this morning

It's how I can't believe that my father is actually pulverized dust in a plastic bag, wrapped in 2 other plastic bags, sitting in a cheap urn I bought at a garage sale 16 years ago.

It's discussing with my therapist that I should re-imagine positive outcomes because I've got a mind set to believe in low expectations or none. And how we talked about my passion for photography and she suggested I take a course to get back into it. The first thing I thought about was putting up a show of the photos of my dying and dead father. It's the closest I'd ever been to a corpse. It was beautiful and strange and I wanted to giggle and scream at the same time.

It's how it's a new day and I don't have to do again what I did yesterday. Or the day before.

It's struggling to understand the best way to "turn it over" to my Higher Power, while also being in the driver seat of my destiny. Co-pilot and map-maker I suppose.

My thoughts on money for play

and a photo of my nudey body

and lovely Paris

over at tumblr.

xo

Over there yonder

I've been answering some interesting sex-related questions, as well as posting some new nudie photos over on tumblr.

Right now, I'm preparing for a playdate, but I have been job hunting, too. A naughty girl with a sugar side to me. Indeed.

xo

I am trying to break your heart

a bunch of new, autumnal photos over on Tumblr.

home - stay (photos)

I've uploaded all the photos from both March and April homestays. (They're on my flickr, which is invite-only viewing, so if you'd like to see, ask. Teaser: there's a photo of Mr FD this time.)

A lot of the April homestay photos are brutal to look at (warning) and the whole weekend isn't captured because we don't take photos during after-care cuddles, during wine drinking informality, music dancing and mind soaring to tunes, during meals, or during movie watching chill time. So don't get the wrong impression.

Mr FD is a sadist for sure. And I've discovered that I'm a masochist pain slut (contrary to what Sir Max thought and I had believed). Most of April was punishment for me as I'd accrued some lessons to learn. I think 100% of it is about learning through punishment, but there's another 100% that is divided between 70% for his pleasure and 70% for my release and turn on, which doesn't equal 100% (I'm not that bad at math, thank you), but our enjoyment is not just 50-50 because there's more to it.

March homestay report of activities seemed like by the time I posted it on CDOA I'd beaten it to death (pun intended). I had lived through it in real time, lived through it in photos, lived through it in thinking, lived through it in writing, lived through it again. I was almost fed up with thinking about it and had to let it go. This time, upon my return to Paris, I've been too busy with school to truly process yet. So, the photos - looked at on the train back, looked at in editing, looked at in uploading to flickr - haven't worn on me yet. The report is in the making and I'm eager to get the homestay out, examine it, think about it, relive it. Maybe it's a more natural progression. Maybe it's just a calmer stewing inside. Either way, you'll get your review soon.

You get the overview peek through the photos (since I've posted them before writing it up), but they don't stand alone well. I went through so many amazing emotions. I suffered, I smiled, I giggled (what is it with caning?), I cried my eyes out until I had no tears left, I went deep into recesses that had not lived inside me for years and needed to be exorcised, I orgasmed in cosmic explosions, I had an out-of-body experience in the post-orgasm shine and visited worlds I've only imagined, I was fucked well and held and kissed and loved, I cleaned my sweat out, I was faceless, I lost fear, I feared, I trusted, I tea-bagged better than the Republicans.

And these short phrases are just that.

My next homestay is in May. I'm debating whether to skip class and take a train ride on my birthday to land in Mr FD's arms again, or spend that day with myself and go the next day to him. Either way, my birthday celebration (one year older than Jesus, one year closer to death) will be with him. And as you know, I'm a bit superstitious about these annual celebrations. At 12:01am on New Years Day I need the first words I hear be good, well wishes for the beginning of a new year. Birthdays are a time to reflect on my growth in the past year and a time to imagine the possibilities of the next year. In my drunken state in Croatia with the Filmmaker, I told him that my time is running out. If the prophesy is right, I will have 6 years. I can't wait any longer. I can't put off the books inside me any longer. I knew grad school was for multiple reasons and one of them is to get me to a place where I can get all of this out finally.

So, here's to spring and blossoming. And, here's to bridging to the future sun of summer.

24-7 in 3 recap

[To the tune of "Teenage Riot," "Sugar Kane," "Bull in the Heather," "Self Obsessed and Sexxee," "Kool Thing" - Sonic Youth; "Cherry Chapstick" - Yo La Tengo // on repeat and turned up real loud]

One of my memo tasks for this past week was to write a re-cap of the weekend in Switzerland. It's time to let that weekend rest. It's been buzzing in my mind to the point where I feel consumed by a bee hive between my ears and a high-speed electric beater in my belly.

It's very strange to know exactly what I want to do with my life for the next phase, but not knowing how to get there.

There is something blossoming inside me. I can feel it in the deepest pit of my belly and in my exploding heart. It's almost like leaning my face into the most beautiful flower ever seen, looking at this aching beauty, its perfect petals, its intricate pattern, its most sweet color. It's so beautiful it hurts to look at it. It's so perfect in its expression of naturalness and existence. It just is. It was made this way and it just is this way. It's terrifying in its perfection and overwhelming. So overwhelming I want to look away and cry. It burns my eyes and I want to weep at how such beauty is possible.

This turmoil, this growth, this spring bloom - I have to remember to enjoy it while I frenzy about and while I stretch to let all the air and sunlight in. It is always in the periods of confusion and lack of direction that I end up finding my way. So, I am watching it, feeling it, aching with it, rolling around giggling with it, beating it down, tenderly loving it, fearing it, drowning it, and appreciating it. There will be an end to this stage and I'll emerge better off and renewed for the next chapter. For now, I have to ride this out and remind myself that the journey is the destination.

"It was my first understanding of the difference between process and goal, my first awareness of the truth that the goal of life is in the living of it." - Henry Miller


##############

I can't write every moment or every feeling from the weekend in Switzerland (aka "homestay"). There was just too much. From the butterflies in my belly the days preceding it, the doubt and fear, to the strange calm on the train that allowed me to do school work reading. From the deep drive to be and do the best, to the laughter over shared jokes. The calming of my mind while wrapped so tightly, to the torture of my body that now turns into Easter egg yellow. The constant swooning and the short bursts of fear. I just can't cover it all here, or in the re-cap I sent to Mr FD. There is just too much. I have changed entirely and I'm not sure what it will mean in the end. Only time will tell and hindsight will confirm.

Friday, 20th:

I traveled up, up, up into the mountains. I hadn't seen snow like this for two years. Piled high and melting as it does in the spring sun. I arrived at the station, waited a bit, and was greeted with a kiss on my right cheek. We went to a nearby cafe and smoked, drank a bit, and talked without formality or tension. The only buzzing was the clock counting down the 1.5 hours before we'd go to his apartment, and I would cross the "threshold" into 3 days of ..... well, at that point I had no idea what.

I took a deep breath at the doorway to his apartment. We didn't start right away, we didn't start heavily. He wanted to ease me into it. In thinking about the gravity of the activities and situation I was entering, I had built up fears of a cruel and torturous exchange. That I'd walk in, be stripped, and beaten right away. Of course, this is not logical and was proven to be just that: imaginary fears. Dominants - if they are not assholes or idiots - do not want to break their toys, but want to court them and seduce them into wanting more.

Me: "I truly hope you can help make me become the best sub that I can be."
Him: My principal plan for the weekend.

After talking and being informal we started in slowly.

Nakedness (with and without sound): I undressed and was naked. Not the kind of naked in the locker room of the gym. Not the kind of naked at a nude beach. Not the kind of naked with a lover. This was raw, plain, transparent, exposing nakedness. It was me, in front of him, for all the world that is in his eyes to see. And when he shut down the PC in the other room, it was completely silent, and my nakedness was even louder.

I wanted to please him with my body in its natural state and was worried he wouldn't find me attractive. I was nervous as hell and my body was tense. He gave me space to "sink into my skin." I was happy I practiced the positions the night before and that he didn’t find it necessary to tweak me much.

Positions - standard, exposition, kneel, on all fours, on all fours higher difficulty (on only elbows and knees).




Schoolgirl gets tied: Yum! I put on the white blouse and green, short skirt. I laid on the wooden floor face down and he tied my arms behind my back and my feet up to my ass.

The first test of trust was through all the emails and exchanges. The second, meeting him at the station - my intuition is expert and I follow her. The third, seeing eye-to-eye in the cafe and hearing my intuition scream "Go for it! Don't even wait the 1.5 hours! Go now! Ok, ok, enjoy the cafe time, but you get it. You've got my approval." The fourth example of trust was when my hands, tied behind my back, started to feel extra funny. Not just the tingling of rope bondage, but the dead weight, can't really lift them anymore feeling. I told him about this and he responded. My mind, where it had just 5 minutes earlier started to grin in the bobbing endorphins of rope on my body, had started to panic a bit for fear of my hands. He untied me and we realized that something was pinched... Well, he explained it all and understood this situation. I was less focused on the pinching or the elbow or the nerve or the veins or the whatever, and more focused on the awesome response I received to a moment of "too much."

Meeting all of my friends: It's a blessing to not have eyes in the back of one’s head to see one's ass. He welcomed me to the bedroom/playroom. I lay on my belly on the bed and one-by-one was introduced to some of my "friends": cane, bee sting (paddle), paddle, nasty motherfucker, bull, and “lola’s friend.” I loved hearing the sound of air moving around him and me, and the anticipation of weight, degree of impact, and spectrum of sensation. For some strange reason, while this all hurt very much and in different intensities of pain, I couldn't help but to giggle. It seems like one of my automatic reactions to this pain was to out-right laugh - and especially, when he caned me. No idea why, but I don't question this beauty. At the last round, I had to recall all their names and then choose one. I went with "bee sting" and had to choose a number. I thought of something like 6, but oh no, nothing below 10. So, we went with 10. And I had to count them out loud. I had such a high, such an incredible feeling, maybe a few tears, a lot of screams, and loved that I was a giggler.

Of course, after every intense activity he provided wonderful aftercare. I'm not going to write about every moment of this intimacy, but I was thoroughly grateful and relieved with the care he gave me. He's well practiced in ... what would one call the art of chakras? Well practiced in moving energy, channeling energy, and the like. So, a big part of aftercare - and some during care - was me, enveloped by his body, being cuddled, and his hands warming and moving me through my chakras. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I needed to snuggle in closer. Blankets around me. Light caresses, strong holds. And then, good wine or champagne or fine whiskey or rum with smokes.


Saturday, 21st:

The pee experiment: Since I have a pee fetish, I was warned about being micro-managed in this area. I had to ask when I needed to go. And on Saturday, when I asked, he wanted to know how long I could hold it. Half hour? Good, go get me a glass of water and help yourself to one, too. Maybe four tall glasses of water later my belly was full and pooching out. He led me to the bathroom, into the shower, and squatting with my hands outside the shower stall on the bathroom floor (making me lean over and making it harder to get the pee out). Simultaneously, I had to poop. Ugh. To get the pee out, I'd have to push. To push would make me go poo. Mannnnn.... Since I couldn't pee, I had to drink more water. And then jump up and down. Back to the shower and if I couldn't pee, then he'd have to leave me to do both and I'd have to clean up. Ughhhhh! I started to cry. It was so much pressure and I didn't want to make a big ol' mess. He left me for a second and I was able to switch the levers in the Wizard of Oz control room in my brain. "Wait, wait, I can do it! I can pee!" [To a vanilla reader I'm sure this is so weird.] He came back in, praised me, and let me use the toilet alone.

Protocol: Not only did I have to ask to use the bathroom, but by the end of "homestay" I asked for drinks and food and my smoking was controlled by his decision. I said thank you after any demonstration of his goodwill toward me. And when I'd forget, he'd remind me. I loved this so much more than I ever thought I would. I'm a pretty fucking independent person - raised to be so through traveling and military life, cursed to be so through my own nature. But I found myself realizing that I wanted more than anything to give this to him. Trust him enough that I knew I could stop thinking about myself, and instead, demonstrate my appreciation of his status by deferring to his judgment.

Meals: Our first meal and he cooked this incredible mash-up of lovely smelling food. I juiced the oranges and cleaned up the rope and toys and stirred the mash-up while he showered. I got a big dog bowl to eat out of. My arms behind my back, my nose covered in sauces, my tongue stretching to reach the crevice of the bowl. For the last bits he let me use my hands. I forgot to say thank you and was poignantly and properly reminded on my hands and knees with cane swats, repeating "thank you" over and over.

From "Insert: Dreaming" March 8: I asked my parents why they spanked me (since it's such a taboo for parents to do now). They both said there was no other way of getting my attention. Explaining or talking sternly to me wasn't enough for a punishment when I did bad things. Grounding didn't really affect me (as a kid - as a teen it had greater consequence) since I could sit in my room and play with my imagination. Scolding didn't do it. Threatening to hit me with a wooden spoon didn't do it. Sitting in the corner didn't do it. But spanking always always got my attention, they said.

We left the apartment once the whole weekend. He wanted to pick up some hooks and screws for the playroom and before we left his apartment for the big world, I got a super sweet treat of a kind of "chastity rope tie" around my belly and cunnie. I've never worn bondage under my clothes. I basically wore what I had on to meet him on Friday: wool tights, fluffy wool skirt and a sweater. The rope fit just fine underneath. Walking was a fun feeling. I was definitely conscious of being with him and didn't forget what the purpose of my "homestay" was. I loved the secret we had from all these other people.



Doggie play: I kneeled on the bed, facing the wall, eyes closed. He put a big, rubber, spiky bone into my mouth and tied it around my head. I closed my arms together, with my hands touching my shoulders, and he wrapped bondage tape around my arms and elbows. I closed my hands and he wrapped bondage tape around them. Bondage tape binding my thighs to my calves and tape around my feet. I was slowly converted into a pink and red doggie. Collared and leashed and taken to the hallway on my bare knees and covered elbows. With a few foot prods, I was told to hurry through the apartment. Oh my god what fun and what a challenge! The competitive nature in me came out and in my mind I was in a race. But with my legs immobile I had to scurry using these muscles I hadn't felt in a while. And scurrying turned to "oh my god this hurts my fucking knees, what's the best way to maneuver quickly?" When I made it back to the playroom, I got a rest on the bed and he took the bone gag out. Then, he sat in a chair and we played fetch. Me, scurrying across the floor for the bone and bringing it back to him. Tiring! Exhausting! And totally fucking brilliant. I loved this beyond belief. I've always loved getting rugburn on my knees after a good fucking on carpet. I've always been a bit of a tomboy. I'm always slightly competitive and love exercise. And, I've always wanted to try being a doggie. My god! What fun! ... The knees are healing still, lovely scabs.

Purple tits, metal saddle, and crying: My breasts were bound tightly. They throbbed and felt like they were pressurized with little chunks of glass – it freaked me out. I got a cloth gag in my mouth and tapped around my head, and was blindfolded. My tits were aching so much. When he caned them it was almost a relief. I tried to communicate this - more caning! more caning! But couldn't. He put me on this metal horse and I tried to stay on my tiptoes. But my tits. My god! They were screaming in my mind and I just couldn't take it any longer and had to come out. I cried and cried and cried. It was a huge breaking point. And again, he proved I could trust him. He let me out, let me cry, and comforted me.

Sunday:
Little girl with socks and Hello Kitty undies. I try to make an omelet without oil (red wine, onions, tomatoes, garlic; eggs; fresh coriander).

Him: "It's okay if it's not perfect. Everyone knows that when little girls are the kitchen it's an experiment." It becomes scrambled eggs. I get to eat with my hands. He says he wants to buy me a little baby bowl and small spoon for eating like this next time. I swoon - again in a million times.

He sits on the couch, I sit on the floor between his legs and get a special pacifier. He touches my body and warms it. Energy flows through me and shoots out my cunnie like sunrays -- or at least, that's how it feels. Tenderness.

I do all the dishes, clean up, and I write a brief explanation of the multiple personalities of Lola (ie, Adam, etc).

I'm not allowed to smoke cigarettes for a couple of hours.

Breath play: tied to a small stool, neck slightly choked with rope, hands behind my back, feet behind me around the stool. He reminds me about my curiousness about the photo on his FetLife of the hooded girl with tube coming out. I channel, I center, I prepare, I am calm. My eyes closed. He puts a plastic bag over my head and reaches between my legs with a vibrator. Intermittently holding the bag tightly where I'm gasping air between erotic huffs.


Then, I'm allowed to get out of the bondage. I sit still and a long tube is inserted into my mouth. I ease into breathing through it and he puts a light clothespin on my nose to practice breathing through my mouth only. I am blindfolded with bondage tape, untied, hands on knees, and wrapped in full hood bondage tape. He picks me off the stool, spins me, pulls me backward so I fall into his arms, spins me again, pushes me gently and then really hard so I fall backwards - onto the bed. There is saliva caught in my mouth and I'm not sure how to get it out, I panick a bit and then calm. He plugs the end of the tube and I can't breathe, then he lets it open again. Then, a breathing exercise where he breaths into the tube and I inhale. Back and forth. Practice giving up control of my breathing to him. It's exhillerating. When I come down I feel high and want to do it again.

[Break, aftercare]

I am in the bedroom, tied spread-eagle to the bed. With the amount of scare-talk and pain discussion, I imagine hours of caning my inner thighs, belly, and breasts. Instead, he removes my Hello Kitty undies and uses them as a mouth gag and I am told to keep my eyes closed. He clamps my pussy lips and slaps my open cunnie. He steps out to let me enjoy the sensations and comes back in, when he asks how I'm doing, I want to convey I'm awake and alert, and instinctually open my eyes. I am reminded not to do this and get the cane to my inner thighs (showing lovely train track bruises still now). The clamps come off and I feel something wet being inserted into my cunnie hole. I saw it the first day I was in the flat - ginger! A figging!

Going off from the writing about "Adam," and the insatiable cunnie hunger, she is filled. And it burns like my whole cunt is on fire. I feel like I'm in a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel. Or, a kinky version of "Like Water for Chocolate." My cunnie is exploding fire balls and will burn alive like a pyre momentarily. It hurts. I'm afraid. It stings. I cry so hard. And moan and groan. My head starts to sway side-to-side like I'm saying no, and I'm thinking this exactly. It's soothing. My head turning side-to-side. Some other movement to express the anguish. A new pacifier, he says. He starts talking about the empty sex I've been having, the Charlie Brown Christmas Song plays in my head, I know it's been empty and longing, I've been trying to fulfill things that aren't possible in these dates. I sob. I sob and sob. Letting go of all the sadness and pent up frustration. I don't want boring, vanilla sex anymore. He tells me I should stop having sad sex. He has no idea how much I want to do so. How much I want to fulfill myself and who I am supposed to be. How I love having sex, but want it with some kick. How I've been craving this kind of release. .... Or, maybe he does know this. Maybe he knows much better than I do. At the end, he puts the vibrator to my clit and I cum and cum and cum and even squirt a little. [The last time I squirted was by myself. The last time I squirted with someone was soooo many years ago.]

After, he holds me for a very, very long time. He had promised me a movie night and I bundle in the blanket and we go to the living room. He pulls down his movie screen and we watch Asoka, a Bollywood fim, and drink and smoke. He goes to the bedroom to work on his back and falls asleep. I fall asleep during the film, wrapped in a blanket, curled up on the floor. I miss the end of the film but he wakes me up and invites me back to the bed with him. And then he reminds me of how I want to experience 24-7, what it is, and how I'm at his bequest. While I might be sleepy, we had a long nap earlier, and he now wants me in the sexiest outfit I brought without too much effort. He wants me to roll a joint and bend over, and make porn for him. He wants a hand job while we have a deeper discussion about what's going on this weekend and what could happen further down the line. He tells me there are some things we should discuss and the direction of going deeper and further. I bring up the most relevant things that seem to impede the possibility of a deeper, longer term experience together: my need for solitude, relative freedom, career, etc. And then we talk more honestly than I could have expected. We call an invisible truce on things we omitted from each other, and we forgive. I am surprised and elated at our disclosures. It makes me feel closer.

Then, he wants to see my porn. My porn. I've only shared the deep, dark, private dreams of my inner mind with maybe 3 people, and only 1 I knew in real life. I'm excited to share and to be free of any secrets. But I'm also so shy about this. He says he likes me shy, but wants me shameless. We try to get off together, but I'm too tired and my cunnie goes shy. We sleep from 8am until when he wakes me at noon, hard and horny, he fills me with his cock and cum.

We nap as best we can and get up at 2pm. Fruit for breakfast and I'm stuffing it into my mouth and he notices how hungry I am and gives me the last bits. I offer him the last pineapple and he takes it. I'm so giddy and I'm so high and oblivious and not paying attention to lessons learned. He had pointed out hours earlier that I should ask if I can have something, like water. I finish the fruit and wash it down with water. I exhale loudly in fullness of the moment, turn to him and see his eyes. A look of "Who do you think you are?" I get a face slap and my eyes tear up. Not for the pain, but for the disappointment and rudeness. He immediately changes the tone of things and makes a joke of me being a silly girl. He brings the conversation to a light place and removes the heavy guilt I could have had.

It's a challenge to break the independence streak, to realize I could be looked after and could be dependent upon this person. I want to be dependent. I respect him for his intellect, taste in music, how well read he is, his caring, his professionalism and expertise in bdsm, his seemingly genuine good-person-with-mean-bastard streak, the way he lives his life and work, his imagination.... and so it's not difficult to want to be the best sub I can be. It's just not automatic in so many regards. I have the feeling I would like to satisfy him, and in turn want to give up the self-consciousness I have, the independence and placement of my regard. This in no way means I become a doormat or a helpless, weak person or forget who I am. Who would want to hang out with that? But it means that my priorities are re-aligned. For example: our night snack of fresh salmon as a sashimi. There were 2 cuts of fish. In wondering if I should cut both or just one, I asked if I could have some, as well - for proportion judging. He suggested I ask, instead, if I should cut both and then serve him, then he'd decide if I should have some (which would happen in this instance - why deprive my starvation if it's good for me and wouldn't complicate anything [reference withholding cigarettes prior to breath play]).

My god, re-reading this just now makes me so wet. "Of course," says my mind. And, "finally," says my being.

Different mind thoughts (priority of wrap-up before the train back to Paris): Me: clean the kitchen, let it all dry while cleaning the bedroom and toys, then pack (thinking of self last); His: pack to be ready to leave any time, clean the bedroom and toys, and then dishes/kitchen - more important to have a sub clean her toys than doing the dishes.

His comment: Yes. Pack first so we can then use time as its best and you don’t forget important stuff such as your camera (silly girl). Also it frees your mind of one mandatory to do and keeps you fully here until leaving time.

And then, the loaned movies, the reading, the homework, the work to center and focus myself between now and the next "homestay." The music. The wine for our last talk about channelizing and if we have anything else to share or discuss. I did not get to shower - to learn to get over being self-conscious, and to keep the scents and stink on me from the past couple of days.

I’m not the main event or the main focus. This, in bdsm, is not about me. And I don’t want it to be about me. Riding the train back, as a grease monkey was a challenge, for sure. I did brush my teeth. Despite the fact I felt I looked disgusting, I continued to notice men noticing me – just like when I was on my way to “homestay.” Leering eyes, hungry eyes. Strange.

Him: Not that strange if you really think about it.

#######

I've posted the photos from the weekend on Flickr.


#######


Me: ...And, please, when you decide our time is up - after April / May, whenever - please be gentle in letting me know. I'm falling deeper and deeper into you/this, and know I can survive heartbreak (as Hedonyste pointed out so eloquently on FetLife comments), but would gratefully appreciate a soft letting go to a sadistic one ;)

For now, being here now... I'm the luckiest girl in the whole wide world.

Him: It's always a good omen when one writes "I'm the luckiest girl in the whole wide world."

I don't recall mentioning anything about any time up, little anxiety bomb.

I remember mentioning I can offer continutiy and care.

Now, your life as a whole comes first and things will move and shift around a lot in the next few months. I will help you in making your choices with the most benevolent heart.

In the meantime you focus on two things: acing the end of your studies and being the best sub you can be to me. Live to the fullest in the here and now. Have faith.


#####

photos ©Mr FD

Lolita

It's 5 million and 2 zillion fantasy night.

I just finished writing a 6-page re-telling of how I lost my virginity for a woman who is seeking stories for a compilation. The compilation was initiated as a concept for her 14-year-old daughter. She wants to communicate to her that losing one's virginity won't wreck one's life forever - no matter how it happens. I suggested she make a book and seek a publisher if she gets some good stories (FYI: she is looking for people under 50 to tell theirs, from all over the world, gay or straight or whatever, so if you want to write yours - in anonymity or full-on disclosure - let me know).

But now I'm moving into thinking about bdsm stories. I could go over a long list of what I’ve done and just stay there, but I want to dream about what could be (or might just be in my mind) - and explore why.

The first one that comes up most strongly is the little girl. I can imagine being asked about why I like the Daddy/little girl scenario or age play or older/younger theme. I saw a woman a little bit younger than me on the metro today. She sat opposite her older-looking boyfriend and at one point reached across to him and straightened his scarf and zipped his jacket. A gesture of love, caring, or overbearing I have no idea. But for me, I just couldn't imagine doing that. Not to say I haven't done it before, because I have. But I don't want to do it anymore. Sure, if there were a huge spider on his lapel or a tag sticking out, I might want to readjust the situation by brushing it off or tucking it under, but I wouldn't purposefully "straighten him out" as such. Instead, I feel better being the object of that love, caring, overbearing correction. That's a part of it, I suppose.

Another part of it has to do with my eternal youth. People have always said I look about 6 years younger than I am. I've always gone after adventure, explored, loved learning, longed for being taken care of (in doses), needed to be disciplined by someone else, strived to make people happy (while balancing the "I could care less what you think of me" self-confidence), looked up to wise people and craved their knowledge, adored older men, sought approval or recognition for good deeds (although I also do good things for the sake of doing them), and have always retained a curiosity and spontaneity that mirrors the recklessness and eagerness of youth. I am not helpless or sick mentally. I am not weak or lazy. I don't have an unhealthy adoration of my own father.

I own about 20 girlie panties. Ones with cherries, birdies, cartoon characters like Cookie Monster, little poodles with words "pretty girl," Supergirl styles, etc. I usually wear thongs for daytime activities, and then come home and immediately get into a pair of the girlie ones. If I'm lazy and have to run to the store, I might keep them on. I've tried to incorporate them in sexual liaisons or play dates, although this wasn't very often, and never in the past two years. It's not just the comfort factor, because I could pick plain, big lady panties if I wanted that. Instead, I like them because they feel good, are super cute, love what they imply, and can't wait to be able to wear them freely with someone someday!

I can imagine sitting in my Hello Kitty panties, and wearing one of my kid tee-shirts (my favorite is pink, has the dot candy on it, and says DOTS in big letters over my boobies). Maybe I'm on a cozy blanket on the floor. Maybe I'm baking cookies, using my fingers to mash or roll the dough. Maybe I'm at the kitchen table zoned in on a Crayon drawing. Maybe I'm over a knee getting a spanking for doing something bad. Maybe I'm exploring my private parts. Maybe I'm watching Sesame Street and learning my alphabet. Maybe I'm in a sundress on a swing at the playground. Maybe I'm sleepy and brushing my teeth while getting ready for beddy bye. Maybe I'm playing a game of Scrabble with my Daddy.

Sundresses. I love girlie clothes - for particular moments and mostly in the summer. I do love wearing skirts, although in school or work life I prefer pants and jeans. But in those right moments, I love dressing like a little girl. I have several pairs of knee-high socks that I wear all the time and most of my woman dress shoes are based around the Mary Jane style. ... Ha! I'm twirling my finger around one of my pigtails right now.

I'm not sure if there's a certain age I fall into when feeling girlie. I have a pacifier that I picked up in the infant aisle of a store - it says "I love Daddy." I wanted to buy a plush blanket and some of the toys, but didn't. I did own a rubber ducky vibrator when I had a bathtub, and love bubble baths. I used a Sponge Bob toothbrush for a while, and used a sippy cup (although they’re so damn small for drinking enough liquids). I've never worn adult diapers but I'd consider it - for pee play, but I've never been interested in poopie. I don't imagine being able to "goo-goo" as my only language. So, I don't think I fall into an adult-baby role per se.

I'm also not too attracted to behaving like a sexually-charged teenager, because I associate that more with rebellion and seeking independence, both of which I'm not eager to engage in or exaggerate. I was this for many years beyond teen years. As a punk rocker in my 20's, I'd wear short plaid skirts, a thong, and boy boxers, combat boots and tight tank tops. I did this to great effect and affect. I have dressed up as a Catholic school girl for many Halloweens. I'm still into the dress-up factor, but I'd rather be somewhere where I can play in a sandbox, revel in finding new bugs, learn about new ideas, be creative without being conscious of it, and still have disciplinary rules upon me. (Basically, take those elements and grow them up and you'd have me now: still interested in getting messy, adventurous, exploratory, creative, and imposing my own discipline.)

This doesn't necessarily translate into something sexual, but there is an element that I like to incorporate. No, I was never sexually abused or taken advantage of as a kid - neither by my father, other relatives, or strangers. In fact, I was the instigator many times in sexuality exploration with other kids. I was the "boy" in play with a girl friend when we were eight years old -- on top of her and humping like we knew what we were doing. I asked a boy to show me his and I'd show him mine. I'd never really, deeply played with this girlie side within a sexual context. Some lovers might have taken care of me on a certain level, but only a few dared to go into a space where they'd actually focus on me being a little girl and them being older. Two in particular come to mind. One, a vanilla lover, was turned on when I opened the Pandora's box and he saw me - my body - looking like a 16-year-old's and how hot that was. A dom I played with who was twenty-years my senior got into it with me and even went so far as to make me promise not to tell anyone, not mommy, not anyone at school.

At first, I found it silly. I'm a grown woman, and I'm conscious of wanting this but felt ridiculous acting it out. Also, with others my age, I couldn't quite grasp the idea that I could be girlie, under their care or instruction or seduction. And with the dom, I did find it titillating but I wasn't sure I wanted the whole "secrecy" thing - don't tell anyone. I do recall replying back to him though, "I promise not to tell anyone. Am I better than Mommy? I want to be better than Mommy."

So, from here where? I have enjoyed going to sleep with a lover and gently sucking on his cock as a pacifier. I definitely can imagine doing it again. I'd love to get fully into the little girl Lolita. Pigtails, panties, tee-shirt and no bra, a sundress or tomboy jeans. I could make some fingerpaint art for my daddy, beg for bedtime stories, clean up my room in twenty minutes flat, be left alone to play with my smarty pants mind toys, or help take care of any of daddy's owies or needs. I wanna have lollipops, an’ cereal every morning, and an apple a day keeps the doctor away, watch cartoons, go for bike rides, look at birds in the forest, be silly, draw faces on my hand with a purple pen, make birthday cakes, go to the zoo, learn new star names at the planetarium, watch worms in the mud, take baths and scrub behind the ears, meet other little girls and boys, get big pushes in the swing, go sledding down big hills, drink hot cocoa, paint my nails with bright pinks, get bruises and push on 'em, pick at my scabs, wear elephant band aids, drink juice out of my sippy cup, and ask daddy any question I have even if it's naughty.

Yup. That’s what I want. Uh huh.

Oh, and teddy bears and big hugs. I wanna watch scary movies and close my eyes real tight. I wanna chase the pigeons and catch butterflies. Wanna write letters to Santa Claus and try to find four-leaf clovers. Wanna learn how to cook and be careful of fire. Wanna have chores to do like washing dishes or taking the garbage out. Wanna listen to “Free To Be, You and Me” and sing real real loud. Wanna help Daddy fix things and learn how they work. Uhmmmm… What else? Hmmmm… Want Daddy to help me pick out the right clothes and tell me if it’s gonna be real cold or real warm out today. Wanna wanna hmmm…. Be a good girl for sure. Yeah. I think that’s it for today.

(To see the images in larger size, you need to have viewing access to my Flickr pix.)

The joy of sub

aka Everyone needs a reason for poetry

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New photos and words

There are new photos over on Flickr, including the sets:
One-night stand via taxi
"Slut" by flimmaker
The Spaniard 1 and 2
Halloween night and the day after (featuring Tall Tom and a few drunk kids, as well as a few glimpses of school-girl Lola)
Spanking with the TV Producer
Italian playboy


It's Friday and I don't care that it's a weekend because week days have been weekends. I'm home, laundry is drying, and I'm catching up on relaxation, photos, writing, chilling.

I'm not sure if it's that I'm fiercely independent, or so content where I am right now, or that I just don't miss my immediate family, but I saw some photos of Thanksgiving and it looked like snore-bore and yawn and tension - and I didn't feel like I missed anything. I had a half-hour Skype with them before they had to cook the turkey and I ran off to have pasta al dente with the Italian. It made me cringe. My sister has such an expertise at retaining unhappiness and being passive-aggressive. My mother is clearly drowning in suburbia and has no idea how to help herself. My father looked perpetually bored and regretful. And this was just a half-hour, from across the pond, through a video stream. I do love them. I do. But I just can't stand to be with them very much. My dad and I get along the best because we have a knack to cut through bullshit and talk politics, real life, and can be honest with each other. But even he's a fucker - not so nice to my mom always (but they're going on 40 years anniversary so it can't be that bad). And, I'm certainly not perfect in the mix. I only wish I could know what they honestly thought.

I haven't seen the filmmaker in a month. He's out at a 1920's party tonight, to which I was invited and forwarded to him. I need to see him again, but in moderation. There was so much whiskey and crazy Lola.

The one-night-stand guy keeps SMSing me about when I want to hang out again. Ugh. Not with a dude that shows up at the door in his boxers and tee-shirt, with the TV blaring. Yucky.

The Spaniard sent me a short story about him emailing with a chick who wanted him and her boyfriend to fuck her. He ended up meeting the boyfriend, going to the same bathroom stall in a restaurant and jacking off together. He moved further across town so it's not as easy to see him.

Especially when the Italian lives 10 minutes walking distance from me. The only thing is that the Italian seems to be on a rampage. Free from his 3-year relationship (the last 2 years he cheated though), he says he's "experimenting" right now. I'm not sure where I fit into that experimentation, but he fucked a virgin midget. Yes. He told me the whole story after he said he was "experimenting." He fucked a teacher. He fucked a married Mexican woman, taking her ass virginity. It's strange to see myself in a mirror. Although, I know I'm a MUCH better kisser - after the first night I came away with chin rug burn from his stubble. I'm also more interested in finding a rotation of reliable lovers, whereas he just seems to be out to fuck all the women in Paris. He's had at least twice as many lovers as I have in the past month. It kind of makes me feel dirty, which makes me think about my own lifestyle. .... But then, he pulls out the olives, bread, homemade guacamole, wine, and makes pasta al dente. And in the morning he pours perfectly strong coffee, serves small chocolate croissants, and homemade tiramisu. This morning he had to leave super early for work and SMS'd me: "Buongiorno bella, whenever you wake up there is a tiramisù waiting for you. I made it for you, don't disappoint me... baci"

On Tuesday night, Tall Tom took me to dinner. A kir royale to start. I had escargot, he had funny mashed potatoes. Then, he had the veal and I had the salmon. We shared our desserts and had two bottles of wine. 80 Euro dinner. He's very sweet to me, which throws me for a loop. He calls me, tenderly, "silly Lola" and is treating me so nicely, almost like a girlfriend. I'm not sure how I like this. I like the secrecy part of it, as he attends my program, but just started this year so we don't have any classes together. But then, in the morning, he wants me to pet his head and body and wants to roll me over into his arms, resting my head on his chest. I told him it felt awkward.

Strange.

Strange things.

School is fine. It was quiet for the past 3 weeks, which was totally needed. Now, I'm seeing the finish lines for papers and need to get working. In my small group, we've finally figured out what our final project will be, which will involve a multi-national corporation, a European Union directive, an emerging economy in EU, and making an enterprise risk management toolkit to integrate into their plans for expanding their markets into this country. Should be fun! Some travel, some interviews, some work. Meanwhile, I'm also starting the job search. ... Know anyone hiring? I'm really good at ... um... well.. heh.. No, I won't do that. Silly!

Look for my expanded entry on my trip to Bahrain. My bag searched in a Muslim country, me working for Euros, the ex-pat party with gay Saudis, the flight over Iraq, the thousand men and one woman, the camels, etc...

all I could find

(sorry for the blurred faces - to protect the innocent)

Perfectly describes Halloween Party 2008:











a bit of the Lola












drunk dancing

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.

photos

By the way, I've added some new photos to the CDOA Flickr site. Me and the economist. Me and the bike man.

If you don't see anything besides a handful of photos when you click here, it's because you don't have access to the private viewing. Ping me if you want it.



Preview:

Whatever Lola Wants...

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

For your viewing pleasure

new photos up on flickr

from Boudoir Charnelle - bdsm and rope!

from the swingers - echangistes, although the girl bailed so I was left to the two men!

...anyone know where a girl can post a naughty video without getting in trouble?

Where has Lola been?!

Soon, I promise:

Craigslist the Good Hook-Up (with amazing sex and a clean toothbrush).

The neighbor and the couple swapping at the hamman: anal sex included.

India was wonderful and complicated - no sex, all work.

When I got back I had my period and bad timing so I was dry for a total month.

Party with the RAF (Royal Air Force - the winner of the Craigslist is a military man), his friend and his mistress/girlfriend. She left, poor thing, and missed the fun.

(examining the potent liquor given by the landlady. far right: RAF)











I got it up and down and on the bottom.











Then, it was up to Edinburgh for the Scotsman and a weekend during which I felt for the first time like I was on vacation. (There's even a nice long video from this trip.)











So, this is to whet your appetite. I have not given up writing on CDOA. I have not given up on you. I have stories to tell and I will tell them this week and weekend. And then, I'll make more.

latest photos and girl love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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