Lola is... My Morning Jacket

Reflecting at midnight on Friday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, he was a character for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What do I care about chess?

(I'm blurting out sometimes. Thanks BadMan for showing me.)

Bike Man told me about wielding a chainsaw against a former Swiss light weight champion who wielded a bike frame as protection. This was after the latter smashed the former's head on a vice. It was all about women and madness.

I watched him in a manic state as he prepared dinner. The strange glow of an exposed bulb lighting the small kitchen and his black frame speaking, the majority of the time, to a window. I drank a lot of wine and kept thinking, "I have to remember this."

Of the 4 hours, a half-hour was spent turning my ass to red with a crop while he jacked off above me. I got cum in my eye and it turned bloodshot. I did not cum. But I got crazy stories.

I watched a Canadian film on Putin, which scared me to sleep at 3am. And then, after I had already decided not to get up at 8:30am for the 9:30 train to see my flatmate tell stories in a festival in Vevey (an hour away), "...do you want to come sunday to the beehouses?..." The Economist is a Beekeeper.

At 10:34am "yes"

He found an extra helmet. We're going on his moto.

I am afraid of bees. The Russian girl friend will die laughing reading this.

Especially after the story I told her about me dropping to the floor as if a drive-by outside my window, knees hitting the floor and my head down -- ducking from a bee that came into my bedroom and promptly fled the giant that fell on the floor in wild fashion.

Dios mio.

The painful lesson of chess

I forgot how to play.

My father taught me when I was thirteen. I promptly forgot, as I tried to forget everything he attempted to teach me then. Algebra and problem solving trains at certain speeds meeting each other at certain times and it was summer outside and the pool was glistening diamonds and sweat was collecting in the air and boys lived around the block, up the block, down the street, over in the city.

The Russian girl friend told me I have penis envy and I thought she was talking some Freudian bullshit. And thought it meant I wished I had a penis, which supposedly has the power of the world. At least, that's what my limited conception of penis envy was. She realigned my thinking and told me that it meant I wanted the power behind the penis. That men to me are power-weilding and by "taking" their penises I get some of their power and then "control" them in a way. It's all feminist crap philosophy but it kind of makes sense. While I'm submissive to the core for some things, for others I'm the cock in the room. (And you know what I mean when I say this, don't you?) I woo, I entice, I "ooze sex" as they say, and then I get it, fuck it, get bored. There are few men who have kept me entertained and drawn and intrigued and interested and in love. So, in a way, I can comprehend this penis envy thing. Although I would call it power hungry. As James once pointed out, I am attracted - and always have been - to power.

So the dance of dating or sexual relations or fucking or pick-ups or wooing or fuck buddies or friends with benefits continues. I like it on my terms. I like it on days that work and nights that are free. And within those days or nights or moments, I want to give up my all and be beautiful in submissive worship or objectification. (Yes, badman, there is feminist freedom in submission - don't let women tell you otherwise.) I have no problem with setting term limits, and then giving up the veto pen. In fact, I need to do this. I need to micromanage my time and lifestyle, supervise those around me, and then relinquish all hope of deciding which tool to use on my supple skin.

But getting to that point is a disaster of missteps waiting to happen. A minefield of delicacies. You say, women make a move, give a number, say hello. It's not that we won't, it's probably that we take rejection harder than you do - albeit you it take it more often. There's a difference in egos here. To stereotype: men get rejected a million times a day but keep on trying. Women wake up rejected - pay differentials, societal history, a fucking "Women's History Month," the feminist revolution that never ceases with our mothers, magazines, tv ads, not good enough, too fat, not blonde enough, get a new diet drink, smoke more cigarettes so we stop eating as much, try the new lipstick, get the new car, become more like a man in the board room, leave the board room for children. What the hell is the perfect woman? And, no, I think it's easier for men, but it's not as hard. Sure, there are the same deodorant pressures, car models on the market, competition for the raise, etc, but you can't tell me we have equal rejection or equal challenges yet. Perhaps, in two generations we will have bred equally lazy and equally ambitious "people."

So, no, I won't walk up to you and say hi. You'll probably think I lack good skin, good bones, cute enough laugh with just the right amount of intellect, big enough tits without being too faked out, eyebrows tweezed without needing a pencil, breath just right.

I guess we'll both just remain on separate sides of the room. But at least I'll make eyes at you. Will you make eyes at me?

And when we cross. Fuck, fuck fuck. The longest history of genetic risk.

There is a subtle game of chess. Make a move but with caution. Come together, but there are always unspoken rules.

And last night, I blew my game. I moved too many pawns around thinking I had liberty. Thinking I had waited patiently and was back in the power position. Juggling. Thinking. Playing carefully. Not too excited to scare anyone away. Not too eager to keep anyone secure. Not too transparent in thinking five moves ahead. Not too coy to be misunderstood.

And my flatmate thought I was romantic.

Oh, no. This is a sexual chess game. Queens are naked, Kings are dominant. Rooks are rookies. Knights wear spurs.

I thought the message I sent Wednesday night was clear, "You aren't really getting 3 together for Jeudi night. I have to work Friday."

(During fucking Tuesday night, I said I wanted to see him with other women, see him fuck another woman. "Verdad?" he asked as he pulled my ass cheeks apart with his thumbs and pushed back into my cunt. "Sí, me gustaria." I was smiling over my shoulder. "Conozco a una... podemos el jueves." He slid back out and in. "Sí sí sí sí" not sure to what I was saying yes, but it all seemed yes.)

Thursday night I was clear, but hinting: "Pienso que me debes invitar a pasar la noche de viernes contigo
si no - pronto, porque es tiempo perfecto para eso"

He SMS'd on Friday that he didn't understand. "...no he entendido el mensaje... beso..." (How dense could a person be? I mean how much more clear is "I think you should invite me to spend Friday night with you / if not - soon, because it's a perfect time for this.")

I SMS'd that he should deduce what he wants to.. Then I thought I wasn't transmitting well over the waves and followed with "Lo siento - el mensaje era al azar" (Sorry - the message was random)

The hours and hours of silence following were deafening. I had moved to a vulnerable position, let down some of the intrigue and some of the hidden strategy. I had unveiled some moves, reacted too suddenly and repetitiously. (Or, I am starting to dramatize what needs not be seen under a microscope right now.)

Regardless, when I got home from work it was officially the weekend, and I had plenty of time between the dinner with colleagues and Monday morning. I wanted to plan a bit of the games. I wanted my cake, my checkmate, and eat it, too. There's the Economist and the Bike Man, both available in the same town. The Russian girl friend is gone, so no long day travel plans. And the weather is supposed to suck. Perfect combination for a weekend of fucking.

I'm just not good at choosing the next square, the next move. I was trying to plot a way in which I could have both men at some non-coniciding time. I have found myself preferring the one who is more like me, the playboy Economist (although completely not like me at the same time). His cock is worth mentioning, as it's more than a mouthful, almost painful as it knocks my cervix, thick enough in diameter to make him think he needs lube to get inside, and attached to hips that are rhythmically aware to bring me pound-pound-pounding to hungry climax.

His skin looks like cherry brownies, or, as I told him, like Neapolitan ice cream without the vanilla, but a shade of maple where his bathing trunks should have been while he sunbathed nude on his boat in southern Spain. He has a terrifically funny and yet sexy, haphazard tic when he drinks. His right eye squints half-way closed, or can't quite catch-up to the left eye when it blinks so it looks like he's winking at me in some slick, 1970's cheese porn way. The bottom of his feet are somewhat blackened from walking barefoot in the apartment, wearing flip-flops out in town, and espadrilles on vacation. He's not the best kisser, but his hands make up for that, as does his face when he buries into my pussy lips.

He told me over drinks on the plaza that he liked how we varied. Fucking sometimes with nothing, like on Sunday morning, sometimes with drinking, sometimes with drugs. He laughed as he remembered when I asked him to spank me. Me, gripping the mantle over his fireplace, leaning forward to push my ass out. Him, running to the window to close the blinds from the neighbors seeing anything and shutting the window for them hearing the smacks. His slaps were light and misdirected, unsteady and unsure. But a few landed with just the amount of force and sound to cause sonar waves of warmth throughout my skin.

Meanwhile, the Bike Man shocked me on our first date by spanking my ass with the window ajar and blinds half-way open. And on hearing me moan and seeing me not pull away, rolled me over his lap and repeated the act. The differences in action between the men were so pronounced. Even throwing in the Parisian Butcher. Bike Man must have practiced often on other lovers (European men aren't easy to discuss their other conquests), for he knew how much strength and moved his spanking around my ass and thighs with good direction, and repeating in one location only when he could tell it was raising my temperature, "You know you can take it."

And when he - unsolicited - climbed on top of me and face fucked me, I was shocked, a bit afraid, nervous, excited, wet, thrilled, and so naughtily happy.

The second time was similar. Fuck me from on top, turn me on my side, from behind. The fantasies were hot - he had been with a few prostitutes and told me the stories. But his rhythm seriously lacks any stamina and once in a while he does this strange stir-the-pot-of-honey move where he gyrates in a circle as if he's literally trying to "turn" me on.

I'm a steady pace girl. I like my vibrators to have multiple speeds in a sliding direction that I can control from low hum to high speed red alert bone-breaking electricity. I like my cocks the same. A nice, slow entry - especially if I haven't fucked in a while - followed by a build-up (nothing like a juicy plot). The build-up, of course, can include many peaking out moments. One climax on my back, one on my knees, one on reverse cowboy, change positions whenever - or don't. While missionary is boring when done every date, there is an art which can be achieved and has the same results for both me and my partner of repetitiously increasing speed while in the same position, and it won't bore me. Since there are position changes within the position itself, like the knee-pull (pulling my knees wider apart), the watch-it-like-it's-porn (me looking down and watching his cock go in and out), the push-lips-together (making a faux tighter hole), the low-saw or the top-saw (cock pressure higher or lower on the cunnie opening), the legs-on-his-sides or the wrap-around-the-waist, the legs-up-on-his-shoulders (I don't know the official names for these), biting his arm, rubbing the sweat around on my tits, reaching around to caress his balls, a finger in the asshole (of course, both the latter require a communicated interest on behalf of the partner). All of these things can make missionary a delicious position.

But not all the time. Nothing should be done the same all the time. Not even kinky fantasies.

Anyway, after the fucking, and I was spent, he hadn't cum and told me to suck him off. This seems to be his biggest fetish. Not only oral but climbing on top of me, gagging me slightly, and watching my lips around his cock. The ending to this time was me on my knees on a pillow (thank you) stroking his cock to cum in my face. I told him afterwards that it was hot and all, but frankly, I'd prefer if he was jerking himself. Maybe he prefers the debasement more if I do it, but I'm just not into jerking some cock on myself. I wouldn't seek it out - hey, can I jerk your cock into my face cuz I love it?! - and hence, not so interested in doing it. But him, jerking himself onto my face totally turns me on. That type of denigration I would ask for - hey, would you like to jerk off on my face and tits cuz I love it?!

The next date was the schoolgirl fantasy - one of my favorites. It was fun to play with the Bike Man. He sent me shopping and in the last 20 minutes before the store closed at 7pm (this fucking city is so totally lame in so many regards) I grabbed all things cheap and slutty and cute: skirts, white thongs (with or without Hello Kitty - who knows what specific kind of schoolgirl he had in mind), knee-highs. And I got spanked over his knee again and fucked with panties on (not the Hello Kitty type). He wanted some high heels and lipstick to go with it, but I'm not a lipstick-wearing girl and I didn't bring any high heels with me.

And, again, we ended with me sucking him off. On my knees, on a pillow, on the floor, and instead he jerked off on me and took photos (yet to be sent to me). I'm not one to rush to the toilet after sex to clean up (cuz I'm a dirty whore like that), but I had to wash my face off right after just so I could see.

The next date was all very similar - minus the dress-up. Fuck me from on top, turn me on my side, from behind. And end with cock sucking, laying on my back this time, after dozing off for a short nap after dinner. Not that I'm wholly complaining, because, fuck, I got off. But the repetition of kink positions and activities isn't fun. Even of kink, or especially because of the fact that it's kink, it seems even less fun and less attractive.

Since our last date, he's SMS'd me about buying a crop and is excited to use it on me. Nice to throw in a new prop, but then today, prior to our date tonight, he asked if I had lipstick to bring. Bo-o-o-ring hint that things might go the same way.

Hence, the Economist is in first place in this race, the first choice for playing games, and really the only one who requires chess strategy. There's a bit more variety but a bit less reliability, and I don't *really* like the games or the strategy I feel like I have to have.

So, I am seeing the Bike Man tonight and last night saw no one. I thought I might see the Economist last night and sent him an SMS asking very directly if he was free any time this weekend and he sent back that he was going to see his son "veo mi hijo la tarde... te llamo despues." Well, "la tarde" couldn't be Friday afternoon because it was night when he sent it. It could be Saturday or Sunday -- and I don't wait for phone calls. This was the response to my bad moves. (Or my over-dramatizing right now.) He's a playboy - although he does have a son - so I don't know what any of that meant. To me, it means: chill. Thus, it means Bike Man for sure and Economist whenever (flippantly) later. It means he has the ball in this court and I don't like that. Penis envy or not, checkmate or not. I prefer a bit more control in my playdate calendar.