Spiraled notebook paper torn out:
*Sat 12 days ago last bowel movement 1/29
Revlen antiametics / other nausea meds avail
coat throat
__________________________________________
cancer answer
CT scan not show clear growth, but "leakage" in abdomen indicates cancer
^^^^^^^ word?
coat on upper GI near stomach
Fri: chemo plan for weekend
If nourishment not staying down, tube to intestines.
hyperalimentation
froz. pudding orange magic cup
milkshake van.
__________________________________________
cl. undies - tees
3-4 diapers/day
Tues - chemo last 2/1
nutrition -
Wed 2/9 - froz pudd orange magic cup; milkshake van, ? diarrhea all night (6x); Dr M 4:30pm
Thurs 2/10 - no mom; bread apple AM; vomit @ night
when I left: mac & chz, mash pots; some diarrhea Dr M 5pm
Fri 2/11 - no mom; 1 nutrition AM @ bfast;
Adv Dir Pwr Attrny updated, on file
- bfast:scr egg, apples, white toast, 1/2 long john, tea - still full 3pm
- has Ensure
- doc visit 8am: platlets too low for chemo ATM
dinner: spag, wildbry ensure, 6, 630 AM diah aggressives
- 125/83
- firmer BMs
- Aly PM -> 11:30
- Dr. Hawking weekend
Sat 2/12 - cup applesauce, supplement, yogurt, org spice tea ---- vomit, all came up
- 8:30 doc Hawking
- platlets? CBC?
- new bed?
- 12pm diah more watery lots
- bad dreams: bright, vivid, dark, depressive
- nap 1230-1
- Angie nutritionist: delay supplements, motility: better than solids sometimes, Reglen - diarrhea, another motility drug? side effects? small solids with no liquids, separate solid and liquids, liquids only: 2-3 meals/snacks? cold and dry post-chemo and not hot; sacchrine reject taste buds (nutritional supp) --> saltines/graham crackers, toast, fruit (strawberry juice bar --> ask in a bowl)
not enough, options:
1) tube nose bypass stom -> intestine, temporary, can go home, can try eating with it (size: top IV, pliable)
1b) line stom -> intestine
1) @ home with pump (continuous or few intervals) or gravity feedings or syringe so many CCs @ time
2) motility and nausea b/c GI; more nutrition thru vein more than IV, perentual outside GI tract port or new, yellow vitamin-colored proteins fat into vein -- in-patient, if you can't eat at all insurance covers; higher risks foreign into vein - infection, $ insurance
Sun: solids, snack, lunch
Sat: PM crm chkn soup; snack: Saltines
- ? diff med than Reglan? exacerbates diarrhea? arithromyacin smaller dose IV
- mid-week < 1500 --> tube discussion
magnesium, phosphorus, albumin (protein) pre-albumin
- people recording tray eating
** 2 pillows from dad bed slightly foldable
- 132/79 3:15pm Lbs: 158
-6:36pm soup, 2/3 yogurt, 1/2 tea
Sun 2/13: cr wheat, orange jello, 2% milk 8:30AM; magnesium shortage
**black pen, refills travel bag, undies/shirts
crackers 7AM (2)
lunch 12pm: chicken soup, vanilla ice cream, org jello, magnesium done 12pm, might do more Monday
? amortization - signing by Mom only?
----> Mom writes:
Dawn said not necessary - no rush.
Lunch 1:20 ate: Clinc Sauge (?) 1/3 jello and all ice cream
Vitals: 98 temp, 135/73, 98 oxgy. <----
Laps: 2am, 3 @ 2pm
160.2
toilet after walk: pee
5.1 potassium (3.5-5.2 good) goes to drop -> 20: 125/hr -> 100/hr
74 platlets (Sat 67, Fri 62)
3:30: 98.6, 130/83
4pm: Reglan
Denise = RN
__________________________________________
CFO: backfills for retirement under critical positions; HCO: nationwide hires normal program work
__________________________________________
mac & chz
mash pot & gravy
chkn noodle
scram eggs
wh toast
applesauce
crm of wheat
light very cherry yog
orange spice herbal tea
vanilla ice cream
orange sherbert
Tiffany - discharge
Sue/Janelle - case management - TPN lipids, metabolic / Dr Gui
12pm supplies
Janelle - home health / home care 830-930 call day of visit
Tiffany - discharge paperwork
Sue - until Sat if not working - case mgr (Rita, Jane)
Dr Gui - metabolic (TPN orders)
insulin?
Nurses - ? home diff
TPN --
TPN 7pm - 7am
home care - 5pm nurse
Hospital Home Care Plus - infusion, formulation meds, mixing
Hospital Home Care - 830-930 am call, let know doc appt, 2 visits first 2 days (tonight, tmw AM)
2/week - first 2 weeks --> 1/week
__________________________________________
picnic: Volta Park 12-4 for AA
__________________________________________
*********************************************************************************
I sewed 2 quilts for Christmas. One for my mom and one for my sister, featuring my dad's tee-shirts. You can see them over on tumblr. I'm making my own now. My sister told me the first year is still shock and maybe by the third year we realize he's really gone. I know he's dead. I know this. But I don't believe it still. It just seems like he's on a trip somewhere. And maybe that's the real truth anyway.
I also knitted 3 scarves and we randomly picked the one we wanted.
I gifted my mom a pair of earrings and me/my sister a necklace - all from our trip to Colorado to bury my dad.
I made a photo album of the photos from the slideshow and added in photos from our trip to Colorado.
Pretty much Christmas was a close-out of The Year of Dad Dying.
I'm hoping there's some new fun in 2012. Not that there wasn't fun in 2011. I went camping and made awesome friends. I got over fears of people that I had developed from drinking and isolating. I got over dislike for animals and adopted an awesome cat. I found my Higher Power and got on my knees for help. I had awesome, sober, fun New Years Eves. I went from standing at the bus stop wondering, "I do have pants on, right?" to gussying up in a skirt and boots. I stopped trolling Craigslist and haven't had sex since October. I baked and cooked all kinds of delicious treats. I joined the gym. I flew to the Midwest 6 times and decided to go other places in the next year. I made friends with women and found I could be friends with men without feeling sexual toward them. I went to therapy and cried my eyes out. I worked through the 8 steps with a super chill sponsor who finds me "illuminating" and is patient through my freak outs. I watched someone die with love and am living with that love.
I think 2012 has potential and I'm ready for whatever comes.
But I have changed a lot this past year. And one of the things I think about is that this blog really doesn't suit me. Sure, I need a place to write it all out - even if only sporadically every other month - but I'm not really Cheating Death Once Again. (Granted, we all are every minute of the day, but that's beside the point.) I'm more Sampling the Life Buffet or something touchy feely like that. We'll see what evolves.
Whatever happens, I'll let you know and hopefully you'll let me know.
Wishing you a delightful New Year. Wishing you a New Year that exceeds what you deserve and is better than you imagined ♥ ♥
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
1,383
Total documents from 1987 until 2009. It's mostly 2005 onwards. I know I have notebooks and notebooks from 1986-2005. Only 1/10000 of them have been logged into a computer.
I'm overwhelmed with where to start. I don't think I want to be this kind of editor. It all seems interesting to me because it's my own history. Could it be another girl's life? Would someone relate to this? How boring is this? The latter, I've decided to follow the principle that if I feel like it's a dreary task to spell-check and capitalize, then I should move on to the next more interesting bit. Whether any of this is good is beyond me. Hell, I have no idea why I'm doing it, except there's just so damn much of it!
I'm overwhelmed with where to start. I don't think I want to be this kind of editor. It all seems interesting to me because it's my own history. Could it be another girl's life? Would someone relate to this? How boring is this? The latter, I've decided to follow the principle that if I feel like it's a dreary task to spell-check and capitalize, then I should move on to the next more interesting bit. Whether any of this is good is beyond me. Hell, I have no idea why I'm doing it, except there's just so damn much of it!
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Lighthouse
Celine gave me good hash.
It's been nice to remember my relationship with drugs. It's been nice to roll a joint again. I have fond memories of this. I have skills. It's why I dropped out of college. I discovered that I had other talents - not just for debating Kant, analyzing the diverse voices in a work by Sherman Alexie, or writing incredibly descriptive essays for English class -- for an assistant professor who invited Gordon Gano, from the Violent Femmes, because his dad was their lawyer. I had other talents, too, though. Rolling joints, getting high, fucking, and rockin' out at punk rock shows. Not that those, in and of themselves, say something - but they do point to a certain release and re-evaluation of my abilities. All of these activities brought out something more deep in me. Revealed new parts of myself to my eyes.
I remember sometimes losing my grip on the roach holder. Or, nights where everyone took turns rolling a joint - and, would compare techniques. Filterless. Dan, with the redhaired afro, who listed to Pavement all day long, made pizzas all night, and was so riddled with shyness that he barely spoke a word. The Teller of Penn. He'd sometimes roll two papers together and make us all high for the night. There'd be boys and girls who'd come and go. Taylor, the jock-ish kid who embodied "tall, dark, and handsome." Not too wise, but smart enough. Not as many girls came through the mix. But when they did, those boys fell so hard in love.
We never talked much about that though. We'd talk about scoring, pooling our cash, meeting the kid down at the Jim Carroll show at The Whole (or insert your choice: Scooby Don't, The Strike, J Church, Dillinger Four, Avail, Man Afraid, Propagandhi, Tribe 8). Or, someone would collect, and then all of a sudden between morning classes and your afternoon lab, Dan or Eric or Shane would show up with a big bag of grass. We talked about how to do this, and we talked about doing it, with dry gutter weed, or sticky sweet dope, picking the seeds out, and gazing in awe at how hairy it was, glistening under the one lamp in the room, the individual scent of each bag, or the familiar smell of the same batch in town, how the body would buzz or zone or hunger or fuck. We, also, talked about musical notes, we turned up the music real loud and stuffed a towel under the door, and after a while, we started getting up. Inevitably, we would end up in a slow, shoulder-hunch slinky line to the doors of the dorm. There was always one kid who'd wandered around "the other day" and found this "fucking cool ass spot." Sometimes we jumped fences. Sometimes we hid in shadows. Sometimes we got caught - and were lucky they had a girl with them.
I could never roll a perfect joint. They always looked like a snake had eaten an elephant. Or a hat.
This summer, Mr FD reminded me about this. He liked joints. Ones with tobacco and weed mixed. I could remember this from doing it in Spain. It's a nice high, where instead of the brain turning to trails of lights and feeling unable to move, it feels capable and alert, yet overwhelmingly mellow. I learned how to roll, man, did I learn. Filter, long Rizlas that I wasn't familiar with, loosening the tobacco in a small dish, de-steming the grass, mixing the two into a once-in-a-while perfect cone. We'd listen to music, too. He had the tall speakers, and he'd move the ottoman to the center point of listening, I'd sit and sometimes just rock out - Aidonia from "Jamaica's Most Wanted Mixtape," Baden Powell, Antipop Consortium, Gnarls Barkley, Reverend Charlie Jackson, Ann Peebles, and then old familiars from the college days, Praxis and Parliament.
So, now, I'm rolling my own tonight. Re-learning my way around hash is fun. Celine's 24-year-old roommmate (who sports a 7 o'clock shadow, spiky hair, and used to work for Quicksilver) scored some. Apparently hash is what you smoke when there is no grass around town. It was funny to have drinks with Celine this past weekend and watch four guys his age get high and doll up for going out clubbing.
Interesting. She said a few things while we watched some UK humor flicks. Things like, I'd "never let her before." To my comment that we should have spent more time together hanging out during school. Things like, "Are you comfortable? You're leaning on your hand. You can sit back if you wanna." I found them just friendly gestures at the time. Hm.. I guess I did kiss her and fondle her tits the other night.
So, now, I'm sitting outside on the balcony terrace, it's night cold, and the Eiffel Tower light sends out its beacon like the lighthouse. The stars are out, hazily winking through the light clouds. I can barely differentiate the clouds from the sky but for a faint hint of grey contrasting to a darker dark blue. Yes, one could say, a midnight blue.
And then an interesting thought. There might be nothing that can be done about the past, but the future you can change.
It's been nice to remember my relationship with drugs. It's been nice to roll a joint again. I have fond memories of this. I have skills. It's why I dropped out of college. I discovered that I had other talents - not just for debating Kant, analyzing the diverse voices in a work by Sherman Alexie, or writing incredibly descriptive essays for English class -- for an assistant professor who invited Gordon Gano, from the Violent Femmes, because his dad was their lawyer. I had other talents, too, though. Rolling joints, getting high, fucking, and rockin' out at punk rock shows. Not that those, in and of themselves, say something - but they do point to a certain release and re-evaluation of my abilities. All of these activities brought out something more deep in me. Revealed new parts of myself to my eyes.
I remember sometimes losing my grip on the roach holder. Or, nights where everyone took turns rolling a joint - and, would compare techniques. Filterless. Dan, with the redhaired afro, who listed to Pavement all day long, made pizzas all night, and was so riddled with shyness that he barely spoke a word. The Teller of Penn. He'd sometimes roll two papers together and make us all high for the night. There'd be boys and girls who'd come and go. Taylor, the jock-ish kid who embodied "tall, dark, and handsome." Not too wise, but smart enough. Not as many girls came through the mix. But when they did, those boys fell so hard in love.
We never talked much about that though. We'd talk about scoring, pooling our cash, meeting the kid down at the Jim Carroll show at The Whole (or insert your choice: Scooby Don't, The Strike, J Church, Dillinger Four, Avail, Man Afraid, Propagandhi, Tribe 8). Or, someone would collect, and then all of a sudden between morning classes and your afternoon lab, Dan or Eric or Shane would show up with a big bag of grass. We talked about how to do this, and we talked about doing it, with dry gutter weed, or sticky sweet dope, picking the seeds out, and gazing in awe at how hairy it was, glistening under the one lamp in the room, the individual scent of each bag, or the familiar smell of the same batch in town, how the body would buzz or zone or hunger or fuck. We, also, talked about musical notes, we turned up the music real loud and stuffed a towel under the door, and after a while, we started getting up. Inevitably, we would end up in a slow, shoulder-hunch slinky line to the doors of the dorm. There was always one kid who'd wandered around "the other day" and found this "fucking cool ass spot." Sometimes we jumped fences. Sometimes we hid in shadows. Sometimes we got caught - and were lucky they had a girl with them.
I could never roll a perfect joint. They always looked like a snake had eaten an elephant. Or a hat.
This summer, Mr FD reminded me about this. He liked joints. Ones with tobacco and weed mixed. I could remember this from doing it in Spain. It's a nice high, where instead of the brain turning to trails of lights and feeling unable to move, it feels capable and alert, yet overwhelmingly mellow. I learned how to roll, man, did I learn. Filter, long Rizlas that I wasn't familiar with, loosening the tobacco in a small dish, de-steming the grass, mixing the two into a once-in-a-while perfect cone. We'd listen to music, too. He had the tall speakers, and he'd move the ottoman to the center point of listening, I'd sit and sometimes just rock out - Aidonia from "Jamaica's Most Wanted Mixtape," Baden Powell, Antipop Consortium, Gnarls Barkley, Reverend Charlie Jackson, Ann Peebles, and then old familiars from the college days, Praxis and Parliament.
So, now, I'm rolling my own tonight. Re-learning my way around hash is fun. Celine's 24-year-old roommmate (who sports a 7 o'clock shadow, spiky hair, and used to work for Quicksilver) scored some. Apparently hash is what you smoke when there is no grass around town. It was funny to have drinks with Celine this past weekend and watch four guys his age get high and doll up for going out clubbing.
Interesting. She said a few things while we watched some UK humor flicks. Things like, I'd "never let her before." To my comment that we should have spent more time together hanging out during school. Things like, "Are you comfortable? You're leaning on your hand. You can sit back if you wanna." I found them just friendly gestures at the time. Hm.. I guess I did kiss her and fondle her tits the other night.
So, now, I'm sitting outside on the balcony terrace, it's night cold, and the Eiffel Tower light sends out its beacon like the lighthouse. The stars are out, hazily winking through the light clouds. I can barely differentiate the clouds from the sky but for a faint hint of grey contrasting to a darker dark blue. Yes, one could say, a midnight blue.
And then an interesting thought. There might be nothing that can be done about the past, but the future you can change.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
finished
I have just finished the saving the entire history of every CDOA. I now saved every motherfucking entry I have written.
Now, comes the task of re-reading and sorting them into something that makes sense. Short stories - with photos where available. Poetry - the good, the bad, and the worse. Essays - on politics, current affairs, past memories. Longer stories - of love, of lovers, of ghosts, of dead people.
I've gone as far back as 2001.
That's a lot of fucking words.
Now, comes the task of re-reading and sorting them into something that makes sense. Short stories - with photos where available. Poetry - the good, the bad, and the worse. Essays - on politics, current affairs, past memories. Longer stories - of love, of lovers, of ghosts, of dead people.
I've gone as far back as 2001.
That's a lot of fucking words.
If by, you mean
Thursday, August 29, 2002
life is so beautiful some days
when you find the perfect quotes:
"Drink you under the table? I believe I'll drink myself under the hostess!" .. unknown
"If you mean whiskey, the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.
"However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life's great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into Texas treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it. This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle." ... anon
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Today:
"Anon" has a name and immortality.
"In political discourse, if-by-whiskey is a relativist fallacy where the response to a question is contingent on the questioner's opinions and use of words with strong positive or negative connotations (e.g., terrorist as negative and freedom fighter as positive). An if-by-whiskey argument implemented through doublespeak appears to affirm both sides of an issue, and agrees with whichever side the listener supports, in effect, taking a position without taking a position." (wiki)
"Anon" is actually Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr., a young lawmaker from the U.S. state of Mississippi.
Columnist William Safire popularized the term in his column in The New York Times:
IF BY WHISKY
THE GREAT POLITICAL straddle exemplified by the if-by-whisky speech was attributed here to Gov. Fuller Warren of Florida in the 1950's [incorrect attribution]. An earlier and richer formulation was submitted by Norman L. Simpson of Syracuse, who found an undated and unattributed clipping in his family archives; he dates it to the 1920's, during discussions of the repeal of the Volstead Act prohibiting the sale of liquor:
"[insert the above quote by 'anon']"
The if-by-whisky technique is still in active use. Asked by Jonathan Alter of Newsweek if he was not too sensitive to criticism, Gov. Mario M. Cuomo of New York replied:
"If by thin-skinned you mean very, very quick to respond -- that's what I've done for a lifetime. I'd been a lawyer for more than 20 years. You can't let the comment from the witness pass.
"If [ by thin-skinned ] you're talking about being personally sensitive to criticism, that's a lot of [ expletive ] ."
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The other two Safire columns on that page are awesomeness. Jungle becomes Rain-forest.
life is so beautiful some days
when you find the perfect quotes:
"Drink you under the table? I believe I'll drink myself under the hostess!" .. unknown
"If you mean whiskey, the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.
"However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life's great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into Texas treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it. This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle." ... anon
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Today:
"Anon" has a name and immortality.
"In political discourse, if-by-whiskey is a relativist fallacy where the response to a question is contingent on the questioner's opinions and use of words with strong positive or negative connotations (e.g., terrorist as negative and freedom fighter as positive). An if-by-whiskey argument implemented through doublespeak appears to affirm both sides of an issue, and agrees with whichever side the listener supports, in effect, taking a position without taking a position." (wiki)
"Anon" is actually Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr., a young lawmaker from the U.S. state of Mississippi.
Columnist William Safire popularized the term in his column in The New York Times:
IF BY WHISKY
THE GREAT POLITICAL straddle exemplified by the if-by-whisky speech was attributed here to Gov. Fuller Warren of Florida in the 1950's [incorrect attribution]. An earlier and richer formulation was submitted by Norman L. Simpson of Syracuse, who found an undated and unattributed clipping in his family archives; he dates it to the 1920's, during discussions of the repeal of the Volstead Act prohibiting the sale of liquor:
"[insert the above quote by 'anon']"
The if-by-whisky technique is still in active use. Asked by Jonathan Alter of Newsweek if he was not too sensitive to criticism, Gov. Mario M. Cuomo of New York replied:
"If by thin-skinned you mean very, very quick to respond -- that's what I've done for a lifetime. I'd been a lawyer for more than 20 years. You can't let the comment from the witness pass.
"If [ by thin-skinned ] you're talking about being personally sensitive to criticism, that's a lot of [ expletive ] ."
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The other two Safire columns on that page are awesomeness. Jungle becomes Rain-forest.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The bathroom blow job
Found.
Written March 1, 2008.
I suppose I didn't post this because of shame. I should have used a condom.
But I'm posting it now because I feel shameless. Because I am Popeye.
&&&&&&&&&&&
I'm at least 25% lesbian. It's true. A soft pair of girl lips and a nice rack resting just below mine. I cave. I should stop trying to tell people I'm not gay. I'm gay and happy and straight and curvy and not well defined at all.
I'll finish the Craigslist story, I promise. (If there's more to what happened weeks ago I promise to tell. If there's not, I'll tell what happened back then [with the Royal Air Force].) But since then, times have been dry. Mojave Desert. India in between and then period-ville. Bad timing and bad backburner boys to choose from. I've been holding out, but I already know that holding out is automatic punishment. I shouldn't wait for people.. despite the prize possession I would offer them (renewed virginity - after a month of not fucking I can be so tight).
So to break the spell, I went out to the club on Wednesday to see Tapes 'N Tapes (from Minneapolis). Chatted it up with the bartender. Ended up with too much Jack and not enough Coke. Kisses, and found films on my digital camera with his face and whispers. He called the next day and I met up with him Friday afternoon. Class in the morning, buy some hand weights - gotta get back in shape!, run them home, eat lunch at 3pm, change clothes, meet bartender boy.
We meet in a café in a neighborhood I'd been in before. I had to get my study visa in this neighborhood. I had an x-ray of my lungs and was given an identity card. We settled into a booth in a nook.
"Boy" was man and he let us make small talk for only so long. He pulled out the bar napkin with drunken scrawl: "Lola-Chicago - I don't want <3 - I want fuck." I remembered this before he reminded me, but this was confirmation. Well, at least it's out on the table now.
He leaned in and rested his steady hand on the back of my head and kissed me. Almost trance-like, I was pulled into his lips and tongue and boldness. Directness is a drug for me.
He pulled away and smiled. He pointed out that he would not blush, but would I? Of course I would. It's not a question of modesty, it's a question of realizing my reality. If I stop and think about it, I see myself from outside and feel on stage. If I keep kissing though, I will have no rouge cheeks. His hand on my bare knee and up under my skirt at the thigh. Do I like what he's doing? Yes. His hand up under my skirt moving my cotton thong apart from my skin. I didn't shave. I want to tell him I'm a bit more hairy than usual because I didn't foresee this. I should start foreseeing more.
"I'm going downstairs. You should follow me."
I hem, haw, read my French-English dictionary, and follow. As I walk across the café, I make my face look like, "Hm, he went to the bathroom. That's actually a good idea. I think I will, too, real quick. La dee da. Nothing to see here."
I head calmly down the stairs and see him washing his hands at the basin. We kiss. He tries one bathroom door but it's locked. He tries the other one and we duck into it. We kiss again, and he pulls my tit up through the low neckline of my shirt. I ask if he has a condom. No. He fingers me inside my panties.
I could just kiss the whole time but I know that time is of the essence and something's going to happen with or without condoms. Bathroom. Short time span. What to do. I unzip him. He leans back against the wall and brings me with him. I kneel. He bends over and reaches into my shirt and bra and oohs at finding my nipple pierced. He's sensitive, he says. He wants to go slower. I could make him cum, he says. I suck his balls while he jacks himself. He gets
&&&&&&&&&&&
And that is the end of what I wrote. I remember he came.
I have a fleeting idea that I either puked or spit in the toilet. Or, perhaps I simply wiped my mouth with toilet paper and avoided the streak of semen on the floor as I walked out.
He had to leave for work shortly after that. He bought the espressos and called me several times after. I never saw him again.
Written March 1, 2008.
I suppose I didn't post this because of shame. I should have used a condom.
But I'm posting it now because I feel shameless. Because I am Popeye.
&&&&&&&&&&&
I'm at least 25% lesbian. It's true. A soft pair of girl lips and a nice rack resting just below mine. I cave. I should stop trying to tell people I'm not gay. I'm gay and happy and straight and curvy and not well defined at all.
I'll finish the Craigslist story, I promise. (If there's more to what happened weeks ago I promise to tell. If there's not, I'll tell what happened back then [with the Royal Air Force].) But since then, times have been dry. Mojave Desert. India in between and then period-ville. Bad timing and bad backburner boys to choose from. I've been holding out, but I already know that holding out is automatic punishment. I shouldn't wait for people.. despite the prize possession I would offer them (renewed virginity - after a month of not fucking I can be so tight).
So to break the spell, I went out to the club on Wednesday to see Tapes 'N Tapes (from Minneapolis). Chatted it up with the bartender. Ended up with too much Jack and not enough Coke. Kisses, and found films on my digital camera with his face and whispers. He called the next day and I met up with him Friday afternoon. Class in the morning, buy some hand weights - gotta get back in shape!, run them home, eat lunch at 3pm, change clothes, meet bartender boy.
We meet in a café in a neighborhood I'd been in before. I had to get my study visa in this neighborhood. I had an x-ray of my lungs and was given an identity card. We settled into a booth in a nook.
"Boy" was man and he let us make small talk for only so long. He pulled out the bar napkin with drunken scrawl: "Lola-Chicago - I don't want <3 - I want fuck." I remembered this before he reminded me, but this was confirmation. Well, at least it's out on the table now.
He leaned in and rested his steady hand on the back of my head and kissed me. Almost trance-like, I was pulled into his lips and tongue and boldness. Directness is a drug for me.
He pulled away and smiled. He pointed out that he would not blush, but would I? Of course I would. It's not a question of modesty, it's a question of realizing my reality. If I stop and think about it, I see myself from outside and feel on stage. If I keep kissing though, I will have no rouge cheeks. His hand on my bare knee and up under my skirt at the thigh. Do I like what he's doing? Yes. His hand up under my skirt moving my cotton thong apart from my skin. I didn't shave. I want to tell him I'm a bit more hairy than usual because I didn't foresee this. I should start foreseeing more.
"I'm going downstairs. You should follow me."
I hem, haw, read my French-English dictionary, and follow. As I walk across the café, I make my face look like, "Hm, he went to the bathroom. That's actually a good idea. I think I will, too, real quick. La dee da. Nothing to see here."
I head calmly down the stairs and see him washing his hands at the basin. We kiss. He tries one bathroom door but it's locked. He tries the other one and we duck into it. We kiss again, and he pulls my tit up through the low neckline of my shirt. I ask if he has a condom. No. He fingers me inside my panties.
I could just kiss the whole time but I know that time is of the essence and something's going to happen with or without condoms. Bathroom. Short time span. What to do. I unzip him. He leans back against the wall and brings me with him. I kneel. He bends over and reaches into my shirt and bra and oohs at finding my nipple pierced. He's sensitive, he says. He wants to go slower. I could make him cum, he says. I suck his balls while he jacks himself. He gets
&&&&&&&&&&&
And that is the end of what I wrote. I remember he came.
The brain reconfigures memory, reorders events, resets them among other events to form narrative, causality: it creates sense. The mind tells itself stories about what happens to it. So me saying that I did X because of Y rests on thousands of assumptions about who or what I think I am, how I thought of myself then—transmuted into how I think about myself now.
...Any sort of attempt to sort meaning from the past is fraught in thousands on thousands of ways, exponentially splintering. The more you think about it the more it asymptotically approaches impossibility.
This is not to suggest we shouldn’t attempt it. The attempt is glorious, and attempting rewires the brain. It moves the circuitry around, attaching a new conclusion to an action, reconstructing self. In a way, thinking about the self hacks it. [Essay as Hack - Ander Monson]
I have a fleeting idea that I either puked or spit in the toilet. Or, perhaps I simply wiped my mouth with toilet paper and avoided the streak of semen on the floor as I walked out.
He had to leave for work shortly after that. He bought the espressos and called me several times after. I never saw him again.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
I only cried once
When I walked out of the Customs and Immigration area, I spotted my sister coming toward me from behind a column. I could have sworn I saw my dad there, and that he'd leaned back behind the column so I wouldn't see the surprise. But, she and I hugged and walked toward the parking area, and he wasn't there. I almost cried from the made-up surprise and my need to hug him.
My sister and I had even planned a good ol' cry-fest, which sent her fiancé looking forward to an evening work event. We made some guacamole, turned on the TV to some modeling show where people get criticized and voted off at the end, and drank some white wine. I needed to cry so badly. We'd half-jokingly planned this night after she'd told me she didn't cry at dad's cancer diagnosis. Even when she'd Skyped me about it, neither one of us did. We processed the news with red eyes. We considered the next steps. We questioned and answered and shared information. We moved forward.. calmly.. toward the exit signs as flight attendants signaled the procedure of crossing our hands over our chests. We went feet first. We took command of the lifeboats - hers in the white and grey hospital, mine in the grey and yellow city. She only cried when she got back to her fiancé, holding it together over the long, sad, free distance of the highway. Now, it was my turn. It was my time to let it out. But the TV moved images and the wine sank feelings. It was nicer to go outside than inside.
After the surgery, on the last day with my parents in the small hometown, I had packed the car, we had lunch and I was waiting for a friend to call so I could swing by on my way to Minneapolis. We waited, with nothing new to say. Dad wondered why the reading chair was pulled so far away from the wall. Mom, curled up on the couch with her legs tucked under her, said it didn't need to be. There wasn't anything much to say. He'd showered. She'd already been to the pharmacy the day before. She and I both had been to the nearby farmers' market - the first test of leaving my father alone in the house. And, we all knew I was leaving. It was kind of a drawn out silence. I always hated those. And their house is always that kind of bored silence. Just waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Dad had gone upstairs for a nap. Finally, I got the message that my friend was free. It was getting late. I ran to the bathroom for a last pee. Ran upstairs and hugged my dad, we'd already talked about my promises to come home in a couple of months, and he was already dozing into a sick man's rest. I wanted to cry but it would have cost too much energy. I jogged down the stairs quietly. Put my arms around my mother's shoulders and smelled her sweet, soft skin. When did her skin start changing into an old lady's? I still couldn't cry. Pulled away from the house and waved out the window for the full block, even after I'd turned the corner. It's just tradition. Wave until you can't see them anymore.
The only time I cried was the day of the surgery.
Another role I'd taken on was the documentarian. The first photo: of my sister's face as she drove us away from the airport, along the US highway to her house in the 'burbs. The photos of my aunts, uncle, grandmother, and parents at dinner. The photos of my parents in the hotel room. As my sister had described it from her living room, "There's no modesty. Mom's changing into her nightgown in front of you. Dad's using the bathroom all night. That's why I asked for two separate rooms the night before surgery. It's just too much, really." I'd already brushed these things off. Maybe it was working in health care (albeit the politics of it, but I still learned how to answer imploring, semi-public questions about "What do I do if [insert 'I find a red rash' or 'my boyfriend forgot a condom' or 'I've got this kind of itch' or 'a friend of mine - ahem - thinks she might be pregnant']?"), but all of this stuff didn't really phase me when I imagined the hospital or the hotel room. It was like we were kids again, staying in some chalet at the base of the Alps. Dad and mom sleep in this bed, we sleep in the other one.
And it was just like that. Dad was already in his pjs when my sister and I arrived to the hotel. (After all, I had to wait out a tornado eating a veggie sandwich at the Subway in Hastings. My sister had to hide in the basement with her dogs and cats. And the traffic was miserable between the Cities and Rochester.) He shoo'ed us out for dinner, which he wasn't allowed to have the night prior to surgery. It was a miserable dark, drab, yellow restaurant on the first floor of the hotel (although I did just now almost type 'in the basement' because it was that miserable). The waitress must have been in her mid-twenties, and she shouted everything. I imagine she did this because most of the customers are elderly, although I could tell by the hush in the place that the customers were just fine of hearing. Maybe she imagined the opposite. Or, maybe she couldn't handle the silence of the sickly and their loved ones. Either way, the place was fucking freezing and I had to run upstairs to get a sweater. The wine was already on the table - a horrible white. My sister and mother sat opposite me and we toasted, a little like strangers, a little like family, a little like a family of strangers really. My mother a beedy-eyed, wrinkled, pink and burnt rust, twitchy mess. (I'm sure my ADD comes from her side. I'm still grateful she refused the doctor's orders to put me on meds when I was a tyke, but I often wonder if she couldn't use their assistance. At least I got my father's genes to balance out the mania.) My sister, god, looking at her, I can see the amazing genes of youth in our blood. We don't age. She more than anyone. No one would know she's close to forty. She's a bit more plump than years ago, well, she's leaning toward fat, but it's still a controlled, Aphrodite, roundness. But her skin! In that dark, yellow haze, she looked angelic, Cherubic, like Rubens' Venus.
We got up at 5am and met our parents at 5:35 at their room. Dad was in his track suit. There's a photo of my sister as we're leaving the hotel lobby. A blurred photo with her eyes wide and tongue kind of sticking out, like we're off on a skiing adventure. I suppose that's really the last time we were all a family together, as opposed to angry or hating each other, or adolescents, or for a funeral, or a quick lunch. The next photo is of my father, facing us, explaining something and moving his hand in a hard, chopping motion, as if trying to show he was still in charge, at 5:35am, without any food in his system, facing a full day of surgery, about to lose a major part of his manly innards. I can't remember what he was saying. I think we were debating crossing outside or using the underground tunnel. The hospital entrance was literally across the street.
They weighed and measured him. He'd lost half an inch from his standard height. He's starting to shrink. God. He was changed into a light blue gown. People always write that, don't they? No one really knows what the hospital light blue gown is unless they've seen it. My sister's right. There's this side of the game and the other side. When you're on the non-cancer side, the cancer side seems very, very far and foreign. But once you've landed into the cancer club, there's a secret understanding. It's not a cool place to be, not a club with discounts or two-for-one cocktails. But everyone in this club does, at least, get you. Yeah, the light blue gowns. Sure. I know what you're talking about.
I took photos as we sat there. My mom and sister looking at their iphone or blackberry. My dad talking to the pretty lady nurses, trying to charm them. (Of all the 20 or so nurses over the 9 days only 2 were men, although almost all the techs who irrigated and aspirated were men.) Then, we walked down the hall. He and the nurse turned the corner, and he almost kept on going, but I stopped him. "Hey, give us a hug." "Yeah, Dad," said my sister, "you gonna leave without a hug good-bye?" He hugged us both, kissed our foreheads, and kissed my mom on the lips.
I can't remember how that first day went for food. At some point, my sister or mom went and got coffee for us. Then, at some point, we left for lunch all together and came back and they'd crossed our names off and written "See Desk." He'd now been assigned a room on the 5th floor and we could go there to wait. He wasn't out of surgery and recovery until 8pm. His face was as puffy as the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, tucked up over the hospital blankets. At about 9:30pm I offered to call and order in pizza for delivery. Not much would happen the first night. He was too drugged up and wasn't even moving.
They met me over at the hotel room. My sister's fiance had - in his wonderful wisdom - packed us like 3 bottles of wine. My mom - not one to be without her own - had brought 2 small boxes and a couple of bottles. Strangely, she still followed her routine and stashed the wine boxes under the sink. Alcoholics don't change much - anytime, anywhere, I guess. Even after I told her she didn't have to keep it under there. They still never moved until we packed up and left the hotel.
We toasted, a simple toast, "Yay!"
We ate the unimpressive pizza.
We turned on the TV.
I went to the bathroom and was just completely overcome. He hadn't died in surgery. (I had asked him nicely not to slip off into anesthesia land ne'er to return.) The doctors had said he did well. They'd gotten most of the tumorous cells. He was going to be fine. My sister and I hadn't killed each other. In fact, I loved her more now. My mother hadn't driven me crazy. In fact, I was finding myself pitying her less and accepting her more. Things were going to be fine. But I just couldn't help it. Out of nowhere I was sobbing and I unlocked the bathroom door, walked slowly over to her bed, and curled up next to my mother in a ball. Like a little girl.
She patted me and asked what was wrong.
"I'm sad," I said. I didn't know how else to explain it. I wasn't really sad. I wasn't all that exhausted. I wasn't too terribly overwhelmed. I was actually relieved. But that's not how I could explain it.
"Oh, don't be sad, sweetie." She said he was fine. He'll be fine. Why am I crying. There's no need to cry.
My sister, from the opposite bed, said, "It's okay. She's just got to do it. She's finally letting it out. It's not that she's sad really. She's just got to cry.... You know, mom, the day I left the hospital last time, it took all my energy not to break down in the car on the way home. It took Alex hugging me to let it all come out."
She was still patting me. But it was as if she was stroking a dog. There was no movie-style embrace, where the mother rolls over and engulfs her child, shielding them from the world. She kind of kept on watching TV. I know, it's not all her fault. After all, there were many times before and even at least once during this trip that I told her to stop staring at me. But, maybe, she could have been a bit more gentle or caring.
I asked her if she'd cried yet. Or, had she gotten comfort yet. "Well, Jackey and I talk. And Pamela and I meet for coffee and talk. But..." I can't remember what she said between my sniffling and deciding to stop crying. That was enough. That was good enough. In her explanation though, I'd sensed she didn't really either want to talk about this with us or didn't know how. I sat up. Finished for now. Looked over at my sister. "Thanks for interpreting."
&&&&&&&&&&&&
Thinking back on it. If it hadn't been that my mother was in the room. If it hadn't been for some kind of pride. If it hadn't been for her forever thinking that she was more of my mother than my own mother was (although she might be right), I would have gone to my sister's bed to cry. And, I know she would have rolled over, engulfed me, stroked my hair, hugged me hard, and told me it was ok. Or, not said anything. She would have just been there.
&&&&&&&&&&&&
inspiration from The Easter Parade by Richard Yates
"I don't know. He said once -- this was when I was engaged to Donald Clellon -- he said that a man ought to be happy in his work before he got married, and maybe it was partly that. He was never happy in his work, you see. I mean, he'd wanted to be a great reporter, somebody like Richard Harding Davis, or Heywood Broun. I don't think he ever understood why he was only -- you know -- only a copy-desk man."
And that did it. They had been holding back tears all evening, all night, but that phrase was too much. Sarah started crying first and Emily got up from the floor to take her in her arms and comfort her, until it was clear that she couldn't comfort anyone because she was crying too. With their mother lying in a coma twenty miles away, they clung together drunkenly and wept for the loss of their father.
My sister and I had even planned a good ol' cry-fest, which sent her fiancé looking forward to an evening work event. We made some guacamole, turned on the TV to some modeling show where people get criticized and voted off at the end, and drank some white wine. I needed to cry so badly. We'd half-jokingly planned this night after she'd told me she didn't cry at dad's cancer diagnosis. Even when she'd Skyped me about it, neither one of us did. We processed the news with red eyes. We considered the next steps. We questioned and answered and shared information. We moved forward.. calmly.. toward the exit signs as flight attendants signaled the procedure of crossing our hands over our chests. We went feet first. We took command of the lifeboats - hers in the white and grey hospital, mine in the grey and yellow city. She only cried when she got back to her fiancé, holding it together over the long, sad, free distance of the highway. Now, it was my turn. It was my time to let it out. But the TV moved images and the wine sank feelings. It was nicer to go outside than inside.
After the surgery, on the last day with my parents in the small hometown, I had packed the car, we had lunch and I was waiting for a friend to call so I could swing by on my way to Minneapolis. We waited, with nothing new to say. Dad wondered why the reading chair was pulled so far away from the wall. Mom, curled up on the couch with her legs tucked under her, said it didn't need to be. There wasn't anything much to say. He'd showered. She'd already been to the pharmacy the day before. She and I both had been to the nearby farmers' market - the first test of leaving my father alone in the house. And, we all knew I was leaving. It was kind of a drawn out silence. I always hated those. And their house is always that kind of bored silence. Just waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Dad had gone upstairs for a nap. Finally, I got the message that my friend was free. It was getting late. I ran to the bathroom for a last pee. Ran upstairs and hugged my dad, we'd already talked about my promises to come home in a couple of months, and he was already dozing into a sick man's rest. I wanted to cry but it would have cost too much energy. I jogged down the stairs quietly. Put my arms around my mother's shoulders and smelled her sweet, soft skin. When did her skin start changing into an old lady's? I still couldn't cry. Pulled away from the house and waved out the window for the full block, even after I'd turned the corner. It's just tradition. Wave until you can't see them anymore.
The only time I cried was the day of the surgery.
Another role I'd taken on was the documentarian. The first photo: of my sister's face as she drove us away from the airport, along the US highway to her house in the 'burbs. The photos of my aunts, uncle, grandmother, and parents at dinner. The photos of my parents in the hotel room. As my sister had described it from her living room, "There's no modesty. Mom's changing into her nightgown in front of you. Dad's using the bathroom all night. That's why I asked for two separate rooms the night before surgery. It's just too much, really." I'd already brushed these things off. Maybe it was working in health care (albeit the politics of it, but I still learned how to answer imploring, semi-public questions about "What do I do if [insert 'I find a red rash' or 'my boyfriend forgot a condom' or 'I've got this kind of itch' or 'a friend of mine - ahem - thinks she might be pregnant']?"), but all of this stuff didn't really phase me when I imagined the hospital or the hotel room. It was like we were kids again, staying in some chalet at the base of the Alps. Dad and mom sleep in this bed, we sleep in the other one.
And it was just like that. Dad was already in his pjs when my sister and I arrived to the hotel. (After all, I had to wait out a tornado eating a veggie sandwich at the Subway in Hastings. My sister had to hide in the basement with her dogs and cats. And the traffic was miserable between the Cities and Rochester.) He shoo'ed us out for dinner, which he wasn't allowed to have the night prior to surgery. It was a miserable dark, drab, yellow restaurant on the first floor of the hotel (although I did just now almost type 'in the basement' because it was that miserable). The waitress must have been in her mid-twenties, and she shouted everything. I imagine she did this because most of the customers are elderly, although I could tell by the hush in the place that the customers were just fine of hearing. Maybe she imagined the opposite. Or, maybe she couldn't handle the silence of the sickly and their loved ones. Either way, the place was fucking freezing and I had to run upstairs to get a sweater. The wine was already on the table - a horrible white. My sister and mother sat opposite me and we toasted, a little like strangers, a little like family, a little like a family of strangers really. My mother a beedy-eyed, wrinkled, pink and burnt rust, twitchy mess. (I'm sure my ADD comes from her side. I'm still grateful she refused the doctor's orders to put me on meds when I was a tyke, but I often wonder if she couldn't use their assistance. At least I got my father's genes to balance out the mania.) My sister, god, looking at her, I can see the amazing genes of youth in our blood. We don't age. She more than anyone. No one would know she's close to forty. She's a bit more plump than years ago, well, she's leaning toward fat, but it's still a controlled, Aphrodite, roundness. But her skin! In that dark, yellow haze, she looked angelic, Cherubic, like Rubens' Venus.
We got up at 5am and met our parents at 5:35 at their room. Dad was in his track suit. There's a photo of my sister as we're leaving the hotel lobby. A blurred photo with her eyes wide and tongue kind of sticking out, like we're off on a skiing adventure. I suppose that's really the last time we were all a family together, as opposed to angry or hating each other, or adolescents, or for a funeral, or a quick lunch. The next photo is of my father, facing us, explaining something and moving his hand in a hard, chopping motion, as if trying to show he was still in charge, at 5:35am, without any food in his system, facing a full day of surgery, about to lose a major part of his manly innards. I can't remember what he was saying. I think we were debating crossing outside or using the underground tunnel. The hospital entrance was literally across the street.
They weighed and measured him. He'd lost half an inch from his standard height. He's starting to shrink. God. He was changed into a light blue gown. People always write that, don't they? No one really knows what the hospital light blue gown is unless they've seen it. My sister's right. There's this side of the game and the other side. When you're on the non-cancer side, the cancer side seems very, very far and foreign. But once you've landed into the cancer club, there's a secret understanding. It's not a cool place to be, not a club with discounts or two-for-one cocktails. But everyone in this club does, at least, get you. Yeah, the light blue gowns. Sure. I know what you're talking about.
I took photos as we sat there. My mom and sister looking at their iphone or blackberry. My dad talking to the pretty lady nurses, trying to charm them. (Of all the 20 or so nurses over the 9 days only 2 were men, although almost all the techs who irrigated and aspirated were men.) Then, we walked down the hall. He and the nurse turned the corner, and he almost kept on going, but I stopped him. "Hey, give us a hug." "Yeah, Dad," said my sister, "you gonna leave without a hug good-bye?" He hugged us both, kissed our foreheads, and kissed my mom on the lips.
I can't remember how that first day went for food. At some point, my sister or mom went and got coffee for us. Then, at some point, we left for lunch all together and came back and they'd crossed our names off and written "See Desk." He'd now been assigned a room on the 5th floor and we could go there to wait. He wasn't out of surgery and recovery until 8pm. His face was as puffy as the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, tucked up over the hospital blankets. At about 9:30pm I offered to call and order in pizza for delivery. Not much would happen the first night. He was too drugged up and wasn't even moving.
They met me over at the hotel room. My sister's fiance had - in his wonderful wisdom - packed us like 3 bottles of wine. My mom - not one to be without her own - had brought 2 small boxes and a couple of bottles. Strangely, she still followed her routine and stashed the wine boxes under the sink. Alcoholics don't change much - anytime, anywhere, I guess. Even after I told her she didn't have to keep it under there. They still never moved until we packed up and left the hotel.
We toasted, a simple toast, "Yay!"
We ate the unimpressive pizza.
We turned on the TV.
I went to the bathroom and was just completely overcome. He hadn't died in surgery. (I had asked him nicely not to slip off into anesthesia land ne'er to return.) The doctors had said he did well. They'd gotten most of the tumorous cells. He was going to be fine. My sister and I hadn't killed each other. In fact, I loved her more now. My mother hadn't driven me crazy. In fact, I was finding myself pitying her less and accepting her more. Things were going to be fine. But I just couldn't help it. Out of nowhere I was sobbing and I unlocked the bathroom door, walked slowly over to her bed, and curled up next to my mother in a ball. Like a little girl.
She patted me and asked what was wrong.
"I'm sad," I said. I didn't know how else to explain it. I wasn't really sad. I wasn't all that exhausted. I wasn't too terribly overwhelmed. I was actually relieved. But that's not how I could explain it.
"Oh, don't be sad, sweetie." She said he was fine. He'll be fine. Why am I crying. There's no need to cry.
My sister, from the opposite bed, said, "It's okay. She's just got to do it. She's finally letting it out. It's not that she's sad really. She's just got to cry.... You know, mom, the day I left the hospital last time, it took all my energy not to break down in the car on the way home. It took Alex hugging me to let it all come out."
She was still patting me. But it was as if she was stroking a dog. There was no movie-style embrace, where the mother rolls over and engulfs her child, shielding them from the world. She kind of kept on watching TV. I know, it's not all her fault. After all, there were many times before and even at least once during this trip that I told her to stop staring at me. But, maybe, she could have been a bit more gentle or caring.
I asked her if she'd cried yet. Or, had she gotten comfort yet. "Well, Jackey and I talk. And Pamela and I meet for coffee and talk. But..." I can't remember what she said between my sniffling and deciding to stop crying. That was enough. That was good enough. In her explanation though, I'd sensed she didn't really either want to talk about this with us or didn't know how. I sat up. Finished for now. Looked over at my sister. "Thanks for interpreting."
&&&&&&&&&&&&
Thinking back on it. If it hadn't been that my mother was in the room. If it hadn't been for some kind of pride. If it hadn't been for her forever thinking that she was more of my mother than my own mother was (although she might be right), I would have gone to my sister's bed to cry. And, I know she would have rolled over, engulfed me, stroked my hair, hugged me hard, and told me it was ok. Or, not said anything. She would have just been there.
&&&&&&&&&&&&
inspiration from The Easter Parade by Richard Yates
"I don't know. He said once -- this was when I was engaged to Donald Clellon -- he said that a man ought to be happy in his work before he got married, and maybe it was partly that. He was never happy in his work, you see. I mean, he'd wanted to be a great reporter, somebody like Richard Harding Davis, or Heywood Broun. I don't think he ever understood why he was only -- you know -- only a copy-desk man."
And that did it. They had been holding back tears all evening, all night, but that phrase was too much. Sarah started crying first and Emily got up from the floor to take her in her arms and comfort her, until it was clear that she couldn't comfort anyone because she was crying too. With their mother lying in a coma twenty miles away, they clung together drunkenly and wept for the loss of their father.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Needs v Wants
Sure, I've thought about this. I know the difference in life in general. But it's interesting to frame it within the bdsm lola-ville.
In my 24-7-3 recap, I noted that crying in scene and at the end of scene was liberating. He might have laughed at me as a suffering little girl, crying for the pain of labia clamps or doggie competition exhaustion. And then he would hold me after a scene when I'd sob as the only way to let all the endorphins and emotions release. But I made the comment in my recap: "Crying. I need it. You need it. Enough said."
His feedback on this statement was: "You have nothing whatsoever to do with thinking about my needs. I take care of them. Crying is something I enjoy a lot, but nothing more than that. Some of my partners never cry and I have no problem with that.
More widely I have wants and fancies, lots of them. The more one person can deliver, the more she interests me.
I am of course glad that crying is a need for you."
This has launched me into an exploration of need v want. As I said, I know what mine are in life in general, but in this special bdsm world? Not sure if you can read this link on FetLife without joining the group, but I'm in the middle of reading this. (Although right now I'm trying to pay attention to some bullshit about epistemic communities within diffusion of innovation and policy-making. Bleh.) Someone in this discussion linked over to The Submissive Guide website. I started the reading of this series and it's really rather trite and almost condescending in its simplicity. But it's got me thinking. And I'm going to spend some time exploring this in the blog.
For starters, I don't think crying is a need. I think it's a want and even a sub-want. But I do note a longing to cry when I haven't for a while, a want to cry at least once in a year. But is it a need? I've got to dig around here, and then start being more succinct in my use of words.
In my 24-7-3 recap, I noted that crying in scene and at the end of scene was liberating. He might have laughed at me as a suffering little girl, crying for the pain of labia clamps or doggie competition exhaustion. And then he would hold me after a scene when I'd sob as the only way to let all the endorphins and emotions release. But I made the comment in my recap: "Crying. I need it. You need it. Enough said."
His feedback on this statement was: "You have nothing whatsoever to do with thinking about my needs. I take care of them. Crying is something I enjoy a lot, but nothing more than that. Some of my partners never cry and I have no problem with that.
More widely I have wants and fancies, lots of them. The more one person can deliver, the more she interests me.
I am of course glad that crying is a need for you."
This has launched me into an exploration of need v want. As I said, I know what mine are in life in general, but in this special bdsm world? Not sure if you can read this link on FetLife without joining the group, but I'm in the middle of reading this. (Although right now I'm trying to pay attention to some bullshit about epistemic communities within diffusion of innovation and policy-making. Bleh.) Someone in this discussion linked over to The Submissive Guide website. I started the reading of this series and it's really rather trite and almost condescending in its simplicity. But it's got me thinking. And I'm going to spend some time exploring this in the blog.
For starters, I don't think crying is a need. I think it's a want and even a sub-want. But I do note a longing to cry when I haven't for a while, a want to cry at least once in a year. But is it a need? I've got to dig around here, and then start being more succinct in my use of words.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
How fickle is mine heart
... or mine libido
The Bike Man was quickly replaced by hormones and desire. I'm totally PMS'd or pregnant, the latter which seems impossible at this time but - as every month - I worry. Really, I should just get my tubes tied and find comfort in knowing that using a condom will not result in any offspring. But, I'm not one to say 'never.'
And then...
Friday, 12:21
...nos vemos el sabado?..
I giggled in happiness. Of course, I knew the Economist was coming back from Spain on Saturday, but was half sure that he wasn't interested or that I wasn't going to show any interest. After all, despite a lazy bougeouis ignorance of email, he could have emailed once over three weeks. But then, I didn't, so whatever.
We want what we can't have.
I showed the Russian friend the SMS and was momentarily excited in our depressing last days of working together. I felt this way - depressed at good-byes - when our first year grad school classes ended. I had been distracted with the Butcher and decided not to see my Canadian friends, with whom I bonded closely, before they left - for good, to other schools for the second year. And such went with the Russian. The last week was a strange dance of her coming closer, more needy, and me, pushing away, believing I had serious work to focus on or she was big enough to do things on her own. She hurt her hand biking to work and I wanted to help and we visited the doctor together and the radiologist and I translated French to English (a minor accomplishment in language learning). But at the same time, I was trying to push her away a bit. It's my historical response to these things.
I'm not sure when I learned it, but after moving so much in life, at some point I realized there was no use in suffering the departures of friends or my departure. Maybe I got this when I got to high school. When we all had to pretend to be cool with emotions. And now it's a biological response. A repulsion to the person once it's established we're not to share the same geological positioning. I tend to find fault then. Tend to find other endeavors. Other occupations and preoccupations. It's an obvious defense mechanism, and I'm not letting go yet.
But then, when she came around to say goodbye, all I could think was to hug her, strongly and closely - instead of the 3-times cheek-kissing of Geneva. It's not sexual of breasts touching, but of placing hearts close. I learned hugging from the hippies in my life. Their overly-long embraces, their strong grasps, their sighs of "can you feel that? our spirits are touching!" Or whatever. But after a while, I got it. There is something funny about our US culture. When we meet people, we send the distance orb out - this is my space, that is yours - shake my hand. The Europeans and South Americans have developed the cheek-kiss. It breaks barriers and makes us human. But it still is a formality, where the hug is a breaking of all barriers. Husky, strong firemen in NYC will do it for bonding, girl friends do it for closeness, families do it for assurance. I miss hugs. And I tried to cling to Russia for a bit and she did that patty-pat-pat on my back, trying to break free. I understand completely.
So, I waited about 7 hours to reply to Economist. I was a silly schoolgirl. Don't reply quickly - too obvious and needy and eager. Don't reply too late - he'll make other plans or be put off. So, in the evening, after dinner (after thinking all day and night about what to say), I SMS'd back, "Pourquoi pas?" Why not?
Of course.
Saturday I kind of mourned the Russian and got up lazily and slowly. There were things I wanted to do and see but without a partner it was different. Got out the door and on the road at 2pm to the cemetery here to pay homage to Borges and Calvin and found so many others of note. Spent a good hour there and then trekked up on bike through the western part of town. (We never went south or west since the Russian couldn't cross into France without a visa.) Climbed a hill along the river and up to another cemetery and along the river and on and on. The Economist SMS'd me "...un whiskey a las 20h?" A whiskey at 8pm? I sent back, sure.
Kept on biking. I had to find myself again.
Came home and made dinner. And just as I was fondling myself for pre-relief, "..a las 20h en la terraza de siempre.. gusto de verte.." (At 8pm in the terraza like always - pleasure to see you.) What's with all the periods? Of course, in the terraza where we first met, like has been our short-lived habit. I was late and nervous. He was early and oh so tanned. From being on his boat in the Med, sailing and drinking and fucking and bathing nude. He was cold and did I want a drink or get one back at his place? What was the rush, I wondered. No, one here first would be good. We went back to his place and I did not perform well at all. I was super PMS girl who had political arguments and griefs about the world, but I asked how his trip was and who he fucked and how fishing was. He fucked a friend of his, and he wasn't sure if he'd forgotten or not noticed, but she got new tits. I don't like new tits, but I loved his description that they looked, while she was reclined on the boat, nervous. Nervous tits. Shaking a bit. Trembling. A nice visual.
There was no coke this time. But he offered me a smoke of hash cigarette (they don't smoke the maryjane here). It was like usual, a missionary fuck (which I had commented earlier bored me - when he asked what I didn't like or liked in men). He twisted my nipples and filled me like Andy could, god praise southern cock and northern cock! Then I passed out. The smoke gets me all the time now.
"I wanted a scooter when I was a kid," he said. "But my mother said it was too dangerous. So I asked for a telescope so I could see the moon. So I could see the American flag there. ... I memorized the terrain of the moon," he told me.
I slept off and on while he would get up and change the music, smoke some more. Leonard Cohen - Suzanne. Opera - wistful. I asked him if it was winter time. He said no. I said, I thought you only listened to opera in the winter? He replied, I was mistaken, and changed it. It is the coming down from vacation, I thought. Not that he wishes to love fake-tit girl. Not that he isn't enjoying my dozing off. I don't care. I'm tired. .... His skin, like Neapolitan ice cream, brown and raspberrry mixed. There is a slight less tan where his swim suit bottom would be. His skin, slightly scratchy from repetitive sun. His skin, warm. Like a cookie. His cock, too big for my mouth. My body - not entirely free.
I had not spent the night before and it's not that I regret it now, but I do wonder what I gained or lost. I slept for shit. With intermittant music, getting up and fucking, thirst, sunshine, elevator, snoring. I got up when the sun was starting to peek in and debated - take the sleeping pill or leave. I decided that since I couldn't find my clothes easily without waking him, I'd pop the pill. Finally, I slept a bit.
You know those weird moments where someone wakes up, goes the bathroom, and you, in desperate need of more sleep and something to drink, get up, run to the kitchen, drink a gallon, jump back into bed to pretend not to have woken at all? I think he did that while I was in the bathroom. I heard the wood floor squeaking and water and then quick run back and he was in the same, albeit slightly awoken, state as when I left him for the bathroom.
This kind of bums me out. I try to establish with all my lovers the freedom to do and do as pleased. Don't want to touch me in the morning? What do I care? Want water and to keep sleeping? Do it.
So, we had morning sex instead of sleeping. And he slept on - or wanted to sleep on - and I dressed and left. The morning at 10am on a Sunday is a delight to see for a short while.
I ate a huge bowl of cereal and drifted to sleep reading about crazy Gilles. The cat drifted in and out and I ignored an SMS from Bike Man.
Photos, writing, lazy masturbation, and a decision that I need sun but couldn't leave the apartment today and need to see the sun tomorrow made me decide to call in sick tomorrow. (Shut up, DU) So, I lazed around, cooked food when I had to eat. Read when I wanted to lay down. Played with photos. Played with myself. And then wanted more cigarettes. So, I ran down to the plaza cafe, where they have a machine. Ha. Of course. Economist in jeans, white shirt, flip-flops, sitting at a table with a brunette and a chiller for champagne or white wine or something. Out of the corner of my eye. I'm not a stalker. I get my smokes and leave, looking for a second as he is up and arranging the table for something.
I get home and go back to work, thinking a bit about him, and get "...placer de pasar esa noche 'missionaire' contigo..." Pleasure to pass this night "missionary" with you. Ha ha and ha. He's a very good playboy, or a very deceptive man or a nice guy. I'm not so sure about these things. I follow my gut through most of my life and my gut tells me that there is something very out-of-place with him. Nothing hangs on the walls. Nothing occupies much space in the bathroom - no bathroom mirror hiding spots. Glasses in the kitchen are different. But I've seen the closet and the depressingly similar work suits. And the strange porn.
It reminds me of the rich old man who tried to seduce me in his "bachelor pad," although that featured photos of his family and more lived-in look.
I do want to believe the scenery isn't changing between visits. That
that everything
but then.. KEXP plays Nick Drake's "Pink Moon" after I had sent him the album, thinking he'd like it considering his wistful smoke to Leonard Cohen. And, considering, I haven't heard that song in forever.
I do want to believe.
Because after his SMS I sent, "Placer de verte - you look good in white tonight." (Pleasure to see you ...) and he replied, "..Ole..."
We want what we cannot have.
While Bike Man hoped to see me before his week-long bike around the lake - he told me he was hungover, too, when I replied that I was too hungover and needed sleep. And he ended the SMS that he missed me, bitch. And I knew he had bought a new riding crop. And I know my tits and body are sensitive - too sensitive to be beaten, and too distracted to see him.
The playboy distracts me.
We want what we cannot have. What seems to be out of reach. What seems good and we want to return. What was good and ends up not being the same.
A lesson to remember when I return to Cinque Terre. I
I am not trying to recreate a feeling. I am not trying to have what I had before. I am trying to see if things mean the same again. I am trying to find myself. My heart. My heat. My place. My space in this world.
He collapsed on top of me after fucking. His cock almost hurts my cervix, it reminds me of Andy. Bracing himself with a bit of his left arm. A cookie burnt red arm. I found myself unable to lay there motionless, and raised my hands to his back to caress it, his arms, his back, his shoulders, the valley of his spine, the sweat spot above his ass, his round ass, his formed ass, his tanned ass, his thighs, his arms, his neck. I behaved like my men have with me and opened an eye to look at him laying beside me. His tanned, bronze face like every 1950's movie star. Fake sleep, real sleep. The intrigue is the insecurity. What makes this man even consider spending time with me? There are so many others. His lips. His nose.
we want what we cannot have - ever.
The Bike Man was quickly replaced by hormones and desire. I'm totally PMS'd or pregnant, the latter which seems impossible at this time but - as every month - I worry. Really, I should just get my tubes tied and find comfort in knowing that using a condom will not result in any offspring. But, I'm not one to say 'never.'
And then...
Friday, 12:21
...nos vemos el sabado?..
I giggled in happiness. Of course, I knew the Economist was coming back from Spain on Saturday, but was half sure that he wasn't interested or that I wasn't going to show any interest. After all, despite a lazy bougeouis ignorance of email, he could have emailed once over three weeks. But then, I didn't, so whatever.
We want what we can't have.
I showed the Russian friend the SMS and was momentarily excited in our depressing last days of working together. I felt this way - depressed at good-byes - when our first year grad school classes ended. I had been distracted with the Butcher and decided not to see my Canadian friends, with whom I bonded closely, before they left - for good, to other schools for the second year. And such went with the Russian. The last week was a strange dance of her coming closer, more needy, and me, pushing away, believing I had serious work to focus on or she was big enough to do things on her own. She hurt her hand biking to work and I wanted to help and we visited the doctor together and the radiologist and I translated French to English (a minor accomplishment in language learning). But at the same time, I was trying to push her away a bit. It's my historical response to these things.
I'm not sure when I learned it, but after moving so much in life, at some point I realized there was no use in suffering the departures of friends or my departure. Maybe I got this when I got to high school. When we all had to pretend to be cool with emotions. And now it's a biological response. A repulsion to the person once it's established we're not to share the same geological positioning. I tend to find fault then. Tend to find other endeavors. Other occupations and preoccupations. It's an obvious defense mechanism, and I'm not letting go yet.
But then, when she came around to say goodbye, all I could think was to hug her, strongly and closely - instead of the 3-times cheek-kissing of Geneva. It's not sexual of breasts touching, but of placing hearts close. I learned hugging from the hippies in my life. Their overly-long embraces, their strong grasps, their sighs of "can you feel that? our spirits are touching!" Or whatever. But after a while, I got it. There is something funny about our US culture. When we meet people, we send the distance orb out - this is my space, that is yours - shake my hand. The Europeans and South Americans have developed the cheek-kiss. It breaks barriers and makes us human. But it still is a formality, where the hug is a breaking of all barriers. Husky, strong firemen in NYC will do it for bonding, girl friends do it for closeness, families do it for assurance. I miss hugs. And I tried to cling to Russia for a bit and she did that patty-pat-pat on my back, trying to break free. I understand completely.
So, I waited about 7 hours to reply to Economist. I was a silly schoolgirl. Don't reply quickly - too obvious and needy and eager. Don't reply too late - he'll make other plans or be put off. So, in the evening, after dinner (after thinking all day and night about what to say), I SMS'd back, "Pourquoi pas?" Why not?
Of course.
Saturday I kind of mourned the Russian and got up lazily and slowly. There were things I wanted to do and see but without a partner it was different. Got out the door and on the road at 2pm to the cemetery here to pay homage to Borges and Calvin and found so many others of note. Spent a good hour there and then trekked up on bike through the western part of town. (We never went south or west since the Russian couldn't cross into France without a visa.) Climbed a hill along the river and up to another cemetery and along the river and on and on. The Economist SMS'd me "...un whiskey a las 20h?" A whiskey at 8pm? I sent back, sure.
Kept on biking. I had to find myself again.
Came home and made dinner. And just as I was fondling myself for pre-relief, "..a las 20h en la terraza de siempre.. gusto de verte.." (At 8pm in the terraza like always - pleasure to see you.) What's with all the periods? Of course, in the terraza where we first met, like has been our short-lived habit. I was late and nervous. He was early and oh so tanned. From being on his boat in the Med, sailing and drinking and fucking and bathing nude. He was cold and did I want a drink or get one back at his place? What was the rush, I wondered. No, one here first would be good. We went back to his place and I did not perform well at all. I was super PMS girl who had political arguments and griefs about the world, but I asked how his trip was and who he fucked and how fishing was. He fucked a friend of his, and he wasn't sure if he'd forgotten or not noticed, but she got new tits. I don't like new tits, but I loved his description that they looked, while she was reclined on the boat, nervous. Nervous tits. Shaking a bit. Trembling. A nice visual.
There was no coke this time. But he offered me a smoke of hash cigarette (they don't smoke the maryjane here). It was like usual, a missionary fuck (which I had commented earlier bored me - when he asked what I didn't like or liked in men). He twisted my nipples and filled me like Andy could, god praise southern cock and northern cock! Then I passed out. The smoke gets me all the time now.
"I wanted a scooter when I was a kid," he said. "But my mother said it was too dangerous. So I asked for a telescope so I could see the moon. So I could see the American flag there. ... I memorized the terrain of the moon," he told me.
I slept off and on while he would get up and change the music, smoke some more. Leonard Cohen - Suzanne. Opera - wistful. I asked him if it was winter time. He said no. I said, I thought you only listened to opera in the winter? He replied, I was mistaken, and changed it. It is the coming down from vacation, I thought. Not that he wishes to love fake-tit girl. Not that he isn't enjoying my dozing off. I don't care. I'm tired. .... His skin, like Neapolitan ice cream, brown and raspberrry mixed. There is a slight less tan where his swim suit bottom would be. His skin, slightly scratchy from repetitive sun. His skin, warm. Like a cookie. His cock, too big for my mouth. My body - not entirely free.
I had not spent the night before and it's not that I regret it now, but I do wonder what I gained or lost. I slept for shit. With intermittant music, getting up and fucking, thirst, sunshine, elevator, snoring. I got up when the sun was starting to peek in and debated - take the sleeping pill or leave. I decided that since I couldn't find my clothes easily without waking him, I'd pop the pill. Finally, I slept a bit.
You know those weird moments where someone wakes up, goes the bathroom, and you, in desperate need of more sleep and something to drink, get up, run to the kitchen, drink a gallon, jump back into bed to pretend not to have woken at all? I think he did that while I was in the bathroom. I heard the wood floor squeaking and water and then quick run back and he was in the same, albeit slightly awoken, state as when I left him for the bathroom.
This kind of bums me out. I try to establish with all my lovers the freedom to do and do as pleased. Don't want to touch me in the morning? What do I care? Want water and to keep sleeping? Do it.
So, we had morning sex instead of sleeping. And he slept on - or wanted to sleep on - and I dressed and left. The morning at 10am on a Sunday is a delight to see for a short while.
I ate a huge bowl of cereal and drifted to sleep reading about crazy Gilles. The cat drifted in and out and I ignored an SMS from Bike Man.
Photos, writing, lazy masturbation, and a decision that I need sun but couldn't leave the apartment today and need to see the sun tomorrow made me decide to call in sick tomorrow. (Shut up, DU) So, I lazed around, cooked food when I had to eat. Read when I wanted to lay down. Played with photos. Played with myself. And then wanted more cigarettes. So, I ran down to the plaza cafe, where they have a machine. Ha. Of course. Economist in jeans, white shirt, flip-flops, sitting at a table with a brunette and a chiller for champagne or white wine or something. Out of the corner of my eye. I'm not a stalker. I get my smokes and leave, looking for a second as he is up and arranging the table for something.
I get home and go back to work, thinking a bit about him, and get "...placer de pasar esa noche 'missionaire' contigo..." Pleasure to pass this night "missionary" with you. Ha ha and ha. He's a very good playboy, or a very deceptive man or a nice guy. I'm not so sure about these things. I follow my gut through most of my life and my gut tells me that there is something very out-of-place with him. Nothing hangs on the walls. Nothing occupies much space in the bathroom - no bathroom mirror hiding spots. Glasses in the kitchen are different. But I've seen the closet and the depressingly similar work suits. And the strange porn.
It reminds me of the rich old man who tried to seduce me in his "bachelor pad," although that featured photos of his family and more lived-in look.
I do want to believe the scenery isn't changing between visits. That
that everything
but then.. KEXP plays Nick Drake's "Pink Moon" after I had sent him the album, thinking he'd like it considering his wistful smoke to Leonard Cohen. And, considering, I haven't heard that song in forever.
I do want to believe.
Because after his SMS I sent, "Placer de verte - you look good in white tonight." (Pleasure to see you ...) and he replied, "..Ole..."
We want what we cannot have.
While Bike Man hoped to see me before his week-long bike around the lake - he told me he was hungover, too, when I replied that I was too hungover and needed sleep. And he ended the SMS that he missed me, bitch. And I knew he had bought a new riding crop. And I know my tits and body are sensitive - too sensitive to be beaten, and too distracted to see him.
The playboy distracts me.
We want what we cannot have. What seems to be out of reach. What seems good and we want to return. What was good and ends up not being the same.
A lesson to remember when I return to Cinque Terre. I
I am not trying to recreate a feeling. I am not trying to have what I had before. I am trying to see if things mean the same again. I am trying to find myself. My heart. My heat. My place. My space in this world.
He collapsed on top of me after fucking. His cock almost hurts my cervix, it reminds me of Andy. Bracing himself with a bit of his left arm. A cookie burnt red arm. I found myself unable to lay there motionless, and raised my hands to his back to caress it, his arms, his back, his shoulders, the valley of his spine, the sweat spot above his ass, his round ass, his formed ass, his tanned ass, his thighs, his arms, his neck. I behaved like my men have with me and opened an eye to look at him laying beside me. His tanned, bronze face like every 1950's movie star. Fake sleep, real sleep. The intrigue is the insecurity. What makes this man even consider spending time with me? There are so many others. His lips. His nose.
we want what we cannot have - ever.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
The blank page
I've made about 12,000 photos in 2008 so far. It's been a nice distraction to edit them, upload, tag, and move them around.
But there is a reason and a season and a lifetime. I am not here for the internship. It's boring and I'm completely not challenged (although I did help edit a paper that will be shared at a conference). So, what am I doing here then? If I was lucky to get the internship and it's not challenging, what else should I be doing? Of course, writing. Of course.
I said it before I left - out loud and to a couple of people only. I told a couple of people at the internship. The tarot cards said it. The flatmate said it - through the tarot cards and without knowing I had an interest in writing a book. I have nights and weekends free. I am not studying. I am researching a bit for a paper that could merit publishing. But really I've been catching up on the photos and now it's time. Despite the fact that I'm still working on the photos, it is time to realize the real reason I am here.
I compiled the writings from 1997-2008, which includes some transcriptions from my handwritten diaries from when I was in 7th/8th grade. I've been writing since I was 13, that's 20 years now. I have so much. And a lot of it isn't even here with me on the laptop or the external drive. The book isn't a memoir, but it will be of sorts. I'm thinking more along the lines of short stories. It seems that's how I've written all my life. Short, creative non-fiction stories or observations. There is the inner voice that says it's boring and standard and who cares. Who would find interest in my life? But I also know I've decided to live differently than others and most of that involves taking risks and using a unique view on life and exploring sex. Most of this living other people might not opt for and might find interest in. But it's so self-involved and boring to me. I'd rather just send a bunch of it to someone to weed through and pick what's interesting, what's boring, what would merit being bound in pages.
I guess I could view it as me trying to compile my own writing, for myself, for my library. It just seems weird. And there's no way I could write a fiction book. It's not my style to invent things (although my imagination invents bizarre, dark plots continuously). It's my style to tell what I have seen and done, and add lies where I see fit or I forget the details. But if you didn't know me, it wouldn't be so interesting.
Like Catherine M or 100 Strokes girl, there is interest in spying into others' lives (even though I thought the latter was over-hyped by too much and the former wrote in too dry a fashion for the tales she told). But I guess it was their freedom and release to get it out - in public. Whereas, I do that every time I write the blogs. Maybe I should stop writing in the blogs and deprive myself. Concentrate all energies into the blank page.
That would not do. Not at all.
So, for whom would I write or compile this shit? Why? What's the purpose?
All this analysis prevents me from writing anything at all. The critic inside - the most harsh judge, the road block to any progress, the squasher of dreams, the doubt before the trial, the failure before beginning - this voice needs to shut the fuck up.
I have courage on my side. Kicking me in the ass.
All I have to do today is cut and paste. Onto a blank page.
But there is a reason and a season and a lifetime. I am not here for the internship. It's boring and I'm completely not challenged (although I did help edit a paper that will be shared at a conference). So, what am I doing here then? If I was lucky to get the internship and it's not challenging, what else should I be doing? Of course, writing. Of course.
I said it before I left - out loud and to a couple of people only. I told a couple of people at the internship. The tarot cards said it. The flatmate said it - through the tarot cards and without knowing I had an interest in writing a book. I have nights and weekends free. I am not studying. I am researching a bit for a paper that could merit publishing. But really I've been catching up on the photos and now it's time. Despite the fact that I'm still working on the photos, it is time to realize the real reason I am here.
I compiled the writings from 1997-2008, which includes some transcriptions from my handwritten diaries from when I was in 7th/8th grade. I've been writing since I was 13, that's 20 years now. I have so much. And a lot of it isn't even here with me on the laptop or the external drive. The book isn't a memoir, but it will be of sorts. I'm thinking more along the lines of short stories. It seems that's how I've written all my life. Short, creative non-fiction stories or observations. There is the inner voice that says it's boring and standard and who cares. Who would find interest in my life? But I also know I've decided to live differently than others and most of that involves taking risks and using a unique view on life and exploring sex. Most of this living other people might not opt for and might find interest in. But it's so self-involved and boring to me. I'd rather just send a bunch of it to someone to weed through and pick what's interesting, what's boring, what would merit being bound in pages.
I guess I could view it as me trying to compile my own writing, for myself, for my library. It just seems weird. And there's no way I could write a fiction book. It's not my style to invent things (although my imagination invents bizarre, dark plots continuously). It's my style to tell what I have seen and done, and add lies where I see fit or I forget the details. But if you didn't know me, it wouldn't be so interesting.
Like Catherine M or 100 Strokes girl, there is interest in spying into others' lives (even though I thought the latter was over-hyped by too much and the former wrote in too dry a fashion for the tales she told). But I guess it was their freedom and release to get it out - in public. Whereas, I do that every time I write the blogs. Maybe I should stop writing in the blogs and deprive myself. Concentrate all energies into the blank page.
That would not do. Not at all.
So, for whom would I write or compile this shit? Why? What's the purpose?
All this analysis prevents me from writing anything at all. The critic inside - the most harsh judge, the road block to any progress, the squasher of dreams, the doubt before the trial, the failure before beginning - this voice needs to shut the fuck up.
I have courage on my side. Kicking me in the ass.
All I have to do today is cut and paste. Onto a blank page.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Tales
Cheating Death Once Again: Tales of Modern Romance
No, I'm not all that romantic am I?
CDOA: Tales of a Third Generation Anais Nin
No, I'm not that egotistical to think I could even be close to her. (And, frankly, noman, I had to put her diary down for a while. Man, did she whine quite a bit about her lovers and circumstances with them... God, do I do that?)
CDOA: Tales of Modern Lust
Perhaps. But I am more than this.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The beginning. A very good place to start, so said the nanny. Let me count the ways. Let me be free.
Each orgasm is never like the last and none are like when I do it myself. Now, it's straight to Literotica chat to talk about naughty age play. I am not a roleplayer now. I am a dreamer - a what if we could, a what if I pretended I would, a place as they all are for us to fantasize (the magic word that lets - let's - us all say the things we'd never enact). And while the boring introductions roll through to me (Hi, I'm 47/m/UK - or - you are late from school and i must punish you as your step-father - or - you catch me sniffing your panties.... after all Lola states no limits and asks for pervy men), I open the other window to You Porn and scroll through the new ones or search for the fantasies: older men, creampie, anal, glory hole.
And I turn the egg vibe up slowly and push my clit out like a cock. (When did the male rooster become the object of my desire?) I can feel what (and with) men do. The rising up the scale of arousal, concentrated like a pulsing red target between my thighs. And there are those moments when I can catch it and slow down the vibe to make it last longer - an hour if I like. Or, days when it escapes me and I'm only mid-way through the most depraved "Best ANAL compilation yet.... ASS BUTT..." ["stick that ass up - there it is baby - it's in my ass - your cock is in my ass" and "mmm I like that... bitch, you like that? where you goin'? where you goin'? put that fucking leg down - put those knees on the floor!" and the grand finale with the pretty chick freaking out with a cum on her face "get back here, suck it out, don't open your fucking eyes, just suck my dick.. say good-bye plastic man... good bye plastic man.") And I just can't hold back. It's pulsing and contracting, its pulsing and contracting and then to shut off the vibration because it's too much then.
I am thinking of the nice slowness of the butcher and how he entered my raised ass with his fingers and hands and then his cock, only to sag at seeing blood, thinking I was in pain when I was only in excitement. The first ass fuck in so long, too long. I am picturing when I'm on my back and wanting to be on my knees and why he thinks he's taking me when I feel myself bouncing back on to him. I am thinking of the fuck we tried to have on the side of the road in rural France, when my knee started to sting and I looked down to see tens of too many red ants swarming our knees and how he suddenly felt the sting and we ran back to the car with burning all throughout our bodies. I was prepared to ignore it and bend over into the car to finish when a very old, wrinkly man and his dog came around the corner of the abandoned farm house.
I am seeing him on the floor of the cabin when we arrived and me squatting over his face, thinking back to the squat over the roadside toilet and pushing but not pushing to let the piss come out and down to his pursed lips and then sucked into his mouth. I cannot replicate this. It feels too wrong for me to give this way. My entire body fights against his request for this. He should be peeing on me. And then along the road with a perfect sunset on a castle miles in front of the car. I am leaning backwards across the passenger seat and over the gear stick, my knees are wide open and he is licking me with the passenger door open. Tourists are coming. I can see the sky the green grass his head the bright daylight.
I am feeling red slaps on my ass and homemade whips on my back - enough to break skin just before bathing suit time in Italy with my sister. I am reading so many SMS from him when I wanted short words.
And then, there is Italy. We drove to Cinque Terre and stayed in a quiet hotel that felt old and empty, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I caught a glimpse of the speedy motorcycle couple. They only travelled with the thick, protective moto suits and light tee-shirts and underwear under neath. She was drying her shirt on the terrace adjacent to us and was wearing the smallest bikini bottoms I'd ever seen - her thong, duh. They'd come to dinner in moto wear since it was the only clothing. An young man with shaved head, looking a bit skinhead and an older woman with dyed black straight hair.
And one day we parked and blocked a Harley guy from entering to register at the hotel. We joked and made eyes. Later that night he and his friend were at the table together and we made more eyes. He must have been in his late 50's and his friend in early 60's. Seeing the older of the two go out for smokes on the terrace from the dining room, I wanted a smoke. My sister acquiesced to my leaving the table for vice. I wanted the younger of the two but he tsk'd tsk'd me on smoking. My sister joined the Harley Younger at the table while Harley Older and I talked on the terrace. Pretty soon more wine came, we laughed the other 4 patrons out of the restaurant (old, unhappy couples), we got kicked out and took a bottle of wine to the Harley Older room. We laughed and talked and smoked and I started cuddling up to Harley Older, and Harley Younger started grabbing my sister's ass, but she felt uncomfortable (I remember drunkenly telling her, "Don't do anything you don't want to do."). Harley Older closed the door behind them and locked it and I know he said, "Ride it. Yes, yes, cum." And I don't think he could last very long, that German Swiss man.
I was defiant in another town in Italy and found a quiet cobblestone road to pee on and then argued with the local Italian men we met about why men can openly pee but women can't. It was the first fight of me and my sister and I stayed out with the men we met (celebrating a married friend) and got walked home by a man boy who couldn't kiss to keep me out from swerving to the hotel room.
In the last city, my sister and I missed our return flight. I thought it was Thursday but it was Wednesday. The extra 100E we paid was for being one more day together and it was great. An enormous storm came in and threatened to flood the already watery town. We laughed and ran together in the rain.
And forseeing nothing here in Geneva, my destiny found itself. I returned to Paris once for the aforementioned fucking in rural France. And after, I decided I needed to buy a bicycle to avoid paying 4-7 chf a day to get to and from work with stops between on the bus. Plus, it's more of a bike town than Madison, but perhaps equal to Amsterdam (from what I've seen). I sent a general message to the other interns and got a secret from one of the Americans. A small indie bike shop, owned by a Scot guy, who makes bikes for you or sells cool ones. Not like the other options of buying from a [insert Wal or Targ like store in the US].
Of course, I had already called out the bike I wanted to the gods: subject: women's bicycle - Negotiable on cost. Used or new. Women's style or men's style frame. Need a decent bicycle to get around town on. Bonus if it is more mountain bike and less racing bike; has a basket or back seat shelf; water bottle carrier; and has been loved. Thanks!
So, when I visited it was genius. I followed Google Maps (what did we do before this?) and found the store with bikes lined up outside. Walked in to find a guy over an upside bike. He looked up and I was hit with cupid desire. One bright blue eye, one black as night eye (not color, but defect). I mentioned the above and we bantered back and forth, flirting as Western cultures do. An excerpt:
I fell for the bike guy there. I've been back twice. Once for a sticker that is insurance - and he said I'd better come back and what does he do on the weekends or when he's not working, I asked. He sleeps. And would I like to sleep with him? A bit too forward for the second. But I went back for an alignment and a seat adjustment and I got grease on my leg and he pointed it out. I said it didn't matter. He got down on a knee and wiped it off and pretended to fog my calf with his breath to shine it.
And one night, after biking 50km (to another town with my girl friend from work and biking back), I wanted a whiskey and a smoke so I parked the bike inside the building and went to the nearby plaza. The plaza which dates back to Roman era and heralds back to days of beheadings and hangings (a very detailed article I read told of how the merchants from out of town would arrive to the city gate and find it locked, knowing there was a beheading happening, would wait until the body was thrown over the city walls knowing that they'd be let in at that point; and tales of whores 2 streets over; and then Voltaire and then Calvin - who I was told fucked boys). I got a Red Label straight and was given 2 cigarettes by a nice guy and then closed out some guy who sat at my table - the plaza bar seating is always packed, and with rich people.
And then, one night, after hours of sorting and editing and uploading and titling some photos (I started with 2000+ and I'm only up to Italy in June now). I wanted a smoke and whiskey so I went back to the plaza. Cased the place and found no seats. Was fake SMS sending to appear like I was with friends and then spotted a guy smoking, asked for a cigarette and got 2 (they are so much nicer here than in Paris). Walked away and decided to ask if I could sit at his table. We chatted and I got whiskey and I ended up speaking Spanish with the Spaniard and then going back to his place for more whiskey and ended up fucking him.
I'm not sure about this guy. His story seems to be that he's from here, a dad that's Spanish, a mom that's Swiss. He's forty, owns and lives in a sparse apartment in this part of town (which means wealth) and rents out a furnished apartment in another part of town (which means more wealth). He's an economist by trade and just finished dating some woman who bore his kid. He's a bee keeper and gave me honey in a jar with a label with his name. He's off to Spain this weekend to sail and catch huge calamari with his father. And he can't keep an erection. But he can make up for it with dildos and licking and fingers. And he's got a great collection of classical and flamenco music.
The second time I saw him he invited me for a drink on the plaza and then back to his place. It's becoming a ritual I guess, based on our third date. And then, we talk and drink whiskey on the rocks and he adds coke to his and then later offers me coke - up my nose. I haven't done drugs in a long time, but I took a line and thought, well now we'll see how his cock behaves. And, again, up and down like a rollercoaster. Dependent upon nothing, reacting to no one. Coming and going. The second date, he took his cock and rubbed the head up and down my slit. Over and over again. And, on coke, let me tell you... It feels almost greater than my own private vibe. Pulling my knees apart wider and wider and feeling this sensation of hunger and thrill and sensitivity. The last time I saw him somehow a porn of lesbians ended up on his tele screen. And he tried to fuck my ass but it wasn't happy enough for this. So, he stayed hard and fucked me for longer than I could handle - or what seemed long, when really it wasn't so long at all. We ended up laying down watching a Vigo Mortensen film while he caressed me - all riled up from the coke, each stroke felt like my skin was missing and all I had was nerves feeling his slow hands. And, then, I left. It's good to leave and especially at 12:50am. Enough time to crash before work, enough space to pass out, enough promise that I will get sleep.
And then, back to Paris. The butcher enticed me to cross the border and accompany him to a huge family celebration. It was overwhelming and I said no at first, and then he lobbied me (his words, genius). A sociological study, a tradition of France, an interesting circumstance, a photographic exploration. I had to do it. And then, there were so many people who were impressed by meeting me. And then, he didn't help the situation of my commitment and seriousness fear. He told me how so many people asked if I was "the one" and he told me that the told them no.
But really, it's a French cultural thing - from what I gather. While we Americans are so pragmatic and slightly cold and removed. The French are latin. They say I love you early (the butcher said it after a month of dating once a week, and said "Would you mind if I told you I love you?" I said yes without a beat). They say I love you often. They hold and cuddle and kiss and embrace and make out in public. They swoon and woo and romance. They eat love and hearts and cupid and romance for breakfast, lunch, apertif, and dinner. So, he followed his nature and we agreed to follow and allow our own natures. He'd say out loud what he thought and I'd brush it off. We agreed to act naturally. So, when we went to the full family (cousins from 5 to 80, parents, aunts, uncles, friends), I knew what *I* was doing - removed and observing. And he knew what he was doing.
I left the weekend feeling a genetic repulsion and a need for space. While I want him, I want it in context and within reason. I did feel days of longing for him and did feel moments of love. But they were subsumed with strange pushing away. I had to break away and stay away. When he asked if we'd see each other in 2 weeks I said I had writing and photos to attend to, I had to get to know this new city and get out on bikes. All of a sudden I felt put on a pedestal and too high for comfort. I felt needed and wanted nothing of that.
I also left with an infection - curses, batman! So, I had a week of getting to know the medical system in this city. Again the mixing of holes for poor Lola. She is so sensitive. My body reacts to the slightest disagreement, the slightest imbalance. My feet can't handle the round bars of the ladder to my flatmate's loft bedroom. My skin is burning brown from the sun here. My emotions make the sun follow me from city to city without rain. My cunnie is too precious for combinations. I went to the family planning place in town and they literally only do that - no tests, only words, and only help for pregnant women. They sent me across the street to the hospital maternity ward. They wanted 500 chf (1 chf = 1 USD) deposit for a consultation. The receptionist sent me to some urgent care clinic and a gyno doc. He was awesome. In the business for years and years and years. We spent an hour together. Me detailing my history. Him asking questions and making inappropriate jokes and over-sharing about anonymous patients who thought the suppository was for their mouth. He showed me where to give the pee test (the WC - which they called Winston Churchill room for a while). He let me stand in the lab while the pee test ran and he chatted in French on the phone, almost pulling it off the desk. He invited me into the stirrups and I undressed in front of him and then he described each manouever into me and then invited me to view the slide he'd made under the microscope. He recommended homeopathic remedies. They didn't work. I went back and waited an hour to see him for test results. He called the lab on Friday night and put them on speaker so I could hear. He reluctantly prescribed me antibiotics -- we are so accustomed us Americans. Our alternate bodies in another reality hugged goodbye. I biked on my super bike to the only open pharmacy after 6pm and got drugs that fixed me up. I want to finger paint a drawing of happy sun and beach and grass and send it to him.
And now. Here I am.
Finally. The stories of this moment told.
I have no idea what will happen but I'm on AFF and ALT and planning to replace the Spaniard with the bike shop owner. I'm totally mad for the butcher but have to space myself. I don't love my internship but I'm growing to love the city. I have a great girl friend who is Russian and who intrigues me to no end. I have bicycle freedom to take me through the city and learn me the one-way streets. I miss my Paris and my apartment and my bread shop and hookers. I am not sure why I am here or what I should do. I keep whispering over and over to people that I will (am) write a book here. But I have thousands of photos first. I have no interest in finding a better internship or working too hard, in fact I wanted to quit due to almost complete boredom. But there is a culture of sorts which I like. And a morning bike ride which tests my strategic senses and a bike ride home which gives me air. There's a cat that brought me a gift (ask if you want more info - it's a good story). And ghosts that live in this apartment (suicide makes them linger). And a good flatmate who reads my tarot and allows me to be. Things are too perfect. I wonder when they'll break. Or perhaps, I already know this. As I've said - I won't make it to 40. So, maybe, this is my living the fullest now. Perhaps the crazy dream feeling is a reality and I'm fortunate enough to know and now can't do anything other than feel it. Be it. Be here now.
No, I'm not all that romantic am I?
CDOA: Tales of a Third Generation Anais Nin
No, I'm not that egotistical to think I could even be close to her. (And, frankly, noman, I had to put her diary down for a while. Man, did she whine quite a bit about her lovers and circumstances with them... God, do I do that?)
CDOA: Tales of Modern Lust
Perhaps. But I am more than this.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The beginning. A very good place to start, so said the nanny. Let me count the ways. Let me be free.
Each orgasm is never like the last and none are like when I do it myself. Now, it's straight to Literotica chat to talk about naughty age play. I am not a roleplayer now. I am a dreamer - a what if we could, a what if I pretended I would, a place as they all are for us to fantasize (the magic word that lets - let's - us all say the things we'd never enact). And while the boring introductions roll through to me (Hi, I'm 47/m/UK - or - you are late from school and i must punish you as your step-father - or - you catch me sniffing your panties.... after all Lola states no limits and asks for pervy men), I open the other window to You Porn and scroll through the new ones or search for the fantasies: older men, creampie, anal, glory hole.
And I turn the egg vibe up slowly and push my clit out like a cock. (When did the male rooster become the object of my desire?) I can feel what (and with) men do. The rising up the scale of arousal, concentrated like a pulsing red target between my thighs. And there are those moments when I can catch it and slow down the vibe to make it last longer - an hour if I like. Or, days when it escapes me and I'm only mid-way through the most depraved "Best ANAL compilation yet.... ASS BUTT..." ["stick that ass up - there it is baby - it's in my ass - your cock is in my ass" and "mmm I like that... bitch, you like that? where you goin'? where you goin'? put that fucking leg down - put those knees on the floor!" and the grand finale with the pretty chick freaking out with a cum on her face "get back here, suck it out, don't open your fucking eyes, just suck my dick.. say good-bye plastic man... good bye plastic man.") And I just can't hold back. It's pulsing and contracting, its pulsing and contracting and then to shut off the vibration because it's too much then.
I am thinking of the nice slowness of the butcher and how he entered my raised ass with his fingers and hands and then his cock, only to sag at seeing blood, thinking I was in pain when I was only in excitement. The first ass fuck in so long, too long. I am picturing when I'm on my back and wanting to be on my knees and why he thinks he's taking me when I feel myself bouncing back on to him. I am thinking of the fuck we tried to have on the side of the road in rural France, when my knee started to sting and I looked down to see tens of too many red ants swarming our knees and how he suddenly felt the sting and we ran back to the car with burning all throughout our bodies. I was prepared to ignore it and bend over into the car to finish when a very old, wrinkly man and his dog came around the corner of the abandoned farm house.
I am seeing him on the floor of the cabin when we arrived and me squatting over his face, thinking back to the squat over the roadside toilet and pushing but not pushing to let the piss come out and down to his pursed lips and then sucked into his mouth. I cannot replicate this. It feels too wrong for me to give this way. My entire body fights against his request for this. He should be peeing on me. And then along the road with a perfect sunset on a castle miles in front of the car. I am leaning backwards across the passenger seat and over the gear stick, my knees are wide open and he is licking me with the passenger door open. Tourists are coming. I can see the sky the green grass his head the bright daylight.
I am feeling red slaps on my ass and homemade whips on my back - enough to break skin just before bathing suit time in Italy with my sister. I am reading so many SMS from him when I wanted short words.
And then, there is Italy. We drove to Cinque Terre and stayed in a quiet hotel that felt old and empty, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I caught a glimpse of the speedy motorcycle couple. They only travelled with the thick, protective moto suits and light tee-shirts and underwear under neath. She was drying her shirt on the terrace adjacent to us and was wearing the smallest bikini bottoms I'd ever seen - her thong, duh. They'd come to dinner in moto wear since it was the only clothing. An young man with shaved head, looking a bit skinhead and an older woman with dyed black straight hair.
And one day we parked and blocked a Harley guy from entering to register at the hotel. We joked and made eyes. Later that night he and his friend were at the table together and we made more eyes. He must have been in his late 50's and his friend in early 60's. Seeing the older of the two go out for smokes on the terrace from the dining room, I wanted a smoke. My sister acquiesced to my leaving the table for vice. I wanted the younger of the two but he tsk'd tsk'd me on smoking. My sister joined the Harley Younger at the table while Harley Older and I talked on the terrace. Pretty soon more wine came, we laughed the other 4 patrons out of the restaurant (old, unhappy couples), we got kicked out and took a bottle of wine to the Harley Older room. We laughed and talked and smoked and I started cuddling up to Harley Older, and Harley Younger started grabbing my sister's ass, but she felt uncomfortable (I remember drunkenly telling her, "Don't do anything you don't want to do."). Harley Older closed the door behind them and locked it and I know he said, "Ride it. Yes, yes, cum." And I don't think he could last very long, that German Swiss man.
I was defiant in another town in Italy and found a quiet cobblestone road to pee on and then argued with the local Italian men we met about why men can openly pee but women can't. It was the first fight of me and my sister and I stayed out with the men we met (celebrating a married friend) and got walked home by a man boy who couldn't kiss to keep me out from swerving to the hotel room.
In the last city, my sister and I missed our return flight. I thought it was Thursday but it was Wednesday. The extra 100E we paid was for being one more day together and it was great. An enormous storm came in and threatened to flood the already watery town. We laughed and ran together in the rain.
And forseeing nothing here in Geneva, my destiny found itself. I returned to Paris once for the aforementioned fucking in rural France. And after, I decided I needed to buy a bicycle to avoid paying 4-7 chf a day to get to and from work with stops between on the bus. Plus, it's more of a bike town than Madison, but perhaps equal to Amsterdam (from what I've seen). I sent a general message to the other interns and got a secret from one of the Americans. A small indie bike shop, owned by a Scot guy, who makes bikes for you or sells cool ones. Not like the other options of buying from a [insert Wal or Targ like store in the US].
Of course, I had already called out the bike I wanted to the gods: subject: women's bicycle - Negotiable on cost. Used or new. Women's style or men's style frame. Need a decent bicycle to get around town on. Bonus if it is more mountain bike and less racing bike; has a basket or back seat shelf; water bottle carrier; and has been loved. Thanks!
So, when I visited it was genius. I followed Google Maps (what did we do before this?) and found the store with bikes lined up outside. Walked in to find a guy over an upside bike. He looked up and I was hit with cupid desire. One bright blue eye, one black as night eye (not color, but defect). I mentioned the above and we bantered back and forth, flirting as Western cultures do. An excerpt:
"I'd like a bike, not for road cycling or mountain biking but for going about town, something around 140chf, is it possible?" I asked.
He scoffed a little, moved around, turned his back to me to put a tool down, and mumbled that most of the bikes in view right now were going for 260, but he didn't turn down the beginning of our bargaining. "It's possible, I mean what kind of bike do you want? A man's frame? A woman's frame?"
"It doesn't matter so much. A bike that needs a little repair but something I can have soon since I'm only here for 2 months. Nothing too new. Nothing too shiny. A little character would be great. It'd match me. A bike that's been loved."
He turned back around and looked up. "Loved? How am I supposed to know if it's been loved?" He asked me a bit smiling, a bit sarcastic.
"Well, we don't know how the owners treated the bike, but I'm sure you love each one of them as you work on them."
He showed me a couple of bikes that basically need a bit of repair. Depending on the price and time it would take to repair leads us to the final bidding price. Some gorgeous 1950s bodies. One was a possibility but the other needed too much work/time. "Well, I guess you want to see the back then?" he half-asked, half-said. "I don't know. Do I? What's back there?" I mean, how was I supposed to know. I didn't know the place. He went outside, around to the back of the building where there were 3 bikes laying around the walls surrounding the yard - he pointed to each and told its brief story and how much work / too much work. Then, we walked further back through the yard to a storage / garage, he opened the door and the whole thing was filled with bikes: bikes with rusty chains, bodies on twisted tires, bodies with handle bars that needed adjusting, bikes with crooked whatever, rusty this, broken that. But anyone who saw this could tell that he was a master of his trade and wouldn't mess around with quality. He'd do what you paid for and he'd do just enough but he'd do it well.
I didn't spot anything in the garage, turned around to go back to the front of the store, and it clicked. That one. Against the wall. The one that needed some work, but not too much, the one that survived a fire, was a bit blackened, a bit in need of fixing up, but the survivor. That's one hell of a tough bike. It's not ready to give up and it needs some love.
It's a Swiss-made bike, which he said meant it was well-made. It has a woman's frame, bell, light - all that need a bit of work, along with the chain and needing new, second-hand tires. "So, when can I pick her up?" I asked. He offered a week, I offered 10 days (since I wouldn't be in town the next Saturday). This will give more time for more attention, I hoped. He grabbed a pad of receipts. "Can I have your number?.. and name." I gave it to him and then asked him, "And, what's your name?" Eddie. "And, can I have your number?" I was just poking a bit of fun. He gave me his business card, "I've prepared for that question." He smirked.
I fell for the bike guy there. I've been back twice. Once for a sticker that is insurance - and he said I'd better come back and what does he do on the weekends or when he's not working, I asked. He sleeps. And would I like to sleep with him? A bit too forward for the second. But I went back for an alignment and a seat adjustment and I got grease on my leg and he pointed it out. I said it didn't matter. He got down on a knee and wiped it off and pretended to fog my calf with his breath to shine it.
And one night, after biking 50km (to another town with my girl friend from work and biking back), I wanted a whiskey and a smoke so I parked the bike inside the building and went to the nearby plaza. The plaza which dates back to Roman era and heralds back to days of beheadings and hangings (a very detailed article I read told of how the merchants from out of town would arrive to the city gate and find it locked, knowing there was a beheading happening, would wait until the body was thrown over the city walls knowing that they'd be let in at that point; and tales of whores 2 streets over; and then Voltaire and then Calvin - who I was told fucked boys). I got a Red Label straight and was given 2 cigarettes by a nice guy and then closed out some guy who sat at my table - the plaza bar seating is always packed, and with rich people.
And then, one night, after hours of sorting and editing and uploading and titling some photos (I started with 2000+ and I'm only up to Italy in June now). I wanted a smoke and whiskey so I went back to the plaza. Cased the place and found no seats. Was fake SMS sending to appear like I was with friends and then spotted a guy smoking, asked for a cigarette and got 2 (they are so much nicer here than in Paris). Walked away and decided to ask if I could sit at his table. We chatted and I got whiskey and I ended up speaking Spanish with the Spaniard and then going back to his place for more whiskey and ended up fucking him.
I'm not sure about this guy. His story seems to be that he's from here, a dad that's Spanish, a mom that's Swiss. He's forty, owns and lives in a sparse apartment in this part of town (which means wealth) and rents out a furnished apartment in another part of town (which means more wealth). He's an economist by trade and just finished dating some woman who bore his kid. He's a bee keeper and gave me honey in a jar with a label with his name. He's off to Spain this weekend to sail and catch huge calamari with his father. And he can't keep an erection. But he can make up for it with dildos and licking and fingers. And he's got a great collection of classical and flamenco music.
The second time I saw him he invited me for a drink on the plaza and then back to his place. It's becoming a ritual I guess, based on our third date. And then, we talk and drink whiskey on the rocks and he adds coke to his and then later offers me coke - up my nose. I haven't done drugs in a long time, but I took a line and thought, well now we'll see how his cock behaves. And, again, up and down like a rollercoaster. Dependent upon nothing, reacting to no one. Coming and going. The second date, he took his cock and rubbed the head up and down my slit. Over and over again. And, on coke, let me tell you... It feels almost greater than my own private vibe. Pulling my knees apart wider and wider and feeling this sensation of hunger and thrill and sensitivity. The last time I saw him somehow a porn of lesbians ended up on his tele screen. And he tried to fuck my ass but it wasn't happy enough for this. So, he stayed hard and fucked me for longer than I could handle - or what seemed long, when really it wasn't so long at all. We ended up laying down watching a Vigo Mortensen film while he caressed me - all riled up from the coke, each stroke felt like my skin was missing and all I had was nerves feeling his slow hands. And, then, I left. It's good to leave and especially at 12:50am. Enough time to crash before work, enough space to pass out, enough promise that I will get sleep.
And then, back to Paris. The butcher enticed me to cross the border and accompany him to a huge family celebration. It was overwhelming and I said no at first, and then he lobbied me (his words, genius). A sociological study, a tradition of France, an interesting circumstance, a photographic exploration. I had to do it. And then, there were so many people who were impressed by meeting me. And then, he didn't help the situation of my commitment and seriousness fear. He told me how so many people asked if I was "the one" and he told me that the told them no.
But really, it's a French cultural thing - from what I gather. While we Americans are so pragmatic and slightly cold and removed. The French are latin. They say I love you early (the butcher said it after a month of dating once a week, and said "Would you mind if I told you I love you?" I said yes without a beat). They say I love you often. They hold and cuddle and kiss and embrace and make out in public. They swoon and woo and romance. They eat love and hearts and cupid and romance for breakfast, lunch, apertif, and dinner. So, he followed his nature and we agreed to follow and allow our own natures. He'd say out loud what he thought and I'd brush it off. We agreed to act naturally. So, when we went to the full family (cousins from 5 to 80, parents, aunts, uncles, friends), I knew what *I* was doing - removed and observing. And he knew what he was doing.
I left the weekend feeling a genetic repulsion and a need for space. While I want him, I want it in context and within reason. I did feel days of longing for him and did feel moments of love. But they were subsumed with strange pushing away. I had to break away and stay away. When he asked if we'd see each other in 2 weeks I said I had writing and photos to attend to, I had to get to know this new city and get out on bikes. All of a sudden I felt put on a pedestal and too high for comfort. I felt needed and wanted nothing of that.
I also left with an infection - curses, batman! So, I had a week of getting to know the medical system in this city. Again the mixing of holes for poor Lola. She is so sensitive. My body reacts to the slightest disagreement, the slightest imbalance. My feet can't handle the round bars of the ladder to my flatmate's loft bedroom. My skin is burning brown from the sun here. My emotions make the sun follow me from city to city without rain. My cunnie is too precious for combinations. I went to the family planning place in town and they literally only do that - no tests, only words, and only help for pregnant women. They sent me across the street to the hospital maternity ward. They wanted 500 chf (1 chf = 1 USD) deposit for a consultation. The receptionist sent me to some urgent care clinic and a gyno doc. He was awesome. In the business for years and years and years. We spent an hour together. Me detailing my history. Him asking questions and making inappropriate jokes and over-sharing about anonymous patients who thought the suppository was for their mouth. He showed me where to give the pee test (the WC - which they called Winston Churchill room for a while). He let me stand in the lab while the pee test ran and he chatted in French on the phone, almost pulling it off the desk. He invited me into the stirrups and I undressed in front of him and then he described each manouever into me and then invited me to view the slide he'd made under the microscope. He recommended homeopathic remedies. They didn't work. I went back and waited an hour to see him for test results. He called the lab on Friday night and put them on speaker so I could hear. He reluctantly prescribed me antibiotics -- we are so accustomed us Americans. Our alternate bodies in another reality hugged goodbye. I biked on my super bike to the only open pharmacy after 6pm and got drugs that fixed me up. I want to finger paint a drawing of happy sun and beach and grass and send it to him.
And now. Here I am.
Finally. The stories of this moment told.
I have no idea what will happen but I'm on AFF and ALT and planning to replace the Spaniard with the bike shop owner. I'm totally mad for the butcher but have to space myself. I don't love my internship but I'm growing to love the city. I have a great girl friend who is Russian and who intrigues me to no end. I have bicycle freedom to take me through the city and learn me the one-way streets. I miss my Paris and my apartment and my bread shop and hookers. I am not sure why I am here or what I should do. I keep whispering over and over to people that I will (am) write a book here. But I have thousands of photos first. I have no interest in finding a better internship or working too hard, in fact I wanted to quit due to almost complete boredom. But there is a culture of sorts which I like. And a morning bike ride which tests my strategic senses and a bike ride home which gives me air. There's a cat that brought me a gift (ask if you want more info - it's a good story). And ghosts that live in this apartment (suicide makes them linger). And a good flatmate who reads my tarot and allows me to be. Things are too perfect. I wonder when they'll break. Or perhaps, I already know this. As I've said - I won't make it to 40. So, maybe, this is my living the fullest now. Perhaps the crazy dream feeling is a reality and I'm fortunate enough to know and now can't do anything other than feel it. Be it. Be here now.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
I can feel it
The next burst of writing, the next series of stories, all I have kept and all I have felt. The faces, the frustrations, the release with grand sighs of eyes closed and mouth smiling wide open, the rollercoaster, the fear, the giganticness of it all, the short person I feel inside, the capacity to fill the room. These thoughts and feelings are coming back again. They were just happening and now they must be told. The motor has gone spinning in the cotton picker and now slows, slows, slows to a monotonous, mesmerizing, hypnotic, relaxed pace. It is now. Now that I will catch the fluff and thorns and put them here. A smooth factory line with my microscope looking at each branding, each strain, each formation, each exactness and every unique diversion. It is coming. It is coming.
There are ghosts around me. I can feel them and see them through the lids of my eyes and the corners of my sight. This part of the city has hangings, beheadings, witchcraft. The merchants going to market within the city walls would come upon the city, note that the doors were closed and would wait until they saw the head thrown over the wall to know it was okay to enter now. I live in one of the first buildings of those days. I try not to hear them or see them. I think only good thoughts and wish only good things and at night I drug myself.
............
I didn't tell the Butcher, my current French lover, that it had been a while since my last test. I don't remember when it was or if I lied to someone to say I had. But he was going today and I thought it had been long enough. There was nothing to fear but the impossiblity that I was Bionic Woman and had been kicking ass this long. Alas, the quick test came back at the interesting gay HIV testing place and I was negative. I wanted to be more happy but I also wanted to act like I got this test every year just as a precaution. Regardless, it's good to do and I want to do it more often.
.............
There is more.. it's coming.. this weekend.. heat, head under the shower on cold, wine, chocolate and cheese and fruits. I will tell my stories.
There are ghosts around me. I can feel them and see them through the lids of my eyes and the corners of my sight. This part of the city has hangings, beheadings, witchcraft. The merchants going to market within the city walls would come upon the city, note that the doors were closed and would wait until they saw the head thrown over the wall to know it was okay to enter now. I live in one of the first buildings of those days. I try not to hear them or see them. I think only good thoughts and wish only good things and at night I drug myself.
............
I didn't tell the Butcher, my current French lover, that it had been a while since my last test. I don't remember when it was or if I lied to someone to say I had. But he was going today and I thought it had been long enough. There was nothing to fear but the impossiblity that I was Bionic Woman and had been kicking ass this long. Alas, the quick test came back at the interesting gay HIV testing place and I was negative. I wanted to be more happy but I also wanted to act like I got this test every year just as a precaution. Regardless, it's good to do and I want to do it more often.
.............
There is more.. it's coming.. this weekend.. heat, head under the shower on cold, wine, chocolate and cheese and fruits. I will tell my stories.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
metro intimacy
he said... "because I did it to the end, as usual. We danced until 5AM :) Now it's time to work again... I'm in a terrific mood : the day after parties I want sex more than usual, and going to the countryside makes it worse, always :) When I have this kind of tireness, I can almost feel my skin without touching it. It's a pity I'm alone :)"
Lola said:
It is a pity! I hope you are able to enjoy some company tonight!! ... The season doesn't help - spring time makes me more randy. For some reason, when I'm sick with a fever it makes me very hungry for sex, as well (sometimes) when I have a hangover, and lately -- well, all the time. I love how you describe it though - feel your skin without touching it. One of the reasons why I love the metro in Paris. People are either horrified when you bump into them, or you can find yourself rubbing an arm, shoulder, back for 20 minutes with a stranger. It's my new intimacy.
I keep forgetting to write this story down, but the other day, I got on the line 2 at Blanche at the back of the car. There was a horrible looking Indian man, although I thought he looked kind of Aborigine with a flat, juicy nose, bad teeth (which I imagined covered bad breath), and a pocked face. He was standing between the 2 poles. The back of the car somewhat emptied out when I got on, and the crowd flowing out revealed this Indian man slightly pressed up against the buttocks of another man. The other man was pasty white with too short, greasy hair like a typical nerd, thick glasses, and a short, badly-fashioned blue jacket. He held a book in front of his face and read, but I could see him coyly lean back against the Indian man's stiff pants. I pretended to read my own book but glanced up slyly now and again. They were somewhat protected from the view of other riders by a few people standing, as well. The Indian man would look nervously side to side occasionally, while the pasty man pretended he was innocent of all affairs, studiously managing the book in his hand with fake concentration. The car doors opened for more people to get on, more people to get off. The car would jerk on the rails and the Indian man would take the opportunity to press his cock further into pasty's jeans. There is about 3 feet between the poles at the back of the car - enough for 2 people to stand comfortably without touching. The cock man had reached his hand behind his back to grab the pole - to steady himself on the ride, and to have leveraging mobility. While the ass man held the opposite pole with one hand and the book with the other, leaning back but with less intensity, less obviousness. I wondered if they were lovers, pretending not to know each other. Maybe life had gotten a bit stale and they wanted to play the game of "let's pretend we don't know each other." Or, maybe they had seen one another's eyes across the street at Clichy and one turned to follow the other. There is such excitement in being pursued (I remember back to the greve when I walked from Blanche to Nation and was followed 2.5 km at the end of the walk by a man and his camera). Or, maybe they answered an ad on Craigslist and had just spent the last two hours fucking in a hotel room with pastel-flower sheets. Or, maybe, they didn't know each other at all, but one push backwards led to one push forward and no one would ever see the other's face. Anonymous rubs, anonymous tingles, anonymous panting while trying to conceal the hard-on, the heart racing, the thrill of remaining calm, the quiver of a buttock, the painfully confined cock. Again, the car door's flew open, and more people got on and off. Some glared with furrowed brows and tsk-tsk mouths when they were forced to move around the engaged men, who refused to move, looking away - or deeper into his book. I was jealous for a while. Jealous when a woman sitting opposite the coupling noticed something out of ordinary and studied them curiously. Even when children sat down near us, they didn't stop their dance. I was starting to feel what they were feeling. And I made up more stories of their passionate game. I remembered being on the metro during the greve when I thought a big man was pressing his cock up against my ass. I felt simultaneously insulted, used, and turned on. The car doors opened at Barbes and suddenly the pasty man half-bolted, half-brisked his way off the car. I waited two seconds for the Indian man to jump after him. He didn't. He didn't know where to go or where to turn. He was exposed. The doors closed. I could feel his emptiness - like when I beg lovers to not pull out quickly after they cum. It's not nicer to do it like a band-aid. It's too sensitive to tear away from me then. He moved forward and stood in front of the door and got off at the next stop.
Lola said:
It is a pity! I hope you are able to enjoy some company tonight!! ... The season doesn't help - spring time makes me more randy. For some reason, when I'm sick with a fever it makes me very hungry for sex, as well (sometimes) when I have a hangover, and lately -- well, all the time. I love how you describe it though - feel your skin without touching it. One of the reasons why I love the metro in Paris. People are either horrified when you bump into them, or you can find yourself rubbing an arm, shoulder, back for 20 minutes with a stranger. It's my new intimacy.
I keep forgetting to write this story down, but the other day, I got on the line 2 at Blanche at the back of the car. There was a horrible looking Indian man, although I thought he looked kind of Aborigine with a flat, juicy nose, bad teeth (which I imagined covered bad breath), and a pocked face. He was standing between the 2 poles. The back of the car somewhat emptied out when I got on, and the crowd flowing out revealed this Indian man slightly pressed up against the buttocks of another man. The other man was pasty white with too short, greasy hair like a typical nerd, thick glasses, and a short, badly-fashioned blue jacket. He held a book in front of his face and read, but I could see him coyly lean back against the Indian man's stiff pants. I pretended to read my own book but glanced up slyly now and again. They were somewhat protected from the view of other riders by a few people standing, as well. The Indian man would look nervously side to side occasionally, while the pasty man pretended he was innocent of all affairs, studiously managing the book in his hand with fake concentration. The car doors opened for more people to get on, more people to get off. The car would jerk on the rails and the Indian man would take the opportunity to press his cock further into pasty's jeans. There is about 3 feet between the poles at the back of the car - enough for 2 people to stand comfortably without touching. The cock man had reached his hand behind his back to grab the pole - to steady himself on the ride, and to have leveraging mobility. While the ass man held the opposite pole with one hand and the book with the other, leaning back but with less intensity, less obviousness. I wondered if they were lovers, pretending not to know each other. Maybe life had gotten a bit stale and they wanted to play the game of "let's pretend we don't know each other." Or, maybe they had seen one another's eyes across the street at Clichy and one turned to follow the other. There is such excitement in being pursued (I remember back to the greve when I walked from Blanche to Nation and was followed 2.5 km at the end of the walk by a man and his camera). Or, maybe they answered an ad on Craigslist and had just spent the last two hours fucking in a hotel room with pastel-flower sheets. Or, maybe, they didn't know each other at all, but one push backwards led to one push forward and no one would ever see the other's face. Anonymous rubs, anonymous tingles, anonymous panting while trying to conceal the hard-on, the heart racing, the thrill of remaining calm, the quiver of a buttock, the painfully confined cock. Again, the car door's flew open, and more people got on and off. Some glared with furrowed brows and tsk-tsk mouths when they were forced to move around the engaged men, who refused to move, looking away - or deeper into his book. I was jealous for a while. Jealous when a woman sitting opposite the coupling noticed something out of ordinary and studied them curiously. Even when children sat down near us, they didn't stop their dance. I was starting to feel what they were feeling. And I made up more stories of their passionate game. I remembered being on the metro during the greve when I thought a big man was pressing his cock up against my ass. I felt simultaneously insulted, used, and turned on. The car doors opened at Barbes and suddenly the pasty man half-bolted, half-brisked his way off the car. I waited two seconds for the Indian man to jump after him. He didn't. He didn't know where to go or where to turn. He was exposed. The doors closed. I could feel his emptiness - like when I beg lovers to not pull out quickly after they cum. It's not nicer to do it like a band-aid. It's too sensitive to tear away from me then. He moved forward and stood in front of the door and got off at the next stop.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
The moments in between
=====JSmith wrote=====
... I would appreciate you to tell me story occasionally...
=====lolita wrote=====
I write better stories when someone gives me a theme. I usually tell better stories when it's fact rather than fiction. But I do sometimes invent interesting bed time stories.
What's your art?
=====JSmith wrote=====
Hello again,
could you write me a sweet bed time storie, a variant around this girl Nabokov once called Lolita ?
I photography sometimes
au revoir...
=====lolita wrote=====
Well, that's a very lovely but naughty story of an older man who loved a very young girl. A titillating tale with passion, obsession, and young, gentle skin. Maybe you'd like to know what happens when she grows up, or maybe you want me to tell you about a lovely day they shared once in Paris?
xo
Lola
=====JSmith wrote=====
What a striking beginning of your story... To sleep well, I need to know more. What happened that very day in Paris ?
xx
=====lolita wrote=====
Well, she was a very lucky little girl to have Humbert Humbert bring her all the way to Paris, where the chocolate is like pure pillows melting on her tongue and the city lights brighten every little girl's eyes like stars on fire.
That day they woke up in a big, soft bed with a thick feathery blanket and they let just their eyes peek out over the covers, revealing only wrinkles as each made a giddy grin. They kept their smiles secret from the morning sun and just hints to each other. Humbert couldn't help but trickle his hand over to her soft, warm, small thigh. And Lolita couldn't help but open her eyes wide in giggly surprise, faking shock but also delightfully ticklish with butterflies in her tummy. Eyes watching eyes, he moved his hands along her peach fuzz leg while she giggled all nervous and excited for the big adventure.
.....
=====JSmith wrote=====
Hello... I would really like to know what happens next...
xxx
=====lolita wrote=====
Humbert's hand had a mind of its own, while Lolita, wrapped nicely in her long dressing gown, laid buried under the thick, soft blanket. He very slowly rolled onto his side so as not to frighten her. His fingers glided up her thin thigh, brushing the night gown lace upwards as he moved. Loli's mouth relaxed from her giggle. A muscle in her forehead contracted to raise one eyebrow ever so slightly, naked to the eye, but revealing an ounce of apprehension mixed with one sigh of relaxation.
It wasn't the first morning they had woken up together. Nor was it the first time Humbert had played spider with his hand, gently tickling up to the elastic band on her knickers. Each of these rounds of intimacy brought a pulse of fear within her gentle body. A drop of nervousness from her soft tongue. Swallowing the pooled butterflies, down to her tummy, sending them racing up and down her pale skin, speeding like a boat on rough seas through her blue sky veins.
His caresses also signaled the anticipation of 'the special tingles' and 'angel bells,' as she had described it to Humbert. His left hand on her right hip. His right on her taut belly, lifting the knickers. His eyes half-opened with adoration and hunger. She felt the angel bells now as her tummy contracted with tickles and a small gush of honey kissed her lips. He made a gentle question, "Mmm?" And she answered by barely lifting her small buttocks from the bedsheet. Her dainty hands at her sides, lifting her from the bed. A slight breeze between the open sheets cooled down her arms to her wrists.
Humbert wanted to tug quickly, but knew better. His Loli Dolly liked to go slow, no surprises, just gentle Daddy kindness. He leaned upwards and slid the knickers over Lolita's bent knees. This pulled the fluffy bed cover upwards like a tent and inched it downwards to reveal Loli's tender neck and smooth collar bone. He slipped the knickers over her toes, took them in a hand, and planted a gentle kiss on the curve of her neck.
Humbert's breath hovered over her neck, just under her earlobe. A bare breathing of morning, last night's cigarette, and this minute's lust warmed her neck, sending ripples down to her special spot.
Lolita's body slow-danced to the gentle tempo of the forefinger on Humbert's right hand as he made circles just above her pubis. Her right hand, still at her side, felt Humbert's heat.
... I would appreciate you to tell me story occasionally...
=====lolita wrote=====
I write better stories when someone gives me a theme. I usually tell better stories when it's fact rather than fiction. But I do sometimes invent interesting bed time stories.
What's your art?
=====JSmith wrote=====
Hello again,
could you write me a sweet bed time storie, a variant around this girl Nabokov once called Lolita ?
I photography sometimes
au revoir...
=====lolita wrote=====
Well, that's a very lovely but naughty story of an older man who loved a very young girl. A titillating tale with passion, obsession, and young, gentle skin. Maybe you'd like to know what happens when she grows up, or maybe you want me to tell you about a lovely day they shared once in Paris?
xo
Lola
=====JSmith wrote=====
What a striking beginning of your story... To sleep well, I need to know more. What happened that very day in Paris ?
xx
=====lolita wrote=====
Well, she was a very lucky little girl to have Humbert Humbert bring her all the way to Paris, where the chocolate is like pure pillows melting on her tongue and the city lights brighten every little girl's eyes like stars on fire.
That day they woke up in a big, soft bed with a thick feathery blanket and they let just their eyes peek out over the covers, revealing only wrinkles as each made a giddy grin. They kept their smiles secret from the morning sun and just hints to each other. Humbert couldn't help but trickle his hand over to her soft, warm, small thigh. And Lolita couldn't help but open her eyes wide in giggly surprise, faking shock but also delightfully ticklish with butterflies in her tummy. Eyes watching eyes, he moved his hands along her peach fuzz leg while she giggled all nervous and excited for the big adventure.
.....
=====JSmith wrote=====
Hello... I would really like to know what happens next...
xxx
=====lolita wrote=====
Humbert's hand had a mind of its own, while Lolita, wrapped nicely in her long dressing gown, laid buried under the thick, soft blanket. He very slowly rolled onto his side so as not to frighten her. His fingers glided up her thin thigh, brushing the night gown lace upwards as he moved. Loli's mouth relaxed from her giggle. A muscle in her forehead contracted to raise one eyebrow ever so slightly, naked to the eye, but revealing an ounce of apprehension mixed with one sigh of relaxation.
It wasn't the first morning they had woken up together. Nor was it the first time Humbert had played spider with his hand, gently tickling up to the elastic band on her knickers. Each of these rounds of intimacy brought a pulse of fear within her gentle body. A drop of nervousness from her soft tongue. Swallowing the pooled butterflies, down to her tummy, sending them racing up and down her pale skin, speeding like a boat on rough seas through her blue sky veins.
His caresses also signaled the anticipation of 'the special tingles' and 'angel bells,' as she had described it to Humbert. His left hand on her right hip. His right on her taut belly, lifting the knickers. His eyes half-opened with adoration and hunger. She felt the angel bells now as her tummy contracted with tickles and a small gush of honey kissed her lips. He made a gentle question, "Mmm?" And she answered by barely lifting her small buttocks from the bedsheet. Her dainty hands at her sides, lifting her from the bed. A slight breeze between the open sheets cooled down her arms to her wrists.
Humbert wanted to tug quickly, but knew better. His Loli Dolly liked to go slow, no surprises, just gentle Daddy kindness. He leaned upwards and slid the knickers over Lolita's bent knees. This pulled the fluffy bed cover upwards like a tent and inched it downwards to reveal Loli's tender neck and smooth collar bone. He slipped the knickers over her toes, took them in a hand, and planted a gentle kiss on the curve of her neck.
Humbert's breath hovered over her neck, just under her earlobe. A bare breathing of morning, last night's cigarette, and this minute's lust warmed her neck, sending ripples down to her special spot.
Lolita's body slow-danced to the gentle tempo of the forefinger on Humbert's right hand as he made circles just above her pubis. Her right hand, still at her side, felt Humbert's heat.
Monday, March 31, 2008
The Platonic Blow
The Platonic Blow
W. H. Auden
It was a spring day, a day for a lay, when the air
Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown;
Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there
On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.
I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined
A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged
Much. I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,
I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.
Our eyes met. I felt sick. My knees turned weak.
I couldn't move. I didn't know what to say.
In a blur I heard words, myself like a stranger speak
"Will you come to my room?" Then a husky voice, "O.K."
I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy
He told me his story. Present address: next door.
Half Polish, half Irish. The youngest. From Illinois.
Profession: mechanic. Name: Bud. Age: twenty-four.
He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along
The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck
The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong.
His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.
And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart.
I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh.
His reply was to move closer. I trembled, my heart
Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.
I opened a gap in the flap. I went in there.
I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge
Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh then to hair.
I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.
He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way:
Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt.
And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away.
Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.
The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft
With perfectly beveled rim of unusual weight
And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft
Was of noble dimensions with the wrinkles that indicate
Singular powers of extension. For a second or two,
It lay there inert, then suddenly stirred in my hand,
Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do.
And then with a violent jerk began to expand.
By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick
Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size.
Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick,
A royal column, ineffably solemn and wise.
I tested its length and strength with a manual squeeze.
I bunched my fingers and twirled them about the knob.
I stroked it from top to bottom. I got on my knees.
I lowered my head. I opened my mouth for the job.
But he pushed me gently away. He bent down. He unlaced
His shoes. He removed his socks. Stood up. Shed
His pants altogether. Muscles in arms and waist
Rippled as he whipped his T-shirt over his head.
I scanned his tan, enjoyed the contrast of brown
Trunk against white shorts taut around small
Hips. With a dig and a wriggle he peeled them down.
I tore off my clothes. He faced me, smiling. I saw all.
The gorgeous organ stood stiffly and straightly out
With a slight flare upwards. At each beat of his heart it threw
An odd little nod my way. From the slot of the spout
Exuded a drop of transparent viscous goo.
The lair of hair was fair, the grove of a young man,
A tangle of curls and whorls, luxuriant but couth.
Except for a spur of golden hairs that fan
To the neat navel, the rest of the belly was smooth.
Well hung, slung from the fork of the muscular legs,
The firm vase of his sperm, like a bulging pear,
Cradling its handsome glands, two herculean eggs,
Swung as he came towards me, shameless, bare.
We aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch,
All fact contact, the attack and the interlock
Of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch
Of his fresh flesh, I rocked at the shock of his cock.
Straddling my legs a little I inserted his divine
Person between and closed on it tight as I could.
The upright warmth of his belly lay all along mine.
Nude, glued together for a minute, we stood.
I stroked the lobes of his ears, the back of his head
And the broad shoulders. I took bold hold of the compact
Globes of his bottom. We tottered. He fell on the bed.
Lips parted, eyes closed, he lay there, ripe for the act.
Mad to be had, to be felt and smelled. My lips
Explored the adorable masculine tits. My eyes
Assessed the chest. I caressed the athletic hips
And the slim limbs. I approved the grooves of the thighs.
I hugged, I snuggled into an armpit. I sniffed
The subtle whiff of its tuft. I lapped up the taste
Of its hot hollow. My fingers began to drift
On a trek of inspection, a leisurely tour of the waist.
Downward in narrowing circles they playfully strayed.
Encroached on his privates like poachers, approached the prick,
But teasingly swerved, retreated from meeting. It betrayed
Its pleading need by a pretty imploring kick.
"Shall I rim you?" I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.
Turned on his side and opened his legs, let me pass
To the dark parts behind. I kissed as I went
The great thick cord that ran back from his balls to his arse.
Prying the buttocks aside, I nosed my way in
Down the shaggy slopes. I came to the puckered goal.
It was quick to my licking. He pressed his crotch to my chin.
His thighs squirmed as my tongue wormed in his hole.
His sensations yearned for consummation. He untucked
His legs and lay panting, hot as a teen-age boy.
Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked,
Clawing the sheet, all his pores open to joy.
I inspected his erection. I surveyed his parts with a stare
From scrotum level. Sighting along the underside
Of his cock, I looked through the forest of pubic hair
To the range of the chest beyond rising lofty and wide.
I admired the texture, the delicate wrinkles and the neat
Sutures of the capacious bag. I adored the grace
Of the male genitalia. I raised the delicious meat
Up to my mouth, brought the face of its hard-on to my face.
Slipping my lips round the Byzantine dome of the head,
With the tip of my tongue I caressed the sensitive groove.
He thrilled to the trill. "That's lovely!" he hoarsely said.
"Go on! Go on!" Very slowly I started to move.
Gently, intently, I slid to the massive base
Of his tower of power, paused there a moment down
In the warm moist thicket, then began to retrace
Inch by inch the smooth way to the throbbing crown.
Indwelling excitements swelled at delights to come
As I descended and ascended those thick distended walls.
I grasped his root between left forefinger and thumb
And with my right hand tickled his heavy voluminous balls.
I plunged with a rhythmical lunge steady and slow,
And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue.
His soul reeled in the feeling. He whimpered "Oh!"
As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.
Then I pressed on the spot where the groin is joined to the cock,
Slipped a finger into his arse and massaged him from inside.
The secret sluices of his juices began to unlock.
He melted into what he felt. "O Jesus!" he cried.
Waves of immeasurable pleasures mounted his member in quick
Spasms. I lay still in the notch of his crotch inhaling his sweat.
His ring convulsed round my finger. Into me, rich and thick,
His hot spunk spouted in gouts, spurted in jet after jet.
How Dirty Is That Auden Poem That Was Too Dirty for the ‘Times Book Review’?
W. H. Auden
It was a spring day, a day for a lay, when the air
Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown;
Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there
On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.
I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined
A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged
Much. I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,
I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.
Our eyes met. I felt sick. My knees turned weak.
I couldn't move. I didn't know what to say.
In a blur I heard words, myself like a stranger speak
"Will you come to my room?" Then a husky voice, "O.K."
I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy
He told me his story. Present address: next door.
Half Polish, half Irish. The youngest. From Illinois.
Profession: mechanic. Name: Bud. Age: twenty-four.
He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along
The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck
The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong.
His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.
And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart.
I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh.
His reply was to move closer. I trembled, my heart
Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.
I opened a gap in the flap. I went in there.
I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge
Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh then to hair.
I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.
He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way:
Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt.
And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away.
Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.
The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft
With perfectly beveled rim of unusual weight
And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft
Was of noble dimensions with the wrinkles that indicate
Singular powers of extension. For a second or two,
It lay there inert, then suddenly stirred in my hand,
Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do.
And then with a violent jerk began to expand.
By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick
Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size.
Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick,
A royal column, ineffably solemn and wise.
I tested its length and strength with a manual squeeze.
I bunched my fingers and twirled them about the knob.
I stroked it from top to bottom. I got on my knees.
I lowered my head. I opened my mouth for the job.
But he pushed me gently away. He bent down. He unlaced
His shoes. He removed his socks. Stood up. Shed
His pants altogether. Muscles in arms and waist
Rippled as he whipped his T-shirt over his head.
I scanned his tan, enjoyed the contrast of brown
Trunk against white shorts taut around small
Hips. With a dig and a wriggle he peeled them down.
I tore off my clothes. He faced me, smiling. I saw all.
The gorgeous organ stood stiffly and straightly out
With a slight flare upwards. At each beat of his heart it threw
An odd little nod my way. From the slot of the spout
Exuded a drop of transparent viscous goo.
The lair of hair was fair, the grove of a young man,
A tangle of curls and whorls, luxuriant but couth.
Except for a spur of golden hairs that fan
To the neat navel, the rest of the belly was smooth.
Well hung, slung from the fork of the muscular legs,
The firm vase of his sperm, like a bulging pear,
Cradling its handsome glands, two herculean eggs,
Swung as he came towards me, shameless, bare.
We aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch,
All fact contact, the attack and the interlock
Of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch
Of his fresh flesh, I rocked at the shock of his cock.
Straddling my legs a little I inserted his divine
Person between and closed on it tight as I could.
The upright warmth of his belly lay all along mine.
Nude, glued together for a minute, we stood.
I stroked the lobes of his ears, the back of his head
And the broad shoulders. I took bold hold of the compact
Globes of his bottom. We tottered. He fell on the bed.
Lips parted, eyes closed, he lay there, ripe for the act.
Mad to be had, to be felt and smelled. My lips
Explored the adorable masculine tits. My eyes
Assessed the chest. I caressed the athletic hips
And the slim limbs. I approved the grooves of the thighs.
I hugged, I snuggled into an armpit. I sniffed
The subtle whiff of its tuft. I lapped up the taste
Of its hot hollow. My fingers began to drift
On a trek of inspection, a leisurely tour of the waist.
Downward in narrowing circles they playfully strayed.
Encroached on his privates like poachers, approached the prick,
But teasingly swerved, retreated from meeting. It betrayed
Its pleading need by a pretty imploring kick.
"Shall I rim you?" I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.
Turned on his side and opened his legs, let me pass
To the dark parts behind. I kissed as I went
The great thick cord that ran back from his balls to his arse.
Prying the buttocks aside, I nosed my way in
Down the shaggy slopes. I came to the puckered goal.
It was quick to my licking. He pressed his crotch to my chin.
His thighs squirmed as my tongue wormed in his hole.
His sensations yearned for consummation. He untucked
His legs and lay panting, hot as a teen-age boy.
Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked,
Clawing the sheet, all his pores open to joy.
I inspected his erection. I surveyed his parts with a stare
From scrotum level. Sighting along the underside
Of his cock, I looked through the forest of pubic hair
To the range of the chest beyond rising lofty and wide.
I admired the texture, the delicate wrinkles and the neat
Sutures of the capacious bag. I adored the grace
Of the male genitalia. I raised the delicious meat
Up to my mouth, brought the face of its hard-on to my face.
Slipping my lips round the Byzantine dome of the head,
With the tip of my tongue I caressed the sensitive groove.
He thrilled to the trill. "That's lovely!" he hoarsely said.
"Go on! Go on!" Very slowly I started to move.
Gently, intently, I slid to the massive base
Of his tower of power, paused there a moment down
In the warm moist thicket, then began to retrace
Inch by inch the smooth way to the throbbing crown.
Indwelling excitements swelled at delights to come
As I descended and ascended those thick distended walls.
I grasped his root between left forefinger and thumb
And with my right hand tickled his heavy voluminous balls.
I plunged with a rhythmical lunge steady and slow,
And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue.
His soul reeled in the feeling. He whimpered "Oh!"
As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.
Then I pressed on the spot where the groin is joined to the cock,
Slipped a finger into his arse and massaged him from inside.
The secret sluices of his juices began to unlock.
He melted into what he felt. "O Jesus!" he cried.
Waves of immeasurable pleasures mounted his member in quick
Spasms. I lay still in the notch of his crotch inhaling his sweat.
His ring convulsed round my finger. Into me, rich and thick,
His hot spunk spouted in gouts, spurted in jet after jet.
How Dirty Is That Auden Poem That Was Too Dirty for the ‘Times Book Review’?
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