Almost caught

I've done this a few times. It meshes with my trucker fantasy. But today, I was spotted, and not sure how much or what he saw.

Between cities. I pulled over to the rest area. Further from the other cars, but not so far as to be suspicious -- I guess? (As if I have this figured out.) I pull out the mobile to pretend some work call is coming in. Of course, that's why I pull over. I am a good citizen after all - don't want to drive and talk. Whip out the laptop. Reach behind into the roller suitcase, pull out the silver underwear bag. Laptop in lap. Pull out my trusty egg vibe (this one from the sex store in Paris). Slide the seat back. Facing the big, heavy, resting trucks. Dirty trucks. Some with headlights on in mid-day. Some just pulling up. Are the men napping? Do they have girls with them? Are they getting sucked off? Are they shooting up? My dirty dream to connect somehow and - of course - am serviced and fucked. In a cab. In one of those awesomely dirty, messy, lived-in cabs, with rosaries hanging from random hooks, velour red (blood red) curtains, a small college dorm-sized fridge, a mattress?, a cushion? what the hell is in the back of these cabs? how big are they?

I put the egg in under the open zipper, under the soft pink fabric of my thong. Put the laptop crooked-wise in my lap and pick the one video where the hairy French guy is pounding the nubile girl from behind and she's into it but her moans are screams. Side by side next to the one of "hungry joe" - some guy I friended years ago who likes exhibitionism and makes videos of himself jacking off. In this one he's using a see-through fleshlight. She's screaming (I turned the volume up as the car engine runs), he's lubing up the fleshlight, the phone is by my side, my hand in my pants, I change one of the batteries out, turn it up high high high, not enough time to work up to it.

I look up and see the rest area janitor guy at the trash bins in front of my car. Fuck! Slide my hand out from my underwear to the keyboard. I feel the instant blush in my cheeks. Cover the open zipper with my sweater. He looks at me. Looks back to the bins. I toss the egg vibe to the floor of my car. Pick up the phone. "Oh, hi, yeah, so I found the document.." He empties the bins. I try to mouth words in fake conversation and attempt to quickly calculate his viewpoint angle. Was the laptop hiding my hand. Was the cord obvious? Did he hear the screams? He moves on to the next bins.

I pretend the fake call. He finishes this stretch of cleaning and walks past me. I try to smile innocently as he walks by.

Out of view, I pretend a trucker has binoculars on me. Staring. Watching. Wondering. Knowing I'm faking my phone call. Watching me put the phone down, jack up the videos again, quickly place the now dirty and dusty egg vibe into my pants (I wipe it a little beforehand but the dirt makes me feel more naughty), and and and and .... quick, pulsing release. The blood rushes to my cheeks. The inside walls clench and contract in spasm. I close my eyes in orgasm like an addict feeling the kick in my veins. But quick. The janitor might have seen it all and called the cops. I'm running late anyway. Battery out. Egg back into the bag. Bag into the suitcase. Laptop closed. Pants zipped. I step out for a smoke. (I have quit, but it's my rebel behavior on these hormonal trips that makes me want something between my lips.) Pretend - again - that I'm on the phone.

Climb back in. Pull the seat forward. Reverse. Pull out.

Ahhhhhh, yes....

My thoughts on money for play

and a photo of my nudey body

and lovely Paris

over at tumblr.

xo

nerve.com

Back in the day, I used Nerve.com for dating and artistic fun:

"a week in DC with lola"

me my goods my habits
I am: a woman
Looking for: a man
Interested In: friendship, dating, play
Age: 27
Location: midwesternly
Area Code: 666
Occupation: political whore
Education: college
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Religion: what have you got?
Star Sign: are you one?
Relationship Status: Single
Height: 5'6"
Weight: 125 lbs
Hair color: not a hamptons blonde
Eye color: firey pools of observation
Cigarettes: sometimes
Booze: often
Drugs: never
Self-deprecation: never

you your goods your habits
Age: 18 - 88
Education: college, grad school, post grad

the tip of my iceberg

Last great book I read:
Let's Go Guide to Washington, DC... or how to make your own party in the nation's capital.

Most humbling moment:
a tie: talking to the inner demons of a homeless man in front of the white house - or - when my step-cousin leaned over and kissed me while drunkenly watching Apocolypse Now

Favorite on-screen sex scene:
a 1970's anti-feminist porn shown at the Women in the Arts museum

Celebrity I resemble most:
chandra levy.. only, alive.

Best (or worst) lie I've ever told:
to the congressman who offered to show me places i wouldn't normally have access to: 'i'll call you tomorrow!'

If I could be anywhere at the moment:
back in DC ass-fucking in the hilton, in richmond fucking, in the elevator of the rayburn with that hot lefty intern, in arlington finishing off where my cousin and i were interrupted, in the limo with the Honorable Reps.

Song or album that puts me in the mood:
WASH!ING!TON!DC - the magnetic fields

The five items I can't live without:
condoms, a guide book, metro map, camera, business cards

Fill in the blanks:
mingling is sexy; networking is sexier.

In my bedroom, you'll find:
i'm unpacked, maps of DC, undeveloped film, unpaid bills, unfulfilled desires, business cards, a shot of maker's mark, a pile of mail unread, clean sheets, the next campaign director for the next greatest thing

why you should get to know me
who else do you know who can fly into a new city and come away with 4 new lovers, 9 new potential employers, 3 new bruises, and a million new stories? i'm fun, fearless, friendly, you can dress me up for the kennedy center, you can undress me with your eyes and i won't take offense, and i don't wear khacki.

more about who I'm looking for
the next president of the states

editor's note: this is one of many stories created using a personal ad, for further information on the author, please see her other profile: lola990.

Hence, why it's good to have a sense of humor

Celine's last day in Paris and she wanted to grab lunch at a super hotspot in the Marais (where she's seen models and the famous).

Then, she wanted to do a pedicure/manicure thing. I have never done a pedicure/manicure thing. First, for the ethical reasons that these shops are horrendous on the Asian employees (why are they almost all Asian?). Second, I'm just not girlie enough for it. Third, I'm very aware that my feet are not my best feature - and they're ticklish.

When the Asian lady lifted up my foot from the tub to do some scrapey scrapey thing on the bottom, the 4 teen girls behind her cracked giggles and popped their eyes. One even leaned over to get a better look.

No, my feet are not clubbed. But yes, it's why I always wear sexy thigh-highs or cute knee-socks on dates.

For dinner, I went over to an international affair of all these kids from my grad program. And, who did I run into but the classical guitar player.

Ahhh, life.

finished

I have just finished the saving the entire history of every CDOA. I now saved every motherfucking entry I have written.

Now, comes the task of re-reading and sorting them into something that makes sense. Short stories - with photos where available. Poetry - the good, the bad, and the worse. Essays - on politics, current affairs, past memories. Longer stories - of love, of lovers, of ghosts, of dead people.

I've gone as far back as 2001.

That's a lot of fucking words.

the footsteps down the hall

There were certain sounds, certain echoes, certain resonance to them.

When dad came to us every three years or so and explained that we'd be moving again.

The military life. People always ask if I liked moving all the time, liked living all over the world. Well, there was nothing to which to compare. I knew no different. And every few years, there he would come. I don't recall my mother telling us. I think she was left to the packing detail, while he often went ahead to establish something -- his work, our lives, a pattern?

It's the same, only different now.

I thought I'd love travelling, moving, carrying my life in a few suitcases and boxes. And, I do. I know very well - as much as my family knows I know, and joke with me that we'll grow annoyed with each other after a couple of months. I'm bred independent. I have no gut instinct for marriage, the house, the picket fence, the 2.5 children, the mortgage, the small city.

But this move. This change. Well, it comes with so much more to it, of course. I wouldn't be packing if my dad weren't sick. But what would I be doing? Who would I be now? We'll never answer this because of how things go now. Destiny? Karma? As it is. And this move, well, it's fucking hard. Hard with a capital H. Am I too old to live on my own without a family to sustain? Am I too tender to be so far?

Tonight, my father encouraged me in applying for certain jobs. All jobs. Anywhere. With travel as it is and internet, why not? But then, why didn't they visit me? Why did they never make it over here? Why did they not come for my graduation? They are building a last house, a house of self-sustaining proportion, of solar and water heat, of environmental friendliness. That could be the reason, although rumor has it that my mother wasn't interested in travelling.

She and I are too alike. We suffer anxiety. We suffer our go-go dancer tendancies. We adore newness but hate making it happen. I am more like my mother than I or she ever intended. I doubt she knows this, but I guess she has hints. After all, we fought like enemies for so long that I think she realized she had been cursed with herself re-born.

So now.

They are my footsteps. My decision to move. My destiny in making.

I don't think I've cried so much as an adult. I almost worry that I have early menopause. I see certain posturing of my parents on Skype and start to stop myself from crying. Yes, I know I'm delayed in development, in growing up, and it's only now, finally, that I realize the importance of family.

But ... well, there is such beauty in freedom, Paris, living.

Ugh. I'm too tired to finish this.

But it's why I find it hard to go outside my apartment. It's too damn beautiful. It's too damn free. And, now, well, now, it's time to be an adult. Grow up. Suck up. Suck it up. Get a pant suit and low heels, go to some big city, and make my payback. And I hate it. I miss my family but I hate the idea of US living. It will crush me. So far as I can see now.

Blah blah. I know this isn't true. I know I'm adaptable, flexible, and in so much love with humanity that I can do anything. But for now, for tonight, I'm crying over a lot of spilled milk that is called lait in French and is beautiful.

[no editing
oh, and a ton of new photos over on Tumblr.]

I married myself

April 9, 2003

So, it snowed last week Friday.
And iced.
And the streets were fucking ice skating rinks.
I did not drive anywhere.

"The paint's peeling off the streets again and I'll drive and close my eyes in Michigan. And I feel nothing, not brave. It's a hard day for breathing again... The heat is chasing off all of your friends and their scattered bodies part to the shore again. And I feel nothing, not sane. It's a hard day for dreaming again. I'm not going back to the assholes that made me, and the perfect display of random acts of hopelessness...."

I did not go back.
And once again, the weather came through for me. Roads and highways covered with perilous danger. Distraction.

This Friday I drank too much and still thought I could get dolled up for the bar. Go out regardless.
I told him to meet me there.
Got there.
Found a seat.
Had one drink and stumbled out.
Seein’ double, refusing to react to the taps on my shoulder.
"Listen, it's Lola. I’m calling from home. If you get this, don't go to the bar. Come to my place. I’m too drunk. Got too drunk to stay there."

He did get it.
And by then, I was passing out in my bed.
And I guess I talked like a doll.
Chatty Cathy.
"And I see ghosts... This one time in Virginia I saw so many. So many. I had to turn away. I had to go crazy."
"Oh, this album. Hang on, I have to sing." (Bright eyes turned up way too loud.)
And tears.
And then sleep.

He still gets up at 9am. That drives me nuts. Because once your guest is up, you should be, too. And if you aren't, then you can't, and then you can't go back to sleep because they are roaming through your kitchen and will eat you out of house and home because you forgot to shop for food.

When you do wake, they're by your side with a hard on. "I can't fuck, it's that time, it's the bad time of the month, the scary time, and I’m terrified." You know it's an excuse but you say it. Because you really don't want to wake up, you really want to sleep it off and fuck later – later that night, when the sun isn’t out, the lights are dim, and you're drunk again.

And he reads.
And then you wake up again.
And say, "no, let's fuck," because like a boy, your body rouses you from sleep and dreams of nakedness and the slow, wet entry of cock.
And he obliges because he's been hard for three hours now.

"You wanna get food?" he asks.
The last thing you want. What you want is to sleep again. Or to fuck again. But not food. And not the alone time with him in a public place, and not the time it takes to get dressed. It seems too hard on a typical Saturday for you, which is lazy typically and public radio and zoning out while recalling the night before.

"No."

You get restless because you're tired, but not tired enough to sleep with him. And you want to do something, alone. So, you start to clean. Pick up the leftover shit. Then, look at the dirty dishes in disgust without the energy to do them. So, you shower. While he still reads. Still sits there. Still lays there. And you don't have the heart to tell him to get the fuck out. And it's not really what you want to say because you like him being around, for company, for fucking, but not for intimacy or boyfriend shit. You are not going steady. You are not obligated to have lunch. Or hold hands.

Then, you crawl under the blankets, dressed, and wet hair. You read and he piles himself next to you. And you listen to public radio while you read Bukowski poems. And you just wish he'd leave because this, this is your solitary routine. But you don't say it. You don’t say it because you're a coward and afraid to hurt his feelings. After all, he cut himself in your kitchen and says he'll be fine with your non-monogamy.

So, you get up. You get up because you had read Bukowski saying he, when dining on one candy bar a day and getting drunk and beat up in the alley, wrote 5 short stories and 20 poems a week. You pause to figure that amount out in your head. 7 days. 5 stories, 20 poems. Ok, I work 5 days a week. I could come up with that number. Fuck. Fuck. I gotta start now. I don't have the guts to quit my job and move and live in slums and fuck up like that. Fuck. I got a long way to go. Fuck. I gotta start something now. So, if I start with old stuff and submit that for a while, then I can catch up.

So you get up and sit there, head in hands, and finally he says, "you're going to write" (because you've turned on your computer), "so I’ll leave." But it's that weak, hesitating kind of "I’ll leave if you say so, but ask me to stay, please.” You kiss him goodbye and thank him for sitting through your drunk bullshit the night before.

You don't write. You can't write for some reason.
So, you start to drink and check emails.

And then it's nighttime.
And you're tired at 6pm.
So, you take a nap until 10pm.
Get up for Saturday Night Live and try to sober up.
What world are you in? Where are you? Tired. Drunk. But can't sleep more.

So, you go out to the bar. But now you feel sober after the nap. After the few drinks that you had when you got up. You feel so sober. And you find a seat at the bar, start writing, and the annoying barman looks over your shoulder and tries to kiss you. You refrain. And keep writing. And it's good. It’s good because you can still read your writing and still make out the reasons you're writing. And you drink for a few hours (daylight savings, bars close early tonight). Then, you get kicked out. "Lola, you know you can stay until the last person leaves, but... We really want to close up." I know. I know. Thanks for letting me stay this late. I know you want to go home.

Walk down the street.

To the Orpheum, where I used to work. Where I only stop in when I haven't had enough for the night and want a last one (a free one) for the road. I knock on the glass door and the door guy says we're closed and I say, I used to work here, is Steve or Alex here? I know the names and he lets me in.

Little Steph is here. God, how I had wanted to talk to her in January. We shared the same pain of abortion but at different times. I had wanted to find a time to tell her, ask her, console, but it never came up. Steve gets me a drink and I go behind the tall velvet curtains (where we hide our after-hours drinking from the cops on the street). Steph comes over to sit with me and the handful of others.

"Oh my god," she says in her college speak with her big, round eyes popping out even more. "So, guess what?!"
What?
"The other Stephanie – remember, my roommate? – is getting married."
No way!
"Yeah. To Javier. He wants a green card and she's in love with him. I’m not sure about it, but whatever... But guess what?"
What?
"I’m gonna marry them!!!"
What do you mean, Steph?
"Well, Stephanie asked me to marry them!!"
And, like, what? You got a license off the web?
"Exactly! I’m an ordained minister!!" (She’s Jewish.)
Wow, cool!
"So, like, this Sunday I’m gonna marry my first couple!"

I’m drunk. I’m kinda drunk. And I’m thinking... well, nothing, but I say....

"Steph… Steph… Steph! Hey, what about... So, who have you married already?"
“No one,” she says.
"So, wanna marry someone tonight?"
“Who?” she asks.
"Me!"
“What?” she smiles, knowing I’m drunk, knowing she’s drunk.
"Will you… marry me to myself?"
“You're crazy.”
"C'mon, Steph. Marry me to myself!!"

I give her my hand.

She says, "Will you, Lola, take you, Lola, to be your lawful wedded self." She giggles drunkenly. "For better or worse. For richer or poorer... I forgot the rest."

"In sickness or in health..." I prompt her.

"In sickness or in health... through pizza or boys.." She adds.

"..or girls!!" I say.

".. or girls… Through shit and bad times, through fat and thin times! ‘Til death do you part? Yes? Or is it ‘I do?’ God, I can't remember." She giggles.

"Yes! I do!... Yes! I do, too!"

"Well, I pronounce you married to yourself!"

I kiss my hand.

I got fucking married to myself. I am married. I am married to the hottest, smartest, sexiest, most amazing woman in the world. And I married her. Good goddamn!

Cindy comes up from around the corner of the theatre. "Hey, you guys wanna go watch the Rocky Horror Show? They aren't getting good turn out tonight."

We go to the theatre with fresh drinks and watch Rocky Horror acted out by obese kids in lingerie.

After our last drinks I say, "I’m gonna go home and honeymoon with my woman!!"

Instead, I’m stalled by a bartender who wants to take me to a manager's party – three floors above my apartment. And I forget...that I just got married. That I should carry her over the threshold, or take her garter off, or fuck her silly. I’m just like a frat boy: a party? Yeah!!!

Good part of the party: I get to see what the penthouse of our apt building looks like. Bad side: the liquor finally hits me and I’m drunk. I have to leave. Stupidly tell a boy to follow me and give my apartment number.

I end up passing out on the bathmat again. Knock Knock. I don't get up. He'll go away.

I’m sorry, but me and my wife are puking. Passing out.

I forget all about it on Sunday.
I wake up. I read Bukowski. I listen to the radio. I do the dishes. I nap.

And then I remember.

I am married.
To myself.
Forever more.
Not a bad bond.
This kind I could like.

The secret conversations I have in my head

When Flickr is uploading and/or I've had sufficient wine.

My neighbor man knocks on my door:

Man: I'm sorry, I really need to sleep tonight. Could you keep the noise down?

Me: [You can't always get what you want - Rolling Stones - is playing in the background] You know those times when you tap tap tap your fucking razor on the wall of your bathroom and it tap tap taps my wall? Well, that's fucking annoying. And, the times when you plug in that fucking amplifying speaker cord into your goddamn computer or whatever and there's that horrible loud zap sound? Or, how about your fucking teenage daughter has parties late and loudly? Or, how about the loud ping ping ping of your goddamn online chat? Or when you come home and jingle jingle jingle your fucking keys? Or, when you always slam your fucking door? Or, how I hear your moan moan moan of fucking? ... Well, I never said a goddamn fucking thing because I remember back when we ran into each other in the bouglangerie and you pretended that you didn't hear my cough cough coughing. I base our relationship on a fooling of secrecy and silence. So, fuck you. You don't hear a goddamn thing tonight.

Like Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.
I could totally marry someone if we promised to live without open relationship drama and shared a housing situation wherein we each had our own apartments. I could stop by, rub his back while he painted. He could stop by, rub my back as I wrote. We wouldn't have to talk while we were in the same room though. It would be a shared appreciation of physical shared space. Just because I was there, he wouldn't have to talk - or engage me or ask my opinion or ask for my help or even acknowledge my existence. But we'd know we were there for each other.

Does anyone know an easy way to compress an MP3? Because I have a kick ass song I want to post online. Fuck Audacity - it's too complicated.

I really shouldn't have emailed that guy back last night. I was too manic to sound sane.

I dreamed I was pregnant. I know I'm not. I know this bloated belly is just PMS. But I dreamed the Spaniard knocked me up. I sent my sister an email. We started chatting on Skype and I asked her if she wanted it. We swore never to tell the child that I didn't want it. I would have to go into hiding for the 9 months. There would never be any photographs of the pregnancy. I would treat it like a niece or nephew. I would enjoy eating whatever I wanted to and lazying around the house. Childbirth would bring no feelings of regret. .... My cousin had a baby a couple of days ago. My younger cousin. The one I grew up with playing "store" in our grandparents' house. The one I told about cool music and gave mixed tapes to. The one whose brother I drunkenly sucked off in the entryway to my hotel room the night of her wedding (and who won't speak to me now - I fear I've damaged him). She's had a baby. My baby cousin. She doesn't look like she's grown up enough to do so. I can imagine her, when thinking about making the baby, giggling to her husband, shrugging her shoulders, and childishly goofing as she says, "So, whaddaya think about makin' a baby?! Hahahahha!" And then she'd do a little goofy kid dance where she'd kick up her feet a bit and square-dance her elbows out. She's a successful pharmaceutical marketer rep or something. He makes the internet buzz with interactive activity at football games and such. They live in a top floor apartment of a high-rise in Chicago. Their dog is named after a park nearby that sounds like Jackoff. They are not old enough to have a baby. Their baby does not wake my ovaries, but it makes me feel more lost. Am I really missing something? What's wrong with me that I'm not even the slightest interested in this for myself? I'm beginning to think I'm slightly developmentally slow. I mature slowly. I am only now realizing the value of my family. Will I realize the value of making my own too late?

It wasn't nice that Tall Tom didn't invite me to his party tonight.
The reason I brushed him off was for his random insistence that we hang out. I'm not "on-call" for him. He has no idea what's happening to me. He has no idea what good information I could impart to him for his second year. I feel like I'm 15 again and rejected. It's all very silly.

Yeah, that's all the conversations I've had for tonight. Or, at least those that I want to write out.

Shhh don't tell.

Caved and Joined

Twitter: @lolacdoa

On another note, going to Queer X Show tonight - sex performers, cabaret, spoken word, and a bunch of queer girls and boys and check-the-box-for-other/s.

Weeeee!!!

I feel funky

The Filmmaker came over last night. I was planning for a nice night at his place with whiskey and smoking in his room. Instead, he came over to mine and we had bottles of wine and smoking.

I told him, because he's the one I feel most comfortable talking truth, that I've felt funny lately. It all started when I woke up just before Thanksgiving weekend to Charlie Brown's Christmas song on Radio K.




I haven't been depressed in a while. For a long time it was rather predictable. Every three months I'd hit a low and curl up with movies and whiskey, a blanket and myself. I'd have to look back in the posts from France to see when the last time was I got blue, but I think this is what it is. I feel Charlie Brown-est.

Thanksgiving was great. The weather here is cold, but there's no snow really and it's not even that cold. The City of Lights has come out in lights to remind us all that tis the season. ... In the States I'd know it was the holidays by the snow. In Spain by the holiday religious songs pumped out through loud speakers on every major walking street. But here, I've forgotten it was holiday season. I got into the Tumblr Secret Santa and even bought holiday cards when I went out for the TSS gift purchase. School is ending tomorrow (technically today) for vacation time. I have like 4 papers all due in January so I'll work over the holidays like I did last year. I won't travel, I don't think. I just don't know where to go or why. Plus, the papers.

TV Producer will go to Israel. The Filmmaker to London. Tall Tom to the USA. The Italian to Italy. This will leave me with the Butcher or the Spaniard, both of whom I haven't seen in a while and don't know what their plans are. (Although, upon sending an email to the Butcher to let him know I was finally uploading the photos from our trip to northern France this summer, he emailed back that he'd look tomorrow as tonight he is drunk drunk drunk and will puke before bed in order to wake up better tomorrow. So not attractive at all.)

A couple of out-of-town girl friends are in town. I expect Adam to return soon - although when he left 2 weeks ago ... way before the period or the real PMS - I wasn't sure he'd be returning.

I feel weird. Even my period was weird this month. With a bit of a showing on one day. Then nothing. Then more showing the next day. Then major cramps, which is highly unusual. Then a torrent. And even during my period the past months Adam kind of stuck around and surprised me with the urge to get off despite it.

I don't want to be depressed over vacation. I don't want to feel lackluster or so tired as I have lately. I'm taking the Vitamin D's to try to keep a sunny balance in my system. But nothing is kicking it.

Sigh.

The birth of Adam

Seriously, I can’t remember when it happened, but I’m pretty sure it was somewhere around … no wait.

I had my first free, alone apartment when I went to Spain in ‘97, I was 22, and yet I shared a bathroom with a Colombian woman. I had snuck some pot in my bat box, covered it with perfume tear-outs of a girlie magazine, wrapped it in toilet paper and had in a plastic bag. I was obviously not thinking properly that I’d fly from Minneapolis to NYC to Amsterdam and would be groggy when passing a drug-sniffing dog. But I passed through and smoked a little bit over the year I lived there. I still didn’t know how to touch myself. But I had freedom from living with 6 or 10 roommates.

When I moved back in ‘98 I got my first solo apartment and spent too much time discovering the internet and dialing 1-800 hook-up-sex lines. I had a couple of those guys over but still didn’t know how to touch myself alone. I moved again, into Sheila’s old apartment. She was like 10 years my senior and taking photo classes at my uni. She left me her full couch and brought me as her photo assistant to Paisley Park to photo a guitarist - and we ran into Prince. It was in this apartment that I accidentally stumbled into bdsm online, when some 44-year-old guy from NJ mistook me for another girl on chat and over the days on his phone bill tried to entice me to pour candle wax on myself. I realized that I couldn’t do this kind of torture to myself but deeply wanted someone else to do it. I bought a pair of painful metal handcuffs, a ball gag, and a rabbit vibrator with a full body dildo and wiggly ears for the clit. I scared my then-boyfriend with the fact that I didn’t want just straight sex but wanted to be tied up. Still, I didn’t get off with the rabbit and didn’t know how to touch myself.

When I moved to Madison to live with a lover - which failed - I moved out, got my own place, on my birthday. Sometime around then, 2001, when I was 26, I was wandering drunk on State Street and ended up in the State St Arcade and was perusing the porn mags.

Porn stores are not women-friendly. Despite the fact that pdh and I fucked in one of the cabins, while some stranger guy jacked off watching us - before they closed the cabins down and shut the whole shop up - it was still not a welcoming place for solo chicks. Even A Woman’s Touch felt foreign, with their uber silence and origami waterfall zen atmosphere, showcasing all the dildos and vibrators and toys and books and lingerie like they knew better how to cater to chicks. It didn’t do it for me. Nor did the Arcade, where the gum-snapping college kid who cared less about you but still looked at you in disgust would run your dirty items through the check-out scan, give you free batteries and roll their eyes as they said thanks. Neither of these places made me feel very free to find myself. Still, I felt more pressure in the Arcade to buy something and try something - because I was a woman in a man’s store, because I was daring, because I was drunk and seeking. Where the Touch store made me feel like I should KNOW what I want and want what I KNOW.

In the end, I grabbed a couple of toys to try and when I tried the Doc Johnson’s egg vibrator, I was hooked. There’s no rabbit, no whirls or zings or big fat cock-wannabes, no zaps or pain or hums or whirrs. I just had to place it in my undies, turn the porn on, or select an erotic story to read, and went off. Yeah, yeah, men fear the clit factor - that they’ll be replaced by clitoral satisfaction or a girl who doesn’t need a dildo inserted is some kind of lesbian wannabe. So not true. I need men and I need male parts and touch and testosterone on my skin, but there’s really no comparison between a fuck orgasm and an alone vibrator orgasm.

The Doc Johnson, which I refer to as the egg vibrator, doesn’t burn out after a quick or long use. Actually, it depends on one’s usage, but mine lasted a pretty long time until I either burned out the batteries or broke the wire for bending it in certain ways for long hours in my pants.

But even in 2001, it wasn’t yet Adam time. It was just me, joyous and Christmas day happy that I’d found a way to get off when I wasn’t able to get off with a date. A completely new idea, a new feeling, and god I felt so late in the coming of finding it.

But when I did… well, it was certainly my drunken girl phase, when I was a waitress at the local historic theatre/restaurant/bar, fucking boys in the theatre after-hours, serving under-age kids, tossing shots, and sliding fancy food onto big payers’ tables. Around this time, I also registered to be a certified, ordained marriage official. I filled the boxes online, printed the certificate, and could marry anyone who asked. So, I married me to myself. I also fooled around with the Ouija board - not too distant cousin from the marriage officiator - and made my own board when alone and asked my own silly questions.

When the strangers came knocking on my door one night and asked if I’d seen my neighbor in a few days, and then we called the landlord to bring us the keys to his apartment, and when the landlord couldn’t open the door for fear and I did instead, and found Ze dead on the floor, well, it kind of signified the drunk world colliding with the dead world. I freaked out. And realized that yes, I do see dead people. And, yes, perhaps I should stop fucking with the Ouija board.

But it might have been too late.

I think that if I had to pinpoint, it would have been that time that discovering self-pleasure coincided with Adam’s incarnation inside me. After those days, I’d have no problem with taking vacation time to stay at home on a Thursday or Friday to extend the weekend, holing up with frozen pizza, Maker’s Mark, cigarettes, and the egg vibrator. My viewing became progressively naughtier. Porn stars fucking on couches, amateurs in beds, some chick and a dog, the cartoon Simpsons making on the Flintstones, and then… and then… breakfast of cereal at noon, whiskey at 4, coming 6 times before the sun set.

And it hasn’t stopped since. Only, it’s changed. I brought an egg over from the States and it recently died on me. Paranoid I wouldn’t find a replacement, I went in and out of sex shops at Pigalle, finally finding its cousin in a store overwhelmed with hookers and gigantic cock dildos for gay men or vacuous women. It used to be a span of 5 or 10 days that Adam would inhabit my life and disrupt my work pattern. Now, it’s almost guaranteed that he’ll visit on the last day of my period and stay for at least two weeks.

I’ve got a bit better handle on it. Employment affords daydreaming and who cares reports. But grad school requires late night research and 50% of a grade on class participation. I might show up to class in a low-cut hussy shirt and short shorts, but at least I’m able to discourse about the change in regulation of financial institutions and the shrinking of the state.

But, still, here I am, on one of two working days off from scheduled class, when I could be using my time wisely for research or tying up loose ends. Instead, I’m perusing the You Porn, posting horrible ads on Craigslist and AFF, eating chips and chevre, drinking the last of my grappa. Good lord.

I do have to say though, that I hope he stays around for a bit. I’m not at all excited by the prospect of menopause, drying up, or feeling less sexy. I actually prefer this strange fight of feeling like a dirty 18-year-old boy inside a 33-year-old woman’s body to being a tired old hag.

Some stories about men

The Economist Beekeeper Sex God comes to me out of the stars and says he remembers me as there is light illuminating the sky over the Jura mountains.

I wonder why I adore this validation of my existence.

Pienso en vos como veo la madgrugada
Algunas dias duermo contenta en los brazos de un otro
Depertandome con las estrellas de noche autre fois

Otros dias me levanto y veo le soleil de manana
Y pienso gracias a dios que existe esta belleza en el mundo

Otros, miro los aviones cruzando el sol de apres-midi
Con los pajaros volando donde yo no puedo y las abejas tocando lo que yo no puedo

Y les matins that you come to me
And I open my curtains to your soft glow
Pienso autre fois que suerte tengo en ver y sentir y oir
El silencio de lejos
La luz de aqui
El conocimiento de alla
The new day rises again
And you are still with me



I do miss him.
And this is bad poetry.
More than offering a Goggles notifier, Google needs to offer a "You're about to send bad poetry to someone - is this what you really want to do?" notifier. Oh well.

The Filmmaker asked me something interesting recently. Saying he hasn't gone searching for Lola's blog, and requesting me to send snipits here and there, he asked if I had something less individual-story-like and more general over-arching story-like. I told him that's what the book is for, although the book will be compiled and published in probably ten years because the writing goes on and on. No. I don't have anything like that. And that question has been inside me for days. The overarching why. Not the existential "Who am I?" question, but the "Why do I do these things?" question, which leads to the former, I guess.

The compilation of lovers. The list we all make sometimes when we sit down and write all the names or all the stories that go with each lover for whom we've forgotten their name. Why am I attracted. Why do I get bored. What makes me feel like I'm on fire every month and have to hump every man in sight. Who is "Adam" - the inner 18-year-old boy who takes over and makes me want to call in sick to life and just fondle myself all day and night. My ring finger is longer than my pointer finger - which has been suggested to mean I've got more testosterone in my body than estrogen. What does that mean? How does it play out? Who are all my lovers and why do I seek them? If they were all in one room I know I'd look out and try to connect the dots and they'd just be insulted by looking at the others in comparison. There are no answers tonight, only more questions.

The Filmmaker came over late last week after I'd been drinking and he offered to take the cab. We talked and talked, I fired my co-organizer of the conference with an email he helped me write, and then we smoked in my apartment, and then we slept and around 3am he slowly fucked me in the double-futon. Now, the next-door teen girl won't look at me. We tried to be quiet. It's not my fault that the walls are paper thin or that she's disgusted.

This past Sunday I got all dolled up in thigh highs and skirt and went to the TV Prodcer's. We couldn't resist - despite my period - and fucked before we even got to dinner. I'm too self-conscious with him - that I'm smoking again and he's a non-smoker runner. That I'm not cute enough and he could have anyone. This latter is something I felt I out-grew with the relationship with the Economist. .... free thoughts.... I really did feel validated by him in a way. While he's trapped himself in a small town in a land-locked country in the middle of Europe, he's still so incredibly beautiful and relaxed and wealthy and laid back and focused and non-chalont and non-caring and comfortable in his own skin and predicaments. All these things made me feel unworthy and when he gave me attention I felt - validated. Coming back to school, a place that replicates high school in so many sick ways, I felt empowered thinking, I have been adored by someone who really shouldn't even give me the time of day. And his interest - and continued interest - as pathetic as this is, has given me more power. More self-esteem in a horrible way. I recognize that this is fucked up but secretly felt so much more assured walking into the school, being a conference organizer... Like, you all might think I'm xyz, but really I've been abc. And, again, the TV Producer is not a gorgeous stud man, he's not thrillingly intelligent - although, when I was explaining to him how I didn't feel so comfortable in lipstick and was hoping he wouldn't laugh and how I'm becoming more of a woman in a sense, he quoted "Second Sex" and "you aren't born a woman, but you are continuously becoming a woman." But the fact that he finds me mildly entertaining or interesting gives me some sick validation.

So, right, there we were fucking against his wall and then sitting so properly at his dining room table having Italian food. And then discussing art and music and politics like I had not just been bent over getting fucked from behind while my blood stained his shirt. And then, we went to his bedroom and I got on all fours on an ottoman and he spanked me for a good 20 minutes. We ended up in his bed and he snuggled me all night to where I was sweating in the boxer shorts he loaned me. I actually felt comfortable in some moments and then would wake up and need space. He got up and left before I did and I took my time showering, making coffee in his place, looking at the things that were visible to me.

But it's back to Adam creeping into my body and I'm starved for fucking. Since Sunday, which was nice with the TV Producer but I was bleeding which can make the whole scene different. Tomorrow I'll go find the Filmmaker for a short quick 3 hours before he leaves for Rome on the ...

uh oh

distracted into wondering if there's a way I can go with him and skip class on Friday.

trouble.

damn you Adam!

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

6 Things I Owe You

In brief:
1) I still owe you info on Nuit Demonia. Basically nothing amazing came of it except I had a fun time with Sarah and Wilfried. And got to see some amazing costumes. And get hit on by a man in a wig and heels, a guy who grabbed me, and a boy in leather pants who thought rough fucking would melt me.

2) Is 23 too young? Well, he plays pool better than I do. And he's got a rough manner from being in hockey in Canada. Yes, there's a bit of a cock-staying-hard issue. But twice is okay. More.. We'll see.

3) Julien has drifted out of the picture. I think he's got issues with his ex and finding a place for the interim and he just wasn't doing it for me.

4) I just got home from 3 hours at a hamman bath house. Water, steam, sauna, naked people, and sex. I've got my period so there was no sex-sex, but there was oral. Oh, Paris you'll make me a dirty dirty slut. ... or is she just bringing more of it out?

5) I'm going to Madrid from the 22-26. My ex-neighbor man the Scot lives there now. We'll see how 4 days go. I haven't been to Madrid since 1998. I'm psyched to say the least. I hope we don't get on each others' nerves which is completely a possibility since we really really don't know each other.

6) My bottom is lonely.



So, darlings, seasons happiness and joyful tidings and all that hoopla. It's only 20F but there's no snow here which makes me a very happy puppy. I'm not pregnant - that's always great news. I'm exploring and being courageous. I have 4 big papers I have write due in January (one is on the comparison of prostitution policies in Sweden, Netherlands, and Australia - such a dirty mind). I am overly lucky and very content.

xoxoxo

PS. I posted the outfit I wore to Nuit Demonia and a round of new birdie panties on the flickr. If you don't have access, email me.

Did I just pee in my bathroom sink?

That, and more photos and stories to come.

The good-bye party was quality over quantity as they say. I had a great time with those friends and lovers who came. Ended up drunk with the incoming-replacement-girl over at some boy's house. At some point, I was spread-eagled against a wall, slowly pulling up my dress. But then we had to leave. After all it was 3:30am and we were drunk. I peed on his lawn in Lola fashion. The cabbie had a nice view.

The Saturday hang-over with the parents went swell. Bloody Marys for all of us. I might be re-formulating how I view them. Maybe the month over at their place will be good for all of us.

But yes, it was last week that was rockin'. Phillip swung by and fake kidnapped me out to his country place. We played tie-her-and-fuck-her in his barn. The barn with the squeaking mice and screeching bats. It was terrifying, thrilling, funny, and hot. Pics and vids to come.

Then, there was the hot date with Andy at my place. A few g&t before he came over and my body seemed utterly lubricated and open. Finally! some more ass fucking. Pics to come - thank god Andy kept the camera nearby this time. Of the 98 pics, I think 1/3 are all of me sucking cock. If flickr does the slide-show option, I bet you could speed it up real fast and make like I'm actually sucking cock in front of you. ... yeah, I peed in the sink.

Just hang tight, darlins, help is on the way...

torture

I know I said, it's not good-bye it's see you later. Why the hell did I think a good-bye party would be a good idea? Lunch with co-workers and my parents (dad bought the whole deal and included wine - which I thought we'd snub for sobriety during our staff meeting later but my boss lady was rockin' it). Then, an early eve co-worker good-bye party with so many tears. So, why again did I think that this 9pm soiree was a good idea? Ugh. Maybe I'll just get wasted and make people take photos so I remember it.

I have this horrible feeling that it'll just be a trickle in of all the people I wish I didn't have to see. And then James will pop in but his job isn't to take care of me anymore. And then, more slow trickle and a sad, depressed hag (me) on the bar stool wishing I could just go to sleep.

The other half of me thinks I might just end up half-naked, peeing in the middle of the floor, and making out on too many people.

I'd like a balance. Let's see if we can't get graceful, sexy, smokin' hot drunkeness and happy giddiness. .... James asked which person I'd be going home with tonight - seeing as how the net was cast so wide. I said no one. I want to wake up alone. ... We shall see, darlins.

Thx again, Clichemonster, for the flyer! xoxo

Good-bye party for Lola

Save the Date perverts!!!!

Friday, July 27, 2007
starting:
9pm
Cafe Montmartre
127 East Mifflin Street in Madison, WI
continuing:
???

If anyone can get me Screamin' Cyn Cyn or another band favorite with flair, please please please let me know!


[Additionally, I'll be in Minneapolis the last week of August to break up the 3 weeks I'll have to spend crashing at my parents' place. So, if you can't make the Madison party, consider meeting up in the TC!]


*All plans subject to change. If you want to be on the updated-party-list, let me know. Flyer on its way.*