancy fun! My dining room windows face north, face the street, are smack viewing the middle of two lovely trees. I feel like I live in a tree house. Climb up to be recluse and free. I can walk about the apartment naked (the living room and bed room windows face an adjacent building but their shades are always drawn and I'm in between 2 apartments, so my blinds are mostly drawn - to protect the innocent). I can unpack, repack, make a mess, make sounds, be quiet, invite over, leave, change, re-change, dress up, dress down, prepare, let go, .... be free!!!! Free! I feel so free!

I'm facing a lot of shit outside this little treehouse. Dad has 10-15% chance of living past 3 years, but I keep hearing from folks who were told the same thing about their parents (pro-Domme lady included) and their family members lived long, long lives. Work is busy and crazy and challenging and fun -- and good for the world!

So, you might think the red light is hanging outside my window blinking, flashing, calling to the fellas. But I think I have a really great situation. Wonderfully amazing, complex men and women in my life. Caring and sexy, honest and breathing, full of dimensions in emotion, intimacy, dedication to life.

I have a new thought of late. A thought that comes once in a while. A thought that how nice it would be to find a poly primary partner to settle in with a bit and keep playing around together and on our own. So far that hasn't been in the cards. I'm open to it. I'm not afraid of the emotions that come with it, or the work or the love. But I'm not calling for it strongly. I'm just.. lazily entertaining the idea. Feeling a bit jilted momentarily that it's not immediate when I crave it, but I am enjoying what life is bringing. I can't help the naive, idealistic, new eyes I have on. Or the fact that it's a state of being for me. I consider the nightmare possibilities of things, but know that the idealistic positive is more realistic and achievable. I could end up dying a lonely, sad, prolonged, painful death ----- but, damn!, have I lived a fucking stellar, amazing, exciting, uplifting, wonderful life!

I'm the luckiest girl in the whole wide world!

Knicker party

So, how has DC been for the sexy side of Lola?

Y'all know that I've been working my ass off. Getting to bed by 10pm. Getting up at 6am. Waiting for the horrendous bus system to get to me work by 8am. I'm enjoying the job, feel challenged, and get to assist with an agency that has over 180,000 employees and spends over $10million in certain programs (which we are analyzing). I pretend to be grown-up. I dress like I'm comfortable in the heels and skirts, pants and patterned jackets. I'm aiming for the next levels of promotion.

I've walked a lot. It's a half-hour from my apartment to the bottom of the hill in Georgetown - past quaint stores with French names, "It" girls and their faux tan legs, boys with their Polo collars up, fashion, and ice cream. I took my bike, Duane, in for a summer tune-up, and need to return him for gear alignment, but he's in working order. Took a 17-mile bike ride NW up to Chevy Chase (still makes me think of Clark Griswold) and down through the Rock Creek Park. They close the main road off on the weekends so it's cyclists, lolly-gaggers, and families.

But, really, what you want to know is: how happy is Lola's cunnie?

Well... it's been an interesting few weeks.

I updated my OK Cupid profile before I left for DC and have had some intriguing exchanges from that.

I started an exchange with a guy on OKC who is in a poly relationship. He works on the Hill and his wife is a raging horn dog, but so is he. I'll call him Hill for now.

I had my Daddy-type friend over. The one who has known me since CDOA v.1, who helped me secure my flat, and who has helped me acclimate to DC over the past few weeks. I'll call him DCDY.

I placed two Craigslist ads, which introduced me to some interesting chat, but no consummated action.

I met up with a Daddy/dom type. I'll call him DD.

So, what has come of this?

Well, DCDY and I met for dinner after work my first week. Had awesome guacamole and margaritas over at Oyamel. He drove me home, came up, we snuggled a bit, and talked about some of the Daddy/girl ideas we have. He got to see the apartment in mid-unpacking state. Nothing much happened, but he came back the following weekend. He brought me some big, blank paper and crayons of all colors so I could draw to my little girl heart's content. Then, we snuggled more with Mr. Bear and my Dolly. And then Daddy wanted to show me a new friend he brought. He sat down on my bed and I kneeled on my appropriate placed hand-woven rug. He stood up, back against the wall, looking into the full-length mirror. He got behind me as I crouched over on all fours on my bed. Then, we had pizza. And talked and then he split. A nice, lovely afternoon.

[In fact, he just stopped by now. I need a drill to screw my full-length mirror to the door. (Yeah, it all reads so naughty, doesn't it?) A kiss, a bit of relating our busy weeks, his drill plugged in to recharge, a good long hug.]

Then, I met the DD. We had lunch before I started work. He teased me with the toys in his pocket and staring deeply and intensely without letting go. I blushed. I fidgeted. He put my hand under the table on his hard cock. I decided not to invite him over for the afternoon. We met up again the next week. I went over to his office after work and we drove out of DC to a house owned by a friend of his - actually his submissive's husband. The basement has been converted into a dungeon playspace. He gave me an Easter Bunny of chocolate and a cute card with stickers. It was a nice distraction to ease into the game by letting my little girl stick the stickers, while my big girl sipped on some wine. He had me call him "Sir" or "Daddy" and asked me to take off his socks and shoes (something I remembered from being with Sir Keith back in the day). I sucked his cock and he finger fucked me. I bent over his lap and he worked my ass into some bruises and stinging release. He bent me over the medical table in the center of the room and used a few natural bamboo canes on me. And, then flipped me over and fucked me.

We sat on the couch for a while and talked about our interests. There were a few things that pulled me back and made me re-think the possibility of our continuing on a deeper level. Small things that can matter, like not having a blanket after our play. I'm a sensitive being and need after-care. No excuses there, just saying - there was no blanket. He's been with his submissive for more than 5 years now, so I'd definitely come in second in the running. He's also got a family that requires a lot of attention. And, he likes women in heels and skirts. I don't mind dressing up occasionally, but anyone who knows me well knows I'm a tomboy pretending to be a girl who likes to dress up like a slutty princess sometimes. Also, just some of the too-quick assumptions that a lot of people make in the bdsm world: that a submissive will submit so readily to someone who shows dominance. I might have done that before - to my detriment and to my joy - but I'm a bit more cautious now. And, perhaps, more patient now.

Last weekend Friday I was in a heated (ie sexy) exchange with Hill, as he was home alone and his wife had left him in town. After a bit of whiskey, I decided to venture across town to his place. We talked easily, he showed me his sleeping babe in the other room (so naughty!), and we got undressed with quickness and familiarity. I sucked his cock and he called me good girl. He fucked me from behind whispering about how I'd watch he and his wife fucking, sitting in a corner of the room, touching myself, not being able to do anything but wank to them fucking, how I'd be their girl servant, and do what I'm told. And then I sucked him off. Walked for forever to find a cab (while I got my period in my little girl panties). Couldn't remember my apartment address. Walked a bit of the way home. Content, relaxed, relieved of a certain pressure that had been building up for weeks.

Aside from that, there is building. Growing of a "network." Although, I'm back to how I felt last year. Maybe it's spring that does this new mind twist on me. Maybe it's age. But there's a piece of me that wants to find a bit more in someone.

I described it on CL like this:

little girl missing her Daddy

I know there's gotta be a Daddy out there who is missing his little girl, too. I'm not talking about a money Daddy. I'm talking about a protective Daddy who knows that his little girl needs hugs and teddy bears, spankings when she's been bad, pink hair bands for her pigtails, a special lollipop when she's been good, walks in the park, pushes on the swing, a particular pacifier at bed time, and sometimes big girl outings. I'm not a needy little girl and my big girl job keeps me awfully busy. I am intelligent, creative, fun, thoughtful, naughty, and mature. But a big part of me misses Daddy time. Do you have an empty lap and big arms that need a to be filled?

(Please send a pic for a reply. No, I'm not a bot or seeking monetary means.)

:)

...........

There's a lot in that paragraph that could be construed as regular, ol' relationship action. Boyfriend-girlfriend hand-holding, comforting, supporting. Sure. I know this. But it's not what I want. I want those things wrapped in a clear kinkiness. I want those things within a lens of naughtiness. And I don't want them all the time.

I keep going back to how Frida and Diego lived. One complex, two houses, meeting places in the middle. What Katharine Hepburn said, "I often wonder whether men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then." I want my space, I want lovers, I want severe kink, but I also want some protection, some support, like a little bird under a dirty old wing.

I wrote down my call-to-action, as it were. As I read many, many years ago and have done off and on. Write down my interests, put them under a candle, make it a direct call to the universe. (Albeit, I'm without any candles for some reason so my Mother Mary statue will have to do. Regardless, it's my official call to the world that I know - again - what I'm looking for and hope someone will come along with some of the traits.)

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

So, all in all, my cunnie is happy, my desires aroused, my intrigued heightened, my possibilities ... endless.

Freedom in the Capitol

I christened my new apartment yesterday. A nice solo job with my jeans down around my ankles and all the freedom of porn that I wanted.

I so missed living on my own.

DC is beautiful these days (although it'll rain tomorrow). I've been a grown-up, getting up at 6am to run trial bus routes to my future workplace. I've already been assigned some work for this weekend.

Joined the Zipcar and took a many-hours drive for apartment essentials. It's my first 1-bedroom and it's obvious that I've lived in studios. Rooms that are almost finished: bedroom, bedroom closet, bathroom, coat closet, kitchen (with a whole 3 shelves of crystal glassware and punchbowl scored from the grandparents - I could host a killer booze party but don't have any food). I have no living room furniture at all except for two bookshelves. I need a couch, rugs.

I'm totally excited about this new chapter of life. I grabbed a coffee downtown by the Naval metro stop - the first coffee I've had in 10 months. I think I'll need it for pep in these early mornings. Realized that I could easily be intimidated by the suits and the "What do you do?" attitude (which equals "What can do you for me?"). But I don't care. I don't care if I don't have killer outfits, that I'm not a hottie 20-something intern, that I'm not living in the most hip neighborhood, that I can't do anything for you.

I've got some dates set up. One with an old, old friend who has known me since CDOA v.1 days and who has been such a savior in my move to DC. We're setting ourselves up in a Daddy/girl situation and I'm excited to try it out with him. I'm also meeting with a dom from FetLife for lunch. He's into women wearing dresses and skirts and I might disappoint in that arena, but we're both into watersports and he's much older than I am so that's attractive. Then, there are a few randoms from OKCupid and FetLife. I'm in no rush. There's a whole city of pervs out there and I'll have my fun.

Meanwhile, my mind wanders back to Scat Man. A guy I met for drinks in Minneapolis and then invited over to the place at which I was crashing. I let down all my guards. I went deep into my kink. I explored more Daddy/daughter roleplay and incest fantasy. The deepest I've gone ever. Where fantasy could blur to action. Where dirty talk wasn't dirty, it just was.

We had such a good time that we stayed in touch when I went back to my parents before driving out to DC. He came down for a visit and stayed in a local hotel. We fucked in the room and then went out for drinks at a small pub. We held hands as we sat at the bar and turned our heads from each other, talking to strangers we'd just met. The whole time, our hands gripping.

When we got back to the hotel we were wasted. And somehow (I don't remember the details - all the whiskey I indulged in, after days of sterility at my parents'), we were in the bathroom. I squatted, and shit in his hands. He rubbed it on my ass, on my arms, on his face. I can still see this fleck of it sticking off the side of his cheek. This is where my drunk brain woke up. Where my drunk brain saw the openness of two people. Where I saw the exploration that could be. Where I tested a limit and went beyond it. Where I trusted someone to care for me and get deep down with me. My shit. My feces. My dirtiest part. My insides... were on us. Something so much more organic and beautifully sick and honest and internal... internal... I can't think of another word. My insides came out - outside. If I have a hard time showing my emotions, speaking words of care or interest, or breaking down the barriers of mind and body -- they were gone. We were dirty and sexy and reveling in our nature.

I had that scent in my nostrils the entire next day. I kept thinking I had shit on the bottom of my shoes, like when you step in dog doo and can smell a bad scent but have no idea where it's coming from. Is it following me? Is it my mind? Oh, fuck, it's on my shoe! But there was no shit anywhere. It was just the memory lodged in my mind.

I've never gone there before. I remember Daisy, a friend who was an escort and dancer. She told me once, as we leaned over the bar and talked closely, about how a client of hers got them a hotel room, brought plastic sheeting, covered his chest, and asked her to shit on him. I was aghast with curiosity and fear. Now I know.

I do not require this kind of interaction and depth, sincerity and honesty in my everyday life, but I am changed for it. We have developed something I don't know that I could find elsewhere. But I am still pining for my future, potential lovers. And Scat Man and I relish in that: he's fucking other women, I'll fuck other men, we'll play with others. It's an easy poly situation in long-distance, but we're not as honest with others as we are with ourselves over chat or email. I had a heart sigh for him - have - but we're anchored on the same boat while freely drifting and backfloating and tickling with the octopus and mermaids.

A nice segway of safety and surprise into this new chapter of my life. I'm excited for the change. I'm excited to see how my growth goes. Many challenging days ahead with the new, high-level job. Many fun nights. Work hard, play hard. And, above all else ---- freedom.

so long, Spaniard

I hadn't had a drink in five days. He poured Glenfiddich. We talked for two hours, then we went to his bedroom. I held his hand as we stared up at the ceiling, in the dark, clothed, with The Pixies singing from his living room. Small tears slid down my cheeks. But it wasn't long before I rolled a leg over his hips and unbuckled his belt. And it wasn't long after caressing his cock that I was hungry for it. I pinned his arms and bit his nipples. Between his legs, I tickled my lips with the fuzz of his pubic hair and filled my nostrils with his scent - always so clean but still him. His knees retreated to the sky and I wet a finger at his ass. I imagined I could want a strap-on to fuck him - if we had days and days, but we did not, and his arousal was almost too far gone. I am fair play. I get mine, too. He leans up but I am clasped to his body. He lifts me and guides me to my hands and knees, pulls my jeans down but not off. He is my steady fuck and he is awarded my new virginity. His girth prodding steadily for entry, and when his cock is inside me, he speeds up. I move my hand behind me to his abdomen to push him back. "I want to feel you, all of you." The length, the slow, drawn out length of him filling me. I whimper. I hunger. I want him fast and slow and again and deep and barely the tip of his cock touching me and banging me and then slowly slowly like a whisper of nerves. I love my shudders, my spasms, my involuntarily volunteering. I love the sounds he makes when he comes. He pulls out, inch by inch, as I whine heartbroken at his departure. My face in his bed. Again, tears. Elation, relief, relaxation, sadness, I miss him already.

re: Paris is snobby

Just so you know, you’ve got it all wrong. The myth that Paris is cold, rude, insensitive is basically a lie. It’s a front. To keep all the tourists out. Sure, some still get in and have their honeymoon in Tevas and North Face, or worse, British old lady mums who gossip loudly on the metro about every little thing they see.

Regardless, it’s not true that Paris is insensitive or rude.

If you decide to walk home from your lover’s apartment - a good long hike of 5 miles at 1am - because it’s not raining and why not? And then you suddenly break down into tears mid-way through because the music on your headphones is so damn good and your dad is sick with cancer and you have ten boxes waiting to be shipped to the States and your lover has the best cock that you won’t see ever again and Paris is quiet and lovely at night and you can’t hear yourself snort and sob ‘cause the music’s just so good and loud…. There will be a guy who stops, and asks if you’re ok, and you’ll say ça va, ça va, merci, and he’ll reach out and hand you a nice little tissue from his pack.

And, he might even follow you some of the way home. Or, at least to the Seine, because he’s afraid you might purposefully drop yourself in - or maybe some other fantasy he has but never realizes because you keep on walking. Through the Tuileries. Up by the Opera. And up the hill. And up the 101 stairs.

And, my god, wasn’t that so nice of Paris to guide you home, leave you alone, not scare you with strange men or strange cars or strangeness. In fact, how sweet of her to show some kindness.

[posted on tumblr]

This week

Monday and Tuesday
the New Italian and Tall Tom

over on Tumblr for now

sigh. such a damn lucky girl.

The men as lovers in my life

Well.

Yes.

I'm finding it easier and quicker to post over on Tumblr, so there you will find a short photo post recently, and more details back on Flickr. I've become a bit more selective in who I invite to view the Flickr. I've found a few faker men who pose as women who want porno shots and I'm not interested in sharing my photos that way. If you are a legitimate reader with interest and intrigue, and you want to view the photos, then I suggest you share something with me that is consistent and makes me believe you aren't a photo spammer or faker. I don't mean to impose rules, nor do I care what you send me, or if you're married and on the sly, but be real. And, be smart. My intuition is more finely tuned than most people's so I can see through bullshit rather quickly. That said, you want to view the photos, email me.

&&&&&&&&

I could make my own movie right now if I so desired. There's the Filmmaker, the next-door neighbor actor, and then the TV Producer. Maybe I'd be cast as an extra walking down the street.

I've stopped fucking the neighbor. Well, that was a while ago, but he's made some kind gestures and I've denied them. I just have a sour taste in my mouth from our last adventure to the swinger's club bath house.

So, in reply to the Craigslist (as you can see in the previous post), I found the Filmmaker.

I also found the TV Producer by this:

I've enjoyed reading your post
I'm french, 39, divorced and single
I like some of the games you mentionned but only with chemistry and good vibes
i live in the 5th near Le PAntheon and i can host
would you like to carry on?
[insert name with é accent]

It was really his photo that captured me. And, then:
Hi dear Lola
Are you spanish or italian or american? where do come from?
congratulations for typing the accent on your last top!
regarding le pantheon i have the pleasure to have a direct view on le pantheon: to be discovered
what do you do in Paris?
i work in a production company
I really like your pics
i'd like to know more about your expectations: what sort of games do you like or what kind of ambiance?
it would be nice to have a drink
ciao cara
[insert namé]

So, we did meet. Over by the Pantheon and had drinks in a quiet, dark bar that I thought, upon entering, was a swingers club for it's drapes over the windows, the low seating, the sexual music, the quiet dignity. But it's not. Or wasn't then. We talked for a long time. He's an alumni of my school and now is in the arts. He seemed a bit dry or restrained, which made it all the more intriguing to wonder what was underneath it all.

I was bold and he was warm so I went over to his place. Up the side stairwell directly in front of the Pantheon. This man would not be a murder, he would not jeopardize his standing with blood on the carpet. I sat on the couch inside his enormous apartment and picked up a child's book on Hanukkah in French. He and his ex-wife divorced several years ago and he has a room for his 7-year old son. He's re-discovering his Jewish heritage and is feeling strongly about it. I read the book out loud, in French, and he relished in correcting me, and then, at the end of the book, chastised me when I couldn't answer the short quizzes on dates in history and moments of importance.

Then, he blindfolded me with a blindfold I felt he'd used on a few dozen other women. We had talked about this earlier. The blindfold wine test with repercussions for poorly identifying the right wine. He said he would start easy on me. He gave me sips from the glass and then sucklings of his finger dipped into the glass. Dry. Familiar. Bordeaux. Yes. He wondered if I cheated. I wondered if he made it too easy. Then, he wanted me to guess which region of Bordeaux. More finger licking. I couldn't guess. So, he educated me. While watching me squirm - blindfolded and watched. On a stage.

I was placed on my knees between his legs, bent over at the waist across his thigh, and my jeans removed. After a fashion of spanking me, he removed my blindfold and cupped my chin in his hands and turned my face toward him, his eyes reflecting mine with each slap. Squinting, wincing, begging for more and to stop. He moved my hand to his sex and I felt a steel rod. A hard cock more and more excited with each slap. It's not that his spanks were so hard or repeated in the same place to cause pain, but they were passionate and inciting, exciting.

I pulled his cock out and sucked it as he continued to spank me. There was no sex this night. And, I feared he'd fall hard for my cock-sucking and would prove to be a normal, vanilla fiend instead of a bdsm friend.

Meanwhile, I saw the Filmmaker again. As I've said before, it's important for me to get regular sex fulfilled before I worry about bdsm. And sometimes the bdsm needs scream out and I beg for some fulfillment. Filmmaker and I have started a repetition of drinking like Bukowski and Parker together - without the aggression or anger. Instead, we talk and laugh and get naked and, ever more, he takes advantage of what I offer. A spank here, several teeth-mark bruises there, more spanks until I turn red, cock-choking, bondage. Bit by bit he is unraveling and opening and using his strength. And bit by bit I'm asking for more, hinting at more. It's a nice package at Christmas.

And then, in the mornings, I am awoken with gentle caresses. The lightest fingers over my body, the smoothest kisses. On my shoulder, magic arousal of my nipples, down my hip, my inner thigh. I am a study for a sculpture in his hands. And then he enters me and I bite my lips, cringe, cry, scratch the walls. After, we get fallafel or orange juice or coffees at the cafe at 1pm. We have spent late nights up until morning, watching movies, looking at each other's photos, talking, fucking, and mornings have become afternoons. We are behaving like French kids.

Then, the TV Producer invited me over. With instructions. Dress as if I was going for an escort date. We had talked about my interest in this. Why not be paid? I've had this debate with so many people. And so many people, including the Filmmaker and the TV Producer, don't wholly understand my interest in receiving payment. I think it's because they come from a place where their cock should be enough blessing to me. And it is, but given a different situation, where the date wouldn't get wrapped up in the real, on-going date, I might be paid. And I wouldn't mind it. Even for a blow job. I just can't seem to get myself out on the streets is all. I can't join some escort service because my time is erratic. I want my dates to be good-looking. I have expectations and I'm also not at the caliber to be demanding my own clients.

So, I climbed the stairs in heels, a skirt, and a low-cut shirt - as he'd requested. When I got to the door, I took the man's tie and put it around my neck and then tied the blindfold on my eyes - noticing the previous mascara from other girls. (I should be paid.) He led me into his apartment as I stumbled slowly following his too-quick lead. He fed me little hors d’ouevers. And then we talked over slow, sexy music. He changed seats and invited me sit at his feet. I heard his zipper and went hungrily.

He took off my blindfold and I was aware that he was in a suit. I asked him if he had come from work and he told me that no, he'd dressed for our date. (See tumblr photos) He reached in his jacket inside pocket and put a condom on, lifted me up, pulled up my skirt and licked me until I couldn't stand and needed to put him inside me. I crawled on top of his lap, pants still around his waist, and tried to accept being on top. He pulled out slowly and brought me to his couch, bent me over and took me from behind. My hands on the couch sides, my hands on the couch cushions, my teeth biting my lips, my moans.

He called me a cab after and I rode home with a mix of dignity and slutiness. Perfect.

The filmmmaker and I went out again and again. And, again, had hat night (see tumblr or flickr) and he tied me up. He made me stand on a small table in the middle of his room - his rommmate gone this time, unlike the first night I was over and went for the toilet and gave her a cheek-kiss hello - unlike the second night when two girls were over and I gave them both, including the birthday girl, cheek kisses while wrapped in a sheet. He took photos of me, tied my wrists behind my back. Bent me over the small table and walloped my ass until bruises remained for days.

I came home one night from drinks with a colleague after class. TV Producer emailed me and I decided to dress quickly, pack a small bag for the next day classes, and went over. "I'm drunk-ish," I told him. He's so mellow and overly Jewish and a dad, so he remained calm, knew I was, offered me water, and then fucked me silly in his big bed. In the morning, we fucked again, which was really more like 4 hours later. Then, we had a slightly awkward dressing-for-our-day morning. His shower is like mine. He made coffee. I putzed around. He showered longer than I did. I grabbed a lotion I found and he told me it was from a former "story" (story in French often means histoire which means history which means other lover in the past). I wasn't sure if this would ruin my chances for other dates with him or not. It didn't.

The differences. As I've said before, I am not monogamous because I find that I can't align all of me to one person. The Filmmaker fulfills my need for discussion, debate, art, romance, touchy-feely, whiskey, late nights, debauchery, bowling, competition in games, laughter, photos. The TV Producer fulfills my need for anonymity, separation between classes, allure, intrigue, a daddy figure. I know I can show up at the Filmmaker's in my pajamas and expect a tight neck grab kiss. I know I need to prepare into sexy woman for the TV Producer. Things are different. I'm much more easily comfortable with the Filmmaker, but I'm challenged by the TV Producer. For instance, the former, we pay for each other's drinks or food and get each other back in turn. The latter, he gave me money - the last time - for the cab and I joked that he shouldn't pay for the cab but for the sex. He balked and got uncomfortable. There are different degrees and different planes.

And, meanwhile, there are two boys at school who are interesting. Oh my. Oh my.

But for now this is enough. And sometimes too much.

What happened to the Butcher? Well, I told the Filmmaker, I hate being bored. I don't want to be an end all be all. If I'm not challenged or feel stable, I lose interest. If you're not a James or an Andy - I guess, forget it. I don't like pedestals or anything resembling them - unless I'm being commanded to step up on one so as to be tied. The Butcher got infatuated. He showed me everything and quickly. He drinks too much when we're not together (not that I'm the catalyst, but I don't drink all the time alone). He told me he loves me after a month. A Canadian friend of mine has been dating a French guy and she attests to the same. Too fast, too deep, too needy. Not all French men are like this - take the TV Producer, he's a playboy and we talked about how most of the time he breaks women's hearts. That's more interesting to me. I don't care about my heart - not with him, not with others. And it's not because of James or Andy - for I took a lengthy call with James one night when I was out with the Filmmaker. They are now great loves I've had (and James is my best friend), like the Beekeeper. I have been loved and loved in turn. But I cannot handle being loved without loving in return. I cannot be a savior or a beauty of all beauties. Plus, the Butcher has been exhibiting desperateness in trying to date my girl friends. He's a socialite of the weirdest kind. He wants so many people around .. and I don't know why. So, now we hang out - sometimes. But he fell too hard and I did not fall. That's all. That's it.

So, tomorrow I go shopping for food, pens, folders, school supplies, thigh highs, and other girlie things. Sunday I'll see the TV Producer. Later in the week, the Filmmaker. It's enough for me. And, I am blessed for it.

Lola is... My Morning Jacket

Reflecting at midnight on Friday.

I got back to Paris on 9/11. The last few days of Geneva were rain showers, sunny glory, and then drizzling on my way out of town. Very parallel to how I was feeling in those final days.

I got back from Cinque Terre, which was a wonderful trip, albeit not a pilgrimage, but a bonding experience with my good friend The Russian, and bonding with myself. I have yet to tell her that on the final day, after she left, I went out past the shoreline and into the deeper water, and as I saw her do earlier, floated on my back facing the tall hills. Serenity in salt water, relaxation in light waves, security in the steady rocks below my feet, stability in being able to see to the bottom, and a free soul in looking up at the dusty green hills that felt so much more mighty than me, with so much presence. I am humbled by things of greatness, be it size of the landscape, beauty of a person, the profundity within the air. I tried to force myself to remember the moment. And then I had a Corona while watching the sunset on my blanket with rocks jabbing into my back.

If you want the details of the conversation between me and The Economist Beekeeper Sex God, you should click the link to the right called Tumblr. I've been quick-posting there a lot lately. It's addicting like the Status of Facebook.

Maybe it had something to do with his beauty and my insecurity that made me wonder why the hell he was spending time with me. I have no idea what he got out of our liaisons, except the obvious: sex. But he could have had it with the chick he told me about who, during their hot date at her place, ran to change and came out in a full-body Catwoman suit. He could have had it with his Brazilian chick, and he did - according to the time frame he told me, which was the night I got back into town from Cinque Terre. Maybe he liked slumming (granted, I think better of myself than that, but...). There just seemed to be no justification and he never really communicated anything. Sure, I knew all about his ex-girlfriend and how she got crazy and belittled him while he was a stay-at-home dad/journalist to their newborn. About how another ex-girlfriend came to visit him in Spain while he was on vacation for 3 weeks and she had new tits. But then - and shame, shame on me - there was the doctor's bill (sitting on top of the recycled newspapers directly next to the trash so, no, I was not digging through the trash, thank you). He was billed for 2 weeks starting the Sunday after he got back into town from Spain, ie the day after we hooked up. But I saw him those 2 weeks. And I hadn't noticed any moles removed or new rhinoplasty. Maybe it was psychotherapy. But who sees patients on a Sunday?

Hence, my doubts. And my curiosities. And I never felt at ease. And this made it all the more pleasurable to date him. The unknown, the mystery, the slight degradation I felt. The grass being greener and not being let in on the secret of the fertilizer. He charmed me with always calling me "guapa" and ending notes with "besos" of different proportions (grande, fuerte). If I could sum him up, I'd say he was probably a true Playboy like we don't see much anymore. Living a minimalist lifestyle (5 suits, 5 pairs of work shoes and a shoehorn the length of his calf, no art hung on the walls, no clutter), always with a bottle of something (Red Label, Ballantine's, wine), dashing in a sweater and white pants, a bathroom with the bare essentials but of good quality, a fridge with nothing but applesauce and pesto and juice, a good drug now and then, taking the train to work, swimming in the lake during lunch hour, and romancing a handful of girls. A veritable James Bond, with that special, forgivable shrug when caught between two lovers.

And his SMS yesterday, "...que tal paris.. beso..."

Yes, he was a character for me.

For the end of the Bike Man, well, I didn't call him after Cinque Terre. Our last rendezvous was strange, as he paced maniacally in his kitchen telling me about the former Swiss light weight champion wielding a bike frame in defense of Bike Man with a chainsaw, defending himself from a love triangle mix-up. He looked out the window the whole time like he couldn't look at me, who was amused just watching him. And then, when I told him I had to go in a half-hour, he spanked me with a newly bought crop and jacked off over me and then came. Leaving me high and dry and racing home on my bike. His fetish just became too routine and unfulfilling.

So, on the drizzly morning I had to leave Geneva, I biked over to his shop, forgetting he didn't open up until 13h, left the book I borrowed (after reading about the child-murdering Gilles des Rais, I decided to pick up a hefty book about some woman solving the Jack the Ripper case - barely got through 10 pages), with a note wondering if he'd buy back my wonderful bike if the future flatmate didn't want it. I haven't heard from him about this at all. Not surprising.

And, now, I'm back in Paris and I have the Butcher emailing me and SMSing me about 4 times a day - even before I left Geneva. I sent an email asking him to be patient upon my return, that I'd need time to settle back in, unpack, shop, readjust, and just get back into things. And yet, still, I get detailed reports about how he's living. He's a sweet guy and he and I are closer than The Economist and I got to be so we have a different conversation between us. But, like every crazy person, I prefer to be left in mystery and wondering and hoping for attention than to be on a pedestal, awaited for like the Queen sailing into town. He leaves no room for mystery or intrigue.

Example:
Me, in Cinque Terre, day after arriving there, I sent an SMS to The Economist: "pienso en vos" (thinking of you / think of you)
He SMS back: ...viento caliente...lo mismo. (hot wind, the same)

I felt compelled for some reason to send the same to The Butcher: "thinking of you"
and I got back "Hi! :-) i bet you're having great time. I've been working on antic photos with my parents. Great time, great stories! Back to paris tomorrow. Gros bisous"

And I know that this just explains the two distinct relationships I had developed with them, but they are also very distinct. And, I preferred the former reply. I guess it's a bit romantic although I swear against romance. But more than that it's this heated mystery, desire, and simplicity in depth. Or, maybe creativity. I don't know, but I saved both SMS and read them again and wondered what the fuck.

So, now The Butcher is wondering when we see each other as if he has a zillion things going on tomorrow night between 19h and 22h and thus needs to plan when I'll be coming over. I know, it's exactly like me. I like to plan things. But when, on the Tuesday before I left, I went over to the Economist's to head to the bees to transfer honey and he forgot the second helmet for the motorcycle, I was like, no problem, let me know when you get back and we'll hang out. I wasn't pining for an hour on the dot, I had packing to do, and frankly, wasn't all that interested in getting all sticky with transferring honey from one bucket to a bunch of jars - and honestly, I'd guess he knew the same or couldn't foresee there being any work for two people and *left* the other helmet as such.

I guess I want a complicated medium, as most people do. To be desired, but not to be needed. To be appreciated but not required. To be enjoyed but not an addiction. I didn't get enough of that from the Economist and get too much from the Butcher. Sigh. Life is so good. I love complexity and all the varieties of emotion of life. I am lucky to feel them.

Well, Paris is still burning lights. The street is louder than Geneva. There is no noise curfew of 10pm. It smells of urine and freshly-baked bread. I have climbed the 101 stairs to my apartment twice yesterday and three times today. I need supplies for survival. I'm also at home on a Friday night unpacking. Listening to "Strangulation" and "Death is the Easy Way" by My Morning Jacket and moaning Turkish singers and wailing French voices, while trying to avoid the Gotan Project, which is added to all my iTunes playlists and which I will not be able to unassociate from the Economist for a long time.

Oh, and there are new photos up on Flickr relating to the Saturday night with the Economist and his friend. We went to a club exchangiste and had a grand ol' time. I'll write about it soon, I'm sure.

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?