Tuesday, August 5, 2008
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.
Friday, July 18, 2008
The beginning, a very good place to start
I'm not sure where to write or how to do it.
It's been so long.
I've been wanting to write, and to do so freely, lately. But every time I had some free time, I couldn't find the way or the words or the worlds to describe.
I turned off a light in the room to hope that would help. I finally poured some wine. I feel free and can sleep in until 10am tomorrow and still, where are the words?
What? Who? The things I've tried to remember and my memory serves no good.
I fell in love with the Butcher and his whiskey and his attention. I didn't want to see anyone else. I was squeezing in friends and finals and fucking. The last year - where has it gone? To cock and whipping with his homemade leather ropes that were not good because they made me bleed, to ass licking and spanking and jubilation when we saw each other. And then I moved. I packed it all up and pretended I didn't and wouldn't live at the Paris apartment. I realized I had too much and threw a lot out. I put a lot into a bag and tried to give it away. I stuffed boxes into cupboards. I lifted boxes and marked them "special" and "good times." I packed and then re-packed to be able to come across the border with a backpack and a luggage on wheels. They only check the black people at this border between France and Switzerland and then, I learned that this country is even more backward.
I love my flat with ghosts of suicide. A jeweler lived up here, with his wife. He dealt in diamonds and watches. There is such an immense history in this neighborhood - it was originally the place where beheadings and hangings and burnings took place (the merchants would arrive to the city, the gates were locked, and they'd know when they'd be allowed in to sell once the body was tossed over the wall of the city). And then just up the road the street of prostitutes and the street of Voltaire and the street of Rosseau and it's Calvin territory. Such an overlapping in one small square mile. So the jeweler, supposedly - as told by others living the building who are all related (except my outcast flatmate) - lost his sight and got depressed and then, just outside the apartment, on the same floor, in a small cupboard room next door, they killed themselves. My colleague questioned - suicide or murder-suicide? I don't know, all I know is that it is utterly polite of them to do it outside the apartment. And yet the cat is still afraid and I still feel things, which I choose to ignore.
I bought an old 1950s bike from an incredible Scottish man with one blue eye and one black eye (non-functioning I think). He repaired the wheels, the chain, the brakes, the seat with second-hand parts. The bike was a survivor of a fire. I knew she was for me - needed to ride again. I love this bike now.
I love the hiking I will do tomorrow for 20km. I love the biking I will do on Sunday. I love that I walk to the UN. I love that my flatmate read my tarot cards. I love that I shower with the showerhead in my hand instead of standing under pouring water for 20 minutes. I love that things are not easy.
But I also hate these things.
So, I moved here for an internship and am getting life lessons - as we all do.
The first weekend I was here I went back to Paris to see the Butcher and to travel up to Brittany and Normandy. I met his people, slept in the main hall of the cabin complex. Slept on a boat. Tried to fuck in the fields only to have our knees bitten by vicious red ants.
The next weekend I biked 50km on a heavy rental bike to another town on the huge lake (to go around it would take days).
The next weekend I returned to Paris and then went to Brittany again for the 50th anniversary of the Butcher's unkle's marriage. A castle renovated, a chapel renovated, so much eating so much drinking so much singing and polka and waltzing! (And then we mixed the holes and I got an infection, which I am now fighting with antibiotics and homeophathic drugs).
And in between, there was the Spaniard. I had been working on photos one week night and drinking wine and went out to the plaza for a smoke. I paced the plaza and saw no seating. This neighborhood is too rich for my taste, for any normal person. So, the last time I was here was after the big bike ride of 50km and I needed a whiskey and a smoke. I sat down and reveled in my accomplishment. This time, there was no open space for me. So I spotted a guy sitting and with smokes on the table. Could I have one? Yes. Here have two. I walked away wishing for a place and fake SMSing on my phone as if I had friends. Then, I turned back, fuck it. And asked him to sit at his table. I ordered a Red Label whiskey as that's all they have. We talked. I thought he was gay.
Oh, my gadar. In Europe men are so much more fluid than men in the USA. There's much more acceptance of the macho and feminine combined. A man could
[["A Perfect Day" by Lou Reed on the French radio]]
freely feel fluid and flouncing and it wouldn't dictate a sexual preference at all. There's such cross-over here. Men are bi and switches and fluid. Whereas I prefer my men to be USA men, as bold and macho as they come. So, my gaydar is off entirely. And women I would peg as dykes are just tough farm wives. So confused.
Alas, he invited me back to his place for better whiskey. And we went. And talked and he gave me a jar of honey grown from his own bees. And gave me great head and couldn't get his up. Too much liquor. And I showed him biting of my nipples. And he's 40 and I didn't have to explain why.
Then, again, I saw him. And I was nervous. I was working all day and got his SMS on the lawn, wondered if I should or shouldn't. We had an intern cocktail hour after work.. oh but wait.
I had my bike then. Oh, my, the bike shop owner. He reminds me of all the bikers of Madison combined together. Grease on his hands. ... So, I was looking for a cheap bike and online could only find the places of normal bikes - aka a type of Walmart. But an intern told me of this special place where a guy works on bikes and makes them to order essentially. She told me he was Scottish but failed to mention so much. And that's good - I was able to find out for myself. And oh did I find out. As is acknowledged, I ooze sexuality and couldn't help but explain myself in a way that wanted him and he wanted me.
So, I biked to the intern cocktail and kept watch of the time, a short window to see the Spaniard. I biked up to our plaza and I was nervous, sober and he is too good looking for me. He is an economist by trade and grown in Geneva and lives in my neighborhood and, while I know he is more nervous than I am, he's wild. After a drink he invited me back to his place as the sun set. We talked, listened to music, drank whiskey on the rocks, and finally touched. He invited me to take coke and I did - after a few hesitations (I'm too old for this, I don't want to be wrecked, etc). And then, the touching was like electric eels. His cock head rubbing up and down on my cunnie. It wasn't hard and he didn't enter, but the sensation was enough - the teasing, the touching, the concentration in his eyes when I caught a look. And then a finger in my ass. I have heard that I am healed from others who have touched me there. I do not feel whole yet - even since the surgery last year. But I have been able to feel total excited pleasure with a small smidgen of an entry. And then a bit more of a finger and then a whole finger and then a twisting finger and then a tongue and a couple fingers and then .... I'm ahead of the story.
After our hours of music and touching and kissing and semi-fucking and me trying to suck his semi-soft, it was plenty and we were tired and before that sets in, I know it's time to leave.
Back to Butcher man. He has had my pee. As a summer refreshing drink after I have tried and pushed and finally let go. He has asked me to push with his tongue against my ass. He has inserted fingers and tongue and finally, cock. Finally, a cock in my ass again. (Only to shrink out at the sight of a bit of blood. I'll never be the same, but I'll always be different thank god.) And down by the river in the middle of Brittany nowhere farm and castle land. His fingers in me, his hands on me, his tongue in me, his eyes watching. And me, looking at dirt, ants (not red!), leaves, bugs, my own feelings.
And a train ride again. Two or three in a day. Across France. Across land that reflects the land I came from, the land I want, the land of semi-peace. Back to asking the bike man about a few adjustments and his flirtations. His "I hope you do come back - soon." "What do I do in my free time? Well, I'm here all the time so when I'm not, I sleep. Do you want to sleep with me?" His buffing the bike body from fire residue. Changing the seat joints for free. Removing the plastic protector of the chain since it was broken. Him, squatting, wiping grease off my shin and pretending to shine it up with his breath. Sarcastic and hungry at the same time.
And then, when it rains, it pours. Again. My life is like this. If ever I want a man, I forget I want them and they come (take heed, desperate women). The temporary infection from mixing bummie and cunnie. Right now, before the Spaniard goes on vacation next week and while I'm flirting with the bike man, and when I just want the Butcher's lips all over me.
So, I take it as a rest. As an interpretation that I have to write. Have to focus on photos. Have to hike and bike and be well. Get back to me and remember my body's rules. No mixing. No tainting. No hurt.
Yes. That's it.
For now.
Exorcised.
Not in detail, not in depth, not in poetry. Just told. Not like girls gossiping at the table over drinks. But a navigation, a map of memory for future reference.
It's been so long.
I've been wanting to write, and to do so freely, lately. But every time I had some free time, I couldn't find the way or the words or the worlds to describe.
I turned off a light in the room to hope that would help. I finally poured some wine. I feel free and can sleep in until 10am tomorrow and still, where are the words?
What? Who? The things I've tried to remember and my memory serves no good.
I fell in love with the Butcher and his whiskey and his attention. I didn't want to see anyone else. I was squeezing in friends and finals and fucking. The last year - where has it gone? To cock and whipping with his homemade leather ropes that were not good because they made me bleed, to ass licking and spanking and jubilation when we saw each other. And then I moved. I packed it all up and pretended I didn't and wouldn't live at the Paris apartment. I realized I had too much and threw a lot out. I put a lot into a bag and tried to give it away. I stuffed boxes into cupboards. I lifted boxes and marked them "special" and "good times." I packed and then re-packed to be able to come across the border with a backpack and a luggage on wheels. They only check the black people at this border between France and Switzerland and then, I learned that this country is even more backward.
I love my flat with ghosts of suicide. A jeweler lived up here, with his wife. He dealt in diamonds and watches. There is such an immense history in this neighborhood - it was originally the place where beheadings and hangings and burnings took place (the merchants would arrive to the city, the gates were locked, and they'd know when they'd be allowed in to sell once the body was tossed over the wall of the city). And then just up the road the street of prostitutes and the street of Voltaire and the street of Rosseau and it's Calvin territory. Such an overlapping in one small square mile. So the jeweler, supposedly - as told by others living the building who are all related (except my outcast flatmate) - lost his sight and got depressed and then, just outside the apartment, on the same floor, in a small cupboard room next door, they killed themselves. My colleague questioned - suicide or murder-suicide? I don't know, all I know is that it is utterly polite of them to do it outside the apartment. And yet the cat is still afraid and I still feel things, which I choose to ignore.
I bought an old 1950s bike from an incredible Scottish man with one blue eye and one black eye (non-functioning I think). He repaired the wheels, the chain, the brakes, the seat with second-hand parts. The bike was a survivor of a fire. I knew she was for me - needed to ride again. I love this bike now.
I love the hiking I will do tomorrow for 20km. I love the biking I will do on Sunday. I love that I walk to the UN. I love that my flatmate read my tarot cards. I love that I shower with the showerhead in my hand instead of standing under pouring water for 20 minutes. I love that things are not easy.
But I also hate these things.
So, I moved here for an internship and am getting life lessons - as we all do.
The first weekend I was here I went back to Paris to see the Butcher and to travel up to Brittany and Normandy. I met his people, slept in the main hall of the cabin complex. Slept on a boat. Tried to fuck in the fields only to have our knees bitten by vicious red ants.
The next weekend I biked 50km on a heavy rental bike to another town on the huge lake (to go around it would take days).
The next weekend I returned to Paris and then went to Brittany again for the 50th anniversary of the Butcher's unkle's marriage. A castle renovated, a chapel renovated, so much eating so much drinking so much singing and polka and waltzing! (And then we mixed the holes and I got an infection, which I am now fighting with antibiotics and homeophathic drugs).
And in between, there was the Spaniard. I had been working on photos one week night and drinking wine and went out to the plaza for a smoke. I paced the plaza and saw no seating. This neighborhood is too rich for my taste, for any normal person. So, the last time I was here was after the big bike ride of 50km and I needed a whiskey and a smoke. I sat down and reveled in my accomplishment. This time, there was no open space for me. So I spotted a guy sitting and with smokes on the table. Could I have one? Yes. Here have two. I walked away wishing for a place and fake SMSing on my phone as if I had friends. Then, I turned back, fuck it. And asked him to sit at his table. I ordered a Red Label whiskey as that's all they have. We talked. I thought he was gay.
Oh, my gadar. In Europe men are so much more fluid than men in the USA. There's much more acceptance of the macho and feminine combined. A man could
[["A Perfect Day" by Lou Reed on the French radio]]
freely feel fluid and flouncing and it wouldn't dictate a sexual preference at all. There's such cross-over here. Men are bi and switches and fluid. Whereas I prefer my men to be USA men, as bold and macho as they come. So, my gaydar is off entirely. And women I would peg as dykes are just tough farm wives. So confused.
Alas, he invited me back to his place for better whiskey. And we went. And talked and he gave me a jar of honey grown from his own bees. And gave me great head and couldn't get his up. Too much liquor. And I showed him biting of my nipples. And he's 40 and I didn't have to explain why.
Then, again, I saw him. And I was nervous. I was working all day and got his SMS on the lawn, wondered if I should or shouldn't. We had an intern cocktail hour after work.. oh but wait.
I had my bike then. Oh, my, the bike shop owner. He reminds me of all the bikers of Madison combined together. Grease on his hands. ... So, I was looking for a cheap bike and online could only find the places of normal bikes - aka a type of Walmart. But an intern told me of this special place where a guy works on bikes and makes them to order essentially. She told me he was Scottish but failed to mention so much. And that's good - I was able to find out for myself. And oh did I find out. As is acknowledged, I ooze sexuality and couldn't help but explain myself in a way that wanted him and he wanted me.
So, I biked to the intern cocktail and kept watch of the time, a short window to see the Spaniard. I biked up to our plaza and I was nervous, sober and he is too good looking for me. He is an economist by trade and grown in Geneva and lives in my neighborhood and, while I know he is more nervous than I am, he's wild. After a drink he invited me back to his place as the sun set. We talked, listened to music, drank whiskey on the rocks, and finally touched. He invited me to take coke and I did - after a few hesitations (I'm too old for this, I don't want to be wrecked, etc). And then, the touching was like electric eels. His cock head rubbing up and down on my cunnie. It wasn't hard and he didn't enter, but the sensation was enough - the teasing, the touching, the concentration in his eyes when I caught a look. And then a finger in my ass. I have heard that I am healed from others who have touched me there. I do not feel whole yet - even since the surgery last year. But I have been able to feel total excited pleasure with a small smidgen of an entry. And then a bit more of a finger and then a whole finger and then a twisting finger and then a tongue and a couple fingers and then .... I'm ahead of the story.
After our hours of music and touching and kissing and semi-fucking and me trying to suck his semi-soft, it was plenty and we were tired and before that sets in, I know it's time to leave.
Back to Butcher man. He has had my pee. As a summer refreshing drink after I have tried and pushed and finally let go. He has asked me to push with his tongue against my ass. He has inserted fingers and tongue and finally, cock. Finally, a cock in my ass again. (Only to shrink out at the sight of a bit of blood. I'll never be the same, but I'll always be different thank god.) And down by the river in the middle of Brittany nowhere farm and castle land. His fingers in me, his hands on me, his tongue in me, his eyes watching. And me, looking at dirt, ants (not red!), leaves, bugs, my own feelings.
And a train ride again. Two or three in a day. Across France. Across land that reflects the land I came from, the land I want, the land of semi-peace. Back to asking the bike man about a few adjustments and his flirtations. His "I hope you do come back - soon." "What do I do in my free time? Well, I'm here all the time so when I'm not, I sleep. Do you want to sleep with me?" His buffing the bike body from fire residue. Changing the seat joints for free. Removing the plastic protector of the chain since it was broken. Him, squatting, wiping grease off my shin and pretending to shine it up with his breath. Sarcastic and hungry at the same time.
And then, when it rains, it pours. Again. My life is like this. If ever I want a man, I forget I want them and they come (take heed, desperate women). The temporary infection from mixing bummie and cunnie. Right now, before the Spaniard goes on vacation next week and while I'm flirting with the bike man, and when I just want the Butcher's lips all over me.
So, I take it as a rest. As an interpretation that I have to write. Have to focus on photos. Have to hike and bike and be well. Get back to me and remember my body's rules. No mixing. No tainting. No hurt.
Yes. That's it.
For now.
Exorcised.
Not in detail, not in depth, not in poetry. Just told. Not like girls gossiping at the table over drinks. But a navigation, a map of memory for future reference.
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.
Monday, May 12, 2008
As old as Jesus, punk!
I'm going to be 33 tomorrow.
I'm in the middle of paper-writing on Ethiopia and Eritrea and their conflict. How am I supposed to know what to recommend? Good lord.
Anyway. Good times lately. After the Indian man, I met a French man who peed on me in the middle of his rug in the middle of his living room. And then he tried to get me to pee into his mouth - about 4 times I've tried now and it's just not in my subbie constitution, but I keep trying. He's also beaten me quite a bit with a homemade flogger that leaves red scratch marks on my body and makes me happy to see them for days afterward. He snores like a giant bear walrus and last time I spent the night I took a sleeping pill. He gave me my first champagne breakfast after our second date. He hasn't asked to fuck my ass and doesn't care that it's lame. He loves it when I suck his cock but doesn't beg me to rim him. In fact, he doesn't beg at all. He directs and caresses and fondles and fingers and spanks and slaps and hurts me so well.
So, I've got 3 papers in the next 3 weeks and like 5 visitors coming from the US. pdh is coming over with his girlfriend and her girlfriend. My old high school friend B is coming to visit for a week. And the end of this week the son of a former colleague is in town. Then, on 2 June I'm off for 10 days with my sister to Italy and Barcelona -- got recommendations for Italy? Do tell!
So, yes, I'm going to be as old as Jesús and maybe even older! But definitely more fun.
Bisous.
L.
PS. don't forget, you too can buy Lola a gift if you want to - check the Amazon wishlist. xoxo
I'm in the middle of paper-writing on Ethiopia and Eritrea and their conflict. How am I supposed to know what to recommend? Good lord.
Anyway. Good times lately. After the Indian man, I met a French man who peed on me in the middle of his rug in the middle of his living room. And then he tried to get me to pee into his mouth - about 4 times I've tried now and it's just not in my subbie constitution, but I keep trying. He's also beaten me quite a bit with a homemade flogger that leaves red scratch marks on my body and makes me happy to see them for days afterward. He snores like a giant bear walrus and last time I spent the night I took a sleeping pill. He gave me my first champagne breakfast after our second date. He hasn't asked to fuck my ass and doesn't care that it's lame. He loves it when I suck his cock but doesn't beg me to rim him. In fact, he doesn't beg at all. He directs and caresses and fondles and fingers and spanks and slaps and hurts me so well.
So, I've got 3 papers in the next 3 weeks and like 5 visitors coming from the US. pdh is coming over with his girlfriend and her girlfriend. My old high school friend B is coming to visit for a week. And the end of this week the son of a former colleague is in town. Then, on 2 June I'm off for 10 days with my sister to Italy and Barcelona -- got recommendations for Italy? Do tell!
So, yes, I'm going to be as old as Jesús and maybe even older! But definitely more fun.
Bisous.
L.
PS. don't forget, you too can buy Lola a gift if you want to - check the Amazon wishlist. xoxo
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Yellow
It's the season of the pee.
I'll have to tell you about my date with Krishna. And then the one with Richard. And then the one with Yves.
Right after the 24th March debauchery with sex, I had a most horrible dry spell. I'm a manic swinger in these hormones - either dramatically anti-anything PMS girl or super horn dog to the rescue. This period was extremely ugly though. I felt more desperate than before. I felt more insatiable. I guess studying adds an element of over-usage of the brain and firing of certain synapses which weren't used previously.
I found myself in the apartment of a very interesting Indian man who studies physical particles and movement of I don't know what. But I was there under the pretense of our long email discussions of debased sexual acts. I was dark and deep under, walking to his place I nipped frequently on the flask. I saw people and know they were special to my eyes but I've forgotten them now.
How did I get here? Craigslist. He posted something very alluring about being a Dom seeking a sub girl. I jumped. We emailed back and forth - even some of the more disgusting, gutter ideas I've had. We're both literary. He's into classical music. I want to see an opera. We love Nabokov - although me for his writing and his slight pedo desires; him just for the writing. We met up at the Pompidou museum one night. We're both on the slightly-less-attractive-than-Parisian-standards scale. But I make up for it in character and confidence, which I find he lacks a bit. On one occasion he walks in front of me and narrowly almost crowds me into running into a sculpture. He's an unaware genius. He's the type who can't feed off of me. I have my own major insecurities.....
I remember bd saying he could never bring me home to his family, james being honest to my honest question - my teeth, the only thing he'd want to change and the only thing I find myself lately wanting to change. Orthodonistry is so cheap now that we can't even make fun of the British for their bad teeth anymore. Mine are yellowing, too, with the odd water content here and my genetics. So, I've bought hydro peroxide and brush and rinse and paint it on daily. I'm feeling more and more and more ugly than I ever did before. And my body is aging. Like the White House has aged Bush, my own eyes have formed bags under the stress of school. I think my body fatter and flabbier in comparison to the girls in this city. I am not a girl. I am a woman who is so much more tired than the kids on this pace. These are my daily insecurities.
But I replace them. I overlap them. I lay them to the side. I swallow them. I wash them down the drain. I eat them up. I toss them on the floor with my dirty laundry. I forget as soon as I'm on the path to meet someone. A stunning model, with perfect everything is nothing if she hasn't got confidence. An average looking woman is an alluring sex pot with confidence oozing out of her. So, I project. I give. I send it out in waves. I feel it and eat it and fill up on how beautiful I am, how special I am in submission and sex and giving head and moaning and cunt taste and soft skin.
He could not feed on this. I'm not sure what he was eating. But it was robotic in a way. I felt far away and burdened. When we first said hello he rushed us upstairs so I couldn't check my bag (with laptop and school books). I felt pained in trying to enjoy the night.
But it was only date #1. And I needed his understanding from other places, other spaces in his mind.
So, I found myself during this time, during the time I'm so familiar with, the time of debauchery inside and chaos. These are days when, if I were still in Madison, I'd bring the headphones and the flask of whiskey to the pier by my apartment and I'd sing loudly. Or scream or cry. Or, maybe I'd walk far in the night. In a last minute I emailed him if he'd be around this night. Could we skip some of the courting and meet up?
So, I barely ate and I fed myself whiskey and perfume and porn. I was beautiful and contained on the outside but on the inside I felt like a Robert Crumb comic on the inside. I was late and I knew but forgot that he'd have a bladder full for me.
I got to his place and asked him to turn the lights down. There were blaring white lights in his apartment. I chalk it up to his consideration of me - make sure I feel I can see everything and feel comfortable that he's not hiding some gigantic torture device behind his couch. He asks which whiskey I want and I want to tell him I've had some, thanks, but we decide on the older Scottish one. I have a Scottish one in my flask but it's not the same. The one he feeds me stays in my gums for 4 days after this night. My immediate reaction is that it tastes like dirty socks. It's peppery and old and too spicy. I drink it anyway.
He and I negotiate my undressing. I can't remember whether he tells me to undress or I suggest it. He wants to pour candle wax on me. So he shows me that he's testing it on himself first. I know it's a normal candle. And normal candles aren't 'appropriate' for experimentation but at some points one has to give up on 'what's book right' for the play scene and try 'what kinda might be right.' I don't know if he poured very much on me, but I remember I was a sensitive being this night. Everything felt hard and sharp and painful. Everything felt too much and too wrong. It might have been the time of the month or the liquor.
He took photos of me. From underneath - not a flattering view. He put a butt plug in me. He fingered me. I was in a scratchy space. Sandpaper. Everything that happened this night was wrong and so right. I made moves to suck his cock and he reminded me that I had to go the bathroom first. Yes, we'd talked about the pee. I wanted to be peed on and he wanted to pee on me. In an alley where I'd go home still stinking and wet. In a bathtub where I'd wallow in the piss like a pig. In our emails I dreamed of this debasement.
He helped me across the apartment to the bathroom. A small tub (a novelty in apartments to have any kind of tub at all), about 1/2 the size of normal tubs. A small room for it and the toilet and sink. He told me to get in. I did. And gagged a million times over inside.
I have a huge OCD issue with hair.
I was drunk.
Thank god.
I got on my knees into the tub and saw the hair in the drain. Around the drain. Clinging to the sides of the tub. Curled and black and sticky. My horror. My bravery. My drunk brain. "Put the plug in the drain," he said.
I turned over on my back and curled up. He climbed up on the sides of the tub and let loose upon me. On my face, on my chest, on my belly, on a lip. I kept my mouth closed. I kept my eyes closed. I let my tongue barely taste it from my lips. He kept releasing and releasing. Built up for hours. "You look beautiful, Lola. Just so beautiful." I wanted this. I wanted humility. I wanted disgusting. I wanted to feel like a pig. I wanted to let go in this way. To not be the constrained, composed student with high dreams. I was a nothing. I was fear and physical feelings. I was wet an humiliated and disgusting and shivering and cold and wet and warm and sticky.
He told me to turn over in the urine.
And now, rub my hair and face in it. He had written his thoughts on pee. To him it was like dogs. Marking their territory. Acting animalistic. Making me a dirty pig rolling in his fluids. I closed my eyes and didn't think. I just did. I just moved. I just swallowed the difficult and let out the action.
And then he helped me up and drained the tub and washed me. And then he made me wash him. A thick blanket of hair covered every part of his body except a mowed area of collarbone and neck and face. More hair. More hair on the soap. More hair on my hands. On my body as we bumped into each other. I was curling like milk on the inside and needed more booze. Too great a challenge.
Cleaned, we got out and went back to the whiskey. And then to the bed. He licked me and then told me to lick him. He laid back on the bed and again, my stomach dropped. Within a forest of hair laid a limp mushroom cock with interesting patchy splotches on it - from circumcision, from cultural skin tone. I put it in my mouth and sucked. I had hoped to hear some moaning, some development, some announcement of pleasure or nearness. He wanted to put it inside me and got a condom. I crawled up on top and rode him for a while. I felt him but was not spoiled by him. He pushed my thighs up and became more aggressive, grabbing my thighs in his fingers, pinching me, pulling me and then huge wind-up slaps to my thighs. Such that I howled loudly. This is not spanking, my friend. This is random slapping with uncontrolled force and greed and ignorance. It ruined any inkling of horny I had going. He explained that his last lover wasn't as sensitive as me and like this kind of wild abandon. He wanted me to suck him off. Time was running out. The metro would stop running in 20 minutes. I had to give up and leave him unfulfilled. He begged me to finish him off. I refused, putting on my clothes, up to my limit, done with the scene, done with the moment, out of the element, and unfulfilled.
We were nice. I ran out the door and washed my mouth with my own whiskey. I got lost and wasted time but made it to the last metro from this far south side.
I got home and had a glass of wine and 4 chocolates.
I have not yet recovered.
&&&&&&&&&&&&
Richard :
Another from Craigslist. He's younger than me but won my interest by pointing that fact out and claiming to be able to match me. We met one night when I decided to go for a drink with classmates. He took me to a rum bar on St. Germain des Pres and exuded confidence over all odds. He looked very soft and malleable. Too young for even his close proximity of age. His French voice was soft in English. I wondered if he'd developed a thing for his mother growing up. But still he had confidence. We kissed at the metro stop on my way rushing home (damn the non 24-hour living here!) and I found a weakness. Lips. Please, please, if you kiss, relax your lips. If you have no lips, then relax even more. A tight lipped kiss sends all the wrong messages. But one can be forgiven for this due to nerves.
So, when we talked next we decided I'd run over to his place after class one night. My flask is my friend. The metro is too bright so I find little dark spaces to have a tug. It's not that I'm an alcoholic, friends. And I think you know so there's not much explaining here. But really, as adults, it's nice to have a glass of wine or a nip or tuck before going off into unchartered sexual territory. So, this time, with the sun still finding it's hiding spot in the sky at 8pm, I ducked into the photo booth and pulled the curtain - thinking of Amelie and her innocent love chase to my naughty dirty sex drive. I sipped on the flask and thought about what I was going to do. What I had hoped would happen. He had joked about handcuffs in our last email. And had told me to come to his door, close my eyes, knock and keep my eyes closed.
I followed his directions out of the metro and up to his apartment. I closed my eyes. He spoke when he opened the door and essentially broke the spell. Which made me open my eyes and talk to him. Kill joy. Still, in a land of conservative, slow-making, private French he moved rather fast. Disappointing though, I ended up on top and instead of wearing handcuffs I was hearing, "I am your prisoner," in some kind of soft, poeticy french accent as if this was to make me feel romantic or inspired or lusty. When really, it dampened everything for me. But I still continued on. My cunnie still hungry from minimal fulfillment the last date.
And I wondered how I'd feel him inside me. Either I'm picking similar men or I've been spoiled to exaggeration or French men are slightly less enhanced than others. And when he put himself inside me I wondered if he felt comfortable or welcome or loose. God, I don't want to be a lossey goosey. I've been queen of kegels for this. And so, I tried to feel him and still... nothing. Yet he came. And then, he spent a good half hour playing with me with his hands and tongue and lips. I'm just not a girl who cums from oral. Usually... or rather, there's a small world of men who know how to give it.
So, disappointed, but not grossed out, I left his place. One glass of wine, 2 chocolates that night.
&&&&&&&&&&
There's always a happy ending.
I left Craigslist. There were two other men in between. One, a soccer player, never realized in physical form which made me distrust the situation. The other, I met, only to get along really well but find out that he was leaving for some stellar financial job in London.
So, I went to AFF. Sure, the time I spend making and caretaking a profile I could be hanging out in bars, but really, I feel I'm making a bit more progress while still wearing my pjs and multi-tasking on papers and projects.
One day there was an elaborate reply in my inbox. He said he was dominant and wrote wonderful English (a serious problem here - I'm not sure how the French will remain competitive in the world without emphasizing English sadly). We sent emails back and forth about likes and dislikes and interests for about a week. The same time Krishna and I did.
And finally, a night worked for me to go meet him. Something different in this round. Something very different. I was more excited. I knew what to expect or something. His four head shot photos sent were all of his smile closed so I presumed he shared my teeth problem. His photos were all head shots so I guessed he might have a bit of spare tire weight. His writing was genuine but kinky. Reserved and not desperate, but eager and interesting. Not to build this up as a love story because it's not. But something else made sense inside. And something totally dumb, but my heart spasmed in the way it does when cupid hits it. I had butterflies.
I came out of the metro, an hour late after texting him I would be late. I wasn't sure which direction he lived in, but I'd been here before since he lived near the club I've visited a lot. I crossed a street, headphones on, looked up at the street name, turned to head in the other direction. Saw him across the street - through my blurred vision. I smiled. It was like a reunion, not like a meeting. Cars moved between. I waited and tried to hide my smile but I couldn't stop my cheeks. And when I met him face to face we hugged instead of the reserved French cheek-kissing. We hugged and kind of kissed lips in a rush of remembrance. We laughed. I asked for a place to buy water. We rushed in and out of the supermarket nearby and I asked for a smoke.
It was more exciting. It was more comfortable. It was more eyes only a foot apart. It was talking so closely. It was inside me and outside me. It was so many things like we were rushing to catch up after a long separation. It was so many things like learning each other under a pretense of previous engagement. It was giddy like we'd been prisoners released. I think I felt it more than he did. I think I'm more heady than he is. I think I have to keep it in check.
Yes.
Breathe.
It's easy to find something good and focus on it. And then make it smoothered or unreal or brighter or impossible.
So, instead of that. I'd like to retain reality. Thus, I go to sleep now.
you'll get more soon.
More about pee from him. Walrus sleeping. Eclipses. Fisting. And who knows what after tomorrow night.
I'll have to tell you about my date with Krishna. And then the one with Richard. And then the one with Yves.
Right after the 24th March debauchery with sex, I had a most horrible dry spell. I'm a manic swinger in these hormones - either dramatically anti-anything PMS girl or super horn dog to the rescue. This period was extremely ugly though. I felt more desperate than before. I felt more insatiable. I guess studying adds an element of over-usage of the brain and firing of certain synapses which weren't used previously.
I found myself in the apartment of a very interesting Indian man who studies physical particles and movement of I don't know what. But I was there under the pretense of our long email discussions of debased sexual acts. I was dark and deep under, walking to his place I nipped frequently on the flask. I saw people and know they were special to my eyes but I've forgotten them now.
How did I get here? Craigslist. He posted something very alluring about being a Dom seeking a sub girl. I jumped. We emailed back and forth - even some of the more disgusting, gutter ideas I've had. We're both literary. He's into classical music. I want to see an opera. We love Nabokov - although me for his writing and his slight pedo desires; him just for the writing. We met up at the Pompidou museum one night. We're both on the slightly-less-attractive-than-Parisian-standards scale. But I make up for it in character and confidence, which I find he lacks a bit. On one occasion he walks in front of me and narrowly almost crowds me into running into a sculpture. He's an unaware genius. He's the type who can't feed off of me. I have my own major insecurities.....
I remember bd saying he could never bring me home to his family, james being honest to my honest question - my teeth, the only thing he'd want to change and the only thing I find myself lately wanting to change. Orthodonistry is so cheap now that we can't even make fun of the British for their bad teeth anymore. Mine are yellowing, too, with the odd water content here and my genetics. So, I've bought hydro peroxide and brush and rinse and paint it on daily. I'm feeling more and more and more ugly than I ever did before. And my body is aging. Like the White House has aged Bush, my own eyes have formed bags under the stress of school. I think my body fatter and flabbier in comparison to the girls in this city. I am not a girl. I am a woman who is so much more tired than the kids on this pace. These are my daily insecurities.
But I replace them. I overlap them. I lay them to the side. I swallow them. I wash them down the drain. I eat them up. I toss them on the floor with my dirty laundry. I forget as soon as I'm on the path to meet someone. A stunning model, with perfect everything is nothing if she hasn't got confidence. An average looking woman is an alluring sex pot with confidence oozing out of her. So, I project. I give. I send it out in waves. I feel it and eat it and fill up on how beautiful I am, how special I am in submission and sex and giving head and moaning and cunt taste and soft skin.
He could not feed on this. I'm not sure what he was eating. But it was robotic in a way. I felt far away and burdened. When we first said hello he rushed us upstairs so I couldn't check my bag (with laptop and school books). I felt pained in trying to enjoy the night.
But it was only date #1. And I needed his understanding from other places, other spaces in his mind.
So, I found myself during this time, during the time I'm so familiar with, the time of debauchery inside and chaos. These are days when, if I were still in Madison, I'd bring the headphones and the flask of whiskey to the pier by my apartment and I'd sing loudly. Or scream or cry. Or, maybe I'd walk far in the night. In a last minute I emailed him if he'd be around this night. Could we skip some of the courting and meet up?
So, I barely ate and I fed myself whiskey and perfume and porn. I was beautiful and contained on the outside but on the inside I felt like a Robert Crumb comic on the inside. I was late and I knew but forgot that he'd have a bladder full for me.
I got to his place and asked him to turn the lights down. There were blaring white lights in his apartment. I chalk it up to his consideration of me - make sure I feel I can see everything and feel comfortable that he's not hiding some gigantic torture device behind his couch. He asks which whiskey I want and I want to tell him I've had some, thanks, but we decide on the older Scottish one. I have a Scottish one in my flask but it's not the same. The one he feeds me stays in my gums for 4 days after this night. My immediate reaction is that it tastes like dirty socks. It's peppery and old and too spicy. I drink it anyway.
He and I negotiate my undressing. I can't remember whether he tells me to undress or I suggest it. He wants to pour candle wax on me. So he shows me that he's testing it on himself first. I know it's a normal candle. And normal candles aren't 'appropriate' for experimentation but at some points one has to give up on 'what's book right' for the play scene and try 'what kinda might be right.' I don't know if he poured very much on me, but I remember I was a sensitive being this night. Everything felt hard and sharp and painful. Everything felt too much and too wrong. It might have been the time of the month or the liquor.
He took photos of me. From underneath - not a flattering view. He put a butt plug in me. He fingered me. I was in a scratchy space. Sandpaper. Everything that happened this night was wrong and so right. I made moves to suck his cock and he reminded me that I had to go the bathroom first. Yes, we'd talked about the pee. I wanted to be peed on and he wanted to pee on me. In an alley where I'd go home still stinking and wet. In a bathtub where I'd wallow in the piss like a pig. In our emails I dreamed of this debasement.
He helped me across the apartment to the bathroom. A small tub (a novelty in apartments to have any kind of tub at all), about 1/2 the size of normal tubs. A small room for it and the toilet and sink. He told me to get in. I did. And gagged a million times over inside.
I have a huge OCD issue with hair.
I was drunk.
Thank god.
I got on my knees into the tub and saw the hair in the drain. Around the drain. Clinging to the sides of the tub. Curled and black and sticky. My horror. My bravery. My drunk brain. "Put the plug in the drain," he said.
I turned over on my back and curled up. He climbed up on the sides of the tub and let loose upon me. On my face, on my chest, on my belly, on a lip. I kept my mouth closed. I kept my eyes closed. I let my tongue barely taste it from my lips. He kept releasing and releasing. Built up for hours. "You look beautiful, Lola. Just so beautiful." I wanted this. I wanted humility. I wanted disgusting. I wanted to feel like a pig. I wanted to let go in this way. To not be the constrained, composed student with high dreams. I was a nothing. I was fear and physical feelings. I was wet an humiliated and disgusting and shivering and cold and wet and warm and sticky.
He told me to turn over in the urine.
And now, rub my hair and face in it. He had written his thoughts on pee. To him it was like dogs. Marking their territory. Acting animalistic. Making me a dirty pig rolling in his fluids. I closed my eyes and didn't think. I just did. I just moved. I just swallowed the difficult and let out the action.
And then he helped me up and drained the tub and washed me. And then he made me wash him. A thick blanket of hair covered every part of his body except a mowed area of collarbone and neck and face. More hair. More hair on the soap. More hair on my hands. On my body as we bumped into each other. I was curling like milk on the inside and needed more booze. Too great a challenge.
Cleaned, we got out and went back to the whiskey. And then to the bed. He licked me and then told me to lick him. He laid back on the bed and again, my stomach dropped. Within a forest of hair laid a limp mushroom cock with interesting patchy splotches on it - from circumcision, from cultural skin tone. I put it in my mouth and sucked. I had hoped to hear some moaning, some development, some announcement of pleasure or nearness. He wanted to put it inside me and got a condom. I crawled up on top and rode him for a while. I felt him but was not spoiled by him. He pushed my thighs up and became more aggressive, grabbing my thighs in his fingers, pinching me, pulling me and then huge wind-up slaps to my thighs. Such that I howled loudly. This is not spanking, my friend. This is random slapping with uncontrolled force and greed and ignorance. It ruined any inkling of horny I had going. He explained that his last lover wasn't as sensitive as me and like this kind of wild abandon. He wanted me to suck him off. Time was running out. The metro would stop running in 20 minutes. I had to give up and leave him unfulfilled. He begged me to finish him off. I refused, putting on my clothes, up to my limit, done with the scene, done with the moment, out of the element, and unfulfilled.
We were nice. I ran out the door and washed my mouth with my own whiskey. I got lost and wasted time but made it to the last metro from this far south side.
I got home and had a glass of wine and 4 chocolates.
I have not yet recovered.
&&&&&&&&&&&&
Richard :
Another from Craigslist. He's younger than me but won my interest by pointing that fact out and claiming to be able to match me. We met one night when I decided to go for a drink with classmates. He took me to a rum bar on St. Germain des Pres and exuded confidence over all odds. He looked very soft and malleable. Too young for even his close proximity of age. His French voice was soft in English. I wondered if he'd developed a thing for his mother growing up. But still he had confidence. We kissed at the metro stop on my way rushing home (damn the non 24-hour living here!) and I found a weakness. Lips. Please, please, if you kiss, relax your lips. If you have no lips, then relax even more. A tight lipped kiss sends all the wrong messages. But one can be forgiven for this due to nerves.
So, when we talked next we decided I'd run over to his place after class one night. My flask is my friend. The metro is too bright so I find little dark spaces to have a tug. It's not that I'm an alcoholic, friends. And I think you know so there's not much explaining here. But really, as adults, it's nice to have a glass of wine or a nip or tuck before going off into unchartered sexual territory. So, this time, with the sun still finding it's hiding spot in the sky at 8pm, I ducked into the photo booth and pulled the curtain - thinking of Amelie and her innocent love chase to my naughty dirty sex drive. I sipped on the flask and thought about what I was going to do. What I had hoped would happen. He had joked about handcuffs in our last email. And had told me to come to his door, close my eyes, knock and keep my eyes closed.
I followed his directions out of the metro and up to his apartment. I closed my eyes. He spoke when he opened the door and essentially broke the spell. Which made me open my eyes and talk to him. Kill joy. Still, in a land of conservative, slow-making, private French he moved rather fast. Disappointing though, I ended up on top and instead of wearing handcuffs I was hearing, "I am your prisoner," in some kind of soft, poeticy french accent as if this was to make me feel romantic or inspired or lusty. When really, it dampened everything for me. But I still continued on. My cunnie still hungry from minimal fulfillment the last date.
And I wondered how I'd feel him inside me. Either I'm picking similar men or I've been spoiled to exaggeration or French men are slightly less enhanced than others. And when he put himself inside me I wondered if he felt comfortable or welcome or loose. God, I don't want to be a lossey goosey. I've been queen of kegels for this. And so, I tried to feel him and still... nothing. Yet he came. And then, he spent a good half hour playing with me with his hands and tongue and lips. I'm just not a girl who cums from oral. Usually... or rather, there's a small world of men who know how to give it.
So, disappointed, but not grossed out, I left his place. One glass of wine, 2 chocolates that night.
&&&&&&&&&&
There's always a happy ending.
I left Craigslist. There were two other men in between. One, a soccer player, never realized in physical form which made me distrust the situation. The other, I met, only to get along really well but find out that he was leaving for some stellar financial job in London.
So, I went to AFF. Sure, the time I spend making and caretaking a profile I could be hanging out in bars, but really, I feel I'm making a bit more progress while still wearing my pjs and multi-tasking on papers and projects.
One day there was an elaborate reply in my inbox. He said he was dominant and wrote wonderful English (a serious problem here - I'm not sure how the French will remain competitive in the world without emphasizing English sadly). We sent emails back and forth about likes and dislikes and interests for about a week. The same time Krishna and I did.
And finally, a night worked for me to go meet him. Something different in this round. Something very different. I was more excited. I knew what to expect or something. His four head shot photos sent were all of his smile closed so I presumed he shared my teeth problem. His photos were all head shots so I guessed he might have a bit of spare tire weight. His writing was genuine but kinky. Reserved and not desperate, but eager and interesting. Not to build this up as a love story because it's not. But something else made sense inside. And something totally dumb, but my heart spasmed in the way it does when cupid hits it. I had butterflies.
I came out of the metro, an hour late after texting him I would be late. I wasn't sure which direction he lived in, but I'd been here before since he lived near the club I've visited a lot. I crossed a street, headphones on, looked up at the street name, turned to head in the other direction. Saw him across the street - through my blurred vision. I smiled. It was like a reunion, not like a meeting. Cars moved between. I waited and tried to hide my smile but I couldn't stop my cheeks. And when I met him face to face we hugged instead of the reserved French cheek-kissing. We hugged and kind of kissed lips in a rush of remembrance. We laughed. I asked for a place to buy water. We rushed in and out of the supermarket nearby and I asked for a smoke.
It was more exciting. It was more comfortable. It was more eyes only a foot apart. It was talking so closely. It was inside me and outside me. It was so many things like we were rushing to catch up after a long separation. It was so many things like learning each other under a pretense of previous engagement. It was giddy like we'd been prisoners released. I think I felt it more than he did. I think I'm more heady than he is. I think I have to keep it in check.
Yes.
Breathe.
It's easy to find something good and focus on it. And then make it smoothered or unreal or brighter or impossible.
So, instead of that. I'd like to retain reality. Thus, I go to sleep now.
you'll get more soon.
More about pee from him. Walrus sleeping. Eclipses. Fisting. And who knows what after tomorrow night.
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.
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