Somehow I slid some sex in at the end of the conference that I organized. It was the last night though, so no points for almost-caught, super-sneaky sex without being noticed by 3 strangers sleeping at my place. And, no, none of the strangers were intriguing enough. Tall boy from Halloween Party night invited me to his place and we had sex three times between sleep (2am) and reason (2pm). God bless youth.
I packed on Sunday.
Monday I took the Eurostar over to London (or, under to London - as it goes under the Channel and all). Slept all days long at my friend’s LSE dorm. During the day I went out for a massage in some danky hair salon, lunch, brief shopping, and email-checks. Stayed up late enough to close the tired ass pubs down (2am) and gained like 6 pounds drinking beer and eating fish & chips.
Thursday I left for Bahrain on British Airways, which offered free beverages including blood marys and wine. Flew over burning oil fields and felt solemn over Iraq. I hear that Saudi Air flies around Israel, as if they care I’m sure. Bahrain was desert, sex, 50E bills for each naughty act I performed or let him perform on me, an ex-pat party, finding the Tree of Life, taking some sunrays on my bikini body, more sex, more drinking, more euros.
Saturday at 2am (technically Sunday) I caught the BA flight back, took some Tylenol PM, a bloody mary, curled up over my 2 open seats and tried to sleep until we got fed again 6 hours later.
Sunday I got out of Heathrow, took the 1 hour tube to Saint Pancreas (well, it sounds like an organ to me), ate again and hopped the Eurostar back to Paris. I was going to take EasyJet for like 50$ but they wanted me to fly out of somewhere called Liddy, England - stupid cheap airlines. And I’d already booked when I realized this, of course. And, of course, I was mid-conference conundrums when I booked my last minute Eurostar back to Paris. I thought it was so expensive because it was booked a week before I needed the ticket. When I was getting into my car, the Eurostar employee guy looks at my ticket, tells me I’m 4 seats back on the right side, and there are magazines for my enjoyment. Shit. I accidentally booked First Class. No wonder it was so damn expensive. And, it wasn’t even worth it. I got fed AGAIN, worked on some photos, watched some crazy old people argue, napped, and basically didn’t even really enjoy the twice-as-much ticket adventure.
Today I’ve been catching up with work and getting back into school. Shit’s starting to be due soon and I’m totally out of it. My neighbor guy, the Actor (who I fucked a couple times when I first moved here and now just see him as a lowly hunchback for some reason), stopped by and asked for vinegar. Several hours later he knocked again and asked if I had some free time. “Do you need something?” I asked him. He took a step closer with a sly smile and started to rub my tit. I brushed his hand off and tried to play it off so he wouldn’t feel like a total ass and I’d get to keep my free wifi… “It’s just that I’m super busy catching up with work, have an overview of a paper due tomorrow, and I’m waiting for them to deliver the new fridge any minute now.” I kind of wanted to wash my sweater, my shirt, my bra, and my tit where he touched me. Odd how he was attractive then and now is just desperate and grody.
The TV Producer has sent an SMS. The Spaniard Big Cock sent an email. I’m a bit under the weather since the conference ended so I’m not rushing into anything. Plus, I found out just before leaving Bahrain that no one’s a dad this month. Celebration… and down time.
(from Tumblr)
But now... well, oh boy oh boy. My first day back to class on Tuesday was a long one. From 10am - 8:30pm. Everything was going well until I was heading into the last course and got an SMS from Halloween Party Host aka Tall Tom: "Lola, where are you?" Only, he calls me by my last name, which leads me to think that I'm on his basketball team and that it's endearing and that it's kind of dirty that he's being endearing to a woman six years his senior, which then makes me feel naughty and school-girl-esque. So, then, while the boring lecturer launches into a discussion on risk perception, I'm thinking of Tall Tom's cock and how he fucked me the last night of the conference - after sneaking into his apartment past his uncle - and then fucked me again two other times before we got out of bed. Risk. Perception. Whatever. Fuck. All I could think about was cock.
Tall was in a lecture by some South Korean diplomat who was loving and hating on the US. I was done with class and went home. He SMS'd me that I had to come out and meet him. I had just finished my period, but already I was entering into 18-year-old-boy-Adam taking over my body. (Poor, poor Bahrain lover who got me at PMS girl time - although he still got his rocks off by half-raping me in the morning and making me dry-mouth suck his cock.) Yes yes, I'd dress and take the metro and meet him at Odeon. We had a few drinks and I hadn't eaten and hit a moment of back-in-the-day crazy Lola and almost stormed out on him due to a miscommunication. Instead, he calmed me and tossed me a cab to his apartment, where his uncle was asleep. (Thank god. And thank god he wasn't there when we got up at noon the next day because the last time I got up and met him he served me coffee and croissants and we talked about quantum physics and philosophy - he's a philosopher. This time I wasn't interested in deep conversation so I lucked out.)
This time he held my wrists - tentatively but held them down - and told me to shut the fuck up. It was worth going back out for. He persuaded me to cut class and came over to my apartment and then we went for sushi for lunch, where he ordered us a bottle of wine and I worried that I'd be tipsy for the group work meeting I had at 5pm. He studied elsewhere and we found each other during a break before another class meeting and, again, he ordered a bottle of wine. (He'd also taken my 50E and bought a very, very, very nice bottle of champagne that I'll gift to my Madison friends Amanda and Leo when we see each other on Saturday - they got married and champagne seems a better gift than a toaster or some shit.)
(Boy, this post is full of asides!)
We got through the dumb class meeting and went for pizza and beer with 2 other kids from class and then he pushed me to invite him to my place. Remember if you will that a) I fucked my neighbor when I first moved here (and fucked him in a group setting at a bathhouse), b) my neighbor has a teen daughter sleeping on the other side of my paper-thin wall, c) I am now repulsed by my neighbor, d) I am still embarrassed by making loud fucking noises knowing that people can hear me. I caved and brought him home.
This time he fucked me from behind while pushing my head down, or when I'd try to get on all fours, he'd push my back down. Mmmmm god that was nice. I'm starting to move into the place where I'm getting enough sex (finally!) and now need to fulfill the submissive side. I'd explained this a bit to him over lunch. Whereas he'd said he was taken by the [insert last name] power during the conference, leading the whole thing, controlling the crowd, etc.. I explained that I didn't mind having that confidence and control in my work life, but I needed to balance it with my submissive side and explained a very small part of what I meant. It wouldn't have been wise to tell him I wanted to be used as a toilet, pissed on, tossed around, degraded, controlled. It would have shocked him too much and frankly, I need to keep him in rotation and not scare him away. So, when he flipped me over and fucked me more and then whispered, "Are you going to cum? Are you going to cum on my cock? Cum on my cock. Do it." I had no other option to but let loose in wildness... dirty talk, repeating words I'd said before, feeling over-powered, my god yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, I'm cumming on your cock. Who knows how loud we were really - after 2 bottles of wine, a few beers, I didn't care if we were repulsing the teen girl next door.
And then, he had early class this morning and I have no class today or tomorrow, which only brings trouble from Adam. I slept until noon and then sat in the grey sky dark apartment playing with myself and waiting until dusk to drink the wine. It's not even really Adam Time yet ... he's growing stronger and bigger and taking up more of my free time.
I'm not convinced I'm a orgasm addict, although I love the song.
Showing posts with label cock. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cock. Show all posts
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
the never-ending
Yeah, no photos from Halloween. Strange since I'm typically so addicted to the camera, but I forgot to whip it out.
I accidentally deleted all my SMS messages meaning I've now lost the easy dictation of my daily life.
Wednesday, 29th: business meeting in the morning with the multi-national firm that we're working with for our graduating project, class, and then we had a petite soiree in my program with the directors of the school. I was busy in the back room sending emails while the Head Director made his speech. After, a bunch of us went for drinks at Coolins the Irish pub and after I lazily put my hair into pigtails to the amusement of the boy school chums. I tried to explain Lola's Philosophy on Sex and Love to a colleague who was coked up. Stumbled home on the metro.
Thursday, 30th: late night hook-up with The Spaniard Huge Cock, spent the night, and went to class in the morning feeling refreshed and exhausted.
Friday, 31st: Had a smoke with the colleague who admitted I was on his "could-do" list. I was blushing in the rain as we leaned against the big door to our building. Made it through class and got home with plenty of time to prepare the school girl costume, which required little prep anyway. Trying to find any random photos of me accidentally in the background. Great party, lots of drinking, tapped the coke friend for a bump and then we stayed in the bathroom almost in tears talking about each other's power and insecurities, danced a ton, watched Sex Colleague make out with a friend of a friend, talked shit for hours, kissed one guy who I think was a friend of a colleague, kissed another boy who was rambling about his hating on chicks, and then decided to stick around at 4am, fucked the party host -- non-planned, but wonderful.
Saturday, 1 Nov: He'd told me I'd have to be out by 11am and brought me coffee in his bed at 10h30. A few photos of him cleaning his place - it was a wreck. Metro all hung over and a rainy cold day. Climbed the 101 stairs, got into pjs, got into bed, and played with myself for 4 hours, napped for an hour, wrote a short paper for class, pulled myself together and went over to the Spaniard Huge Cock's place, had a quickie in between his packing to move to another apartment and my between parties, grabbed to-go Indian food, zoomed back to my apartment, made sure that Sex Colleague wasn't going to pussy out on the birthday party night, went to party. The strangest thing was that all of a sudden these boys were all over me. But boys who typically have not been my closest colleagues. Boys who I know talk shit about me - it's so high school in grad school - and who we mutually feel love-hate at various times. Alejandro greeted me at the door - his birthday and I hadn't seen him since he transferred to a sister-school in London. Emanuel winked at me from across the room all night. Sebastian danced with me, kept grabbing my ass, and tried to finger-fondle my cunnie. It was a strange fascination with them. Caipirinhas, beer, wine, and all of us dancing until we finally left at 5am. Sex Colleague again danced with friend from out of town and in the cab, sighed exasperatedly when she said she wouldn't be coming home with him.
Sunday, 2 Nov: Sleep at 5am, wake at 13h. Slow getting up. Laundry. The landlord comes by to fix the sink and take my rent money. I posted another ad on Craigslist to try to find closely-located sex partners. So, I perused my email box. Dreaming. Floating. Hungover but happy.
This coming week promises no sex and all work. US elections. We're having an American party over at Sex Colleague's apartment that starts at 10pm and will probably go until 9am on Wednesday. I'll be prepared to stay up all night. Wednesday night starts the conference hell until Sunday. I've got 3 people staying in my apartment. Two of them leave on Monday, when I'll hop on the Eurostar to London and then fly out on Thursday to Bahrain to hang out with an off-on-again lover.
I keep thinking that these are the best days of my life. I hope they only get better. So far, it's been a good trend that progressively my life has only gotten better over time. Let's keep the trend going.
I accidentally deleted all my SMS messages meaning I've now lost the easy dictation of my daily life.
Wednesday, 29th: business meeting in the morning with the multi-national firm that we're working with for our graduating project, class, and then we had a petite soiree in my program with the directors of the school. I was busy in the back room sending emails while the Head Director made his speech. After, a bunch of us went for drinks at Coolins the Irish pub and after I lazily put my hair into pigtails to the amusement of the boy school chums. I tried to explain Lola's Philosophy on Sex and Love to a colleague who was coked up. Stumbled home on the metro.
Thursday, 30th: late night hook-up with The Spaniard Huge Cock, spent the night, and went to class in the morning feeling refreshed and exhausted.
Friday, 31st: Had a smoke with the colleague who admitted I was on his "could-do" list. I was blushing in the rain as we leaned against the big door to our building. Made it through class and got home with plenty of time to prepare the school girl costume, which required little prep anyway. Trying to find any random photos of me accidentally in the background. Great party, lots of drinking, tapped the coke friend for a bump and then we stayed in the bathroom almost in tears talking about each other's power and insecurities, danced a ton, watched Sex Colleague make out with a friend of a friend, talked shit for hours, kissed one guy who I think was a friend of a colleague, kissed another boy who was rambling about his hating on chicks, and then decided to stick around at 4am, fucked the party host -- non-planned, but wonderful.
Saturday, 1 Nov: He'd told me I'd have to be out by 11am and brought me coffee in his bed at 10h30. A few photos of him cleaning his place - it was a wreck. Metro all hung over and a rainy cold day. Climbed the 101 stairs, got into pjs, got into bed, and played with myself for 4 hours, napped for an hour, wrote a short paper for class, pulled myself together and went over to the Spaniard Huge Cock's place, had a quickie in between his packing to move to another apartment and my between parties, grabbed to-go Indian food, zoomed back to my apartment, made sure that Sex Colleague wasn't going to pussy out on the birthday party night, went to party. The strangest thing was that all of a sudden these boys were all over me. But boys who typically have not been my closest colleagues. Boys who I know talk shit about me - it's so high school in grad school - and who we mutually feel love-hate at various times. Alejandro greeted me at the door - his birthday and I hadn't seen him since he transferred to a sister-school in London. Emanuel winked at me from across the room all night. Sebastian danced with me, kept grabbing my ass, and tried to finger-fondle my cunnie. It was a strange fascination with them. Caipirinhas, beer, wine, and all of us dancing until we finally left at 5am. Sex Colleague again danced with friend from out of town and in the cab, sighed exasperatedly when she said she wouldn't be coming home with him.
Sunday, 2 Nov: Sleep at 5am, wake at 13h. Slow getting up. Laundry. The landlord comes by to fix the sink and take my rent money. I posted another ad on Craigslist to try to find closely-located sex partners. So, I perused my email box. Dreaming. Floating. Hungover but happy.
This coming week promises no sex and all work. US elections. We're having an American party over at Sex Colleague's apartment that starts at 10pm and will probably go until 9am on Wednesday. I'll be prepared to stay up all night. Wednesday night starts the conference hell until Sunday. I've got 3 people staying in my apartment. Two of them leave on Monday, when I'll hop on the Eurostar to London and then fly out on Thursday to Bahrain to hang out with an off-on-again lover.
I keep thinking that these are the best days of my life. I hope they only get better. So far, it's been a good trend that progressively my life has only gotten better over time. Let's keep the trend going.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
How fickle is mine heart
... or mine libido
The Bike Man was quickly replaced by hormones and desire. I'm totally PMS'd or pregnant, the latter which seems impossible at this time but - as every month - I worry. Really, I should just get my tubes tied and find comfort in knowing that using a condom will not result in any offspring. But, I'm not one to say 'never.'
And then...
Friday, 12:21
...nos vemos el sabado?..
I giggled in happiness. Of course, I knew the Economist was coming back from Spain on Saturday, but was half sure that he wasn't interested or that I wasn't going to show any interest. After all, despite a lazy bougeouis ignorance of email, he could have emailed once over three weeks. But then, I didn't, so whatever.
We want what we can't have.
I showed the Russian friend the SMS and was momentarily excited in our depressing last days of working together. I felt this way - depressed at good-byes - when our first year grad school classes ended. I had been distracted with the Butcher and decided not to see my Canadian friends, with whom I bonded closely, before they left - for good, to other schools for the second year. And such went with the Russian. The last week was a strange dance of her coming closer, more needy, and me, pushing away, believing I had serious work to focus on or she was big enough to do things on her own. She hurt her hand biking to work and I wanted to help and we visited the doctor together and the radiologist and I translated French to English (a minor accomplishment in language learning). But at the same time, I was trying to push her away a bit. It's my historical response to these things.
I'm not sure when I learned it, but after moving so much in life, at some point I realized there was no use in suffering the departures of friends or my departure. Maybe I got this when I got to high school. When we all had to pretend to be cool with emotions. And now it's a biological response. A repulsion to the person once it's established we're not to share the same geological positioning. I tend to find fault then. Tend to find other endeavors. Other occupations and preoccupations. It's an obvious defense mechanism, and I'm not letting go yet.
But then, when she came around to say goodbye, all I could think was to hug her, strongly and closely - instead of the 3-times cheek-kissing of Geneva. It's not sexual of breasts touching, but of placing hearts close. I learned hugging from the hippies in my life. Their overly-long embraces, their strong grasps, their sighs of "can you feel that? our spirits are touching!" Or whatever. But after a while, I got it. There is something funny about our US culture. When we meet people, we send the distance orb out - this is my space, that is yours - shake my hand. The Europeans and South Americans have developed the cheek-kiss. It breaks barriers and makes us human. But it still is a formality, where the hug is a breaking of all barriers. Husky, strong firemen in NYC will do it for bonding, girl friends do it for closeness, families do it for assurance. I miss hugs. And I tried to cling to Russia for a bit and she did that patty-pat-pat on my back, trying to break free. I understand completely.
So, I waited about 7 hours to reply to Economist. I was a silly schoolgirl. Don't reply quickly - too obvious and needy and eager. Don't reply too late - he'll make other plans or be put off. So, in the evening, after dinner (after thinking all day and night about what to say), I SMS'd back, "Pourquoi pas?" Why not?
Of course.
Saturday I kind of mourned the Russian and got up lazily and slowly. There were things I wanted to do and see but without a partner it was different. Got out the door and on the road at 2pm to the cemetery here to pay homage to Borges and Calvin and found so many others of note. Spent a good hour there and then trekked up on bike through the western part of town. (We never went south or west since the Russian couldn't cross into France without a visa.) Climbed a hill along the river and up to another cemetery and along the river and on and on. The Economist SMS'd me "...un whiskey a las 20h?" A whiskey at 8pm? I sent back, sure.
Kept on biking. I had to find myself again.
Came home and made dinner. And just as I was fondling myself for pre-relief, "..a las 20h en la terraza de siempre.. gusto de verte.." (At 8pm in the terraza like always - pleasure to see you.) What's with all the periods? Of course, in the terraza where we first met, like has been our short-lived habit. I was late and nervous. He was early and oh so tanned. From being on his boat in the Med, sailing and drinking and fucking and bathing nude. He was cold and did I want a drink or get one back at his place? What was the rush, I wondered. No, one here first would be good. We went back to his place and I did not perform well at all. I was super PMS girl who had political arguments and griefs about the world, but I asked how his trip was and who he fucked and how fishing was. He fucked a friend of his, and he wasn't sure if he'd forgotten or not noticed, but she got new tits. I don't like new tits, but I loved his description that they looked, while she was reclined on the boat, nervous. Nervous tits. Shaking a bit. Trembling. A nice visual.
There was no coke this time. But he offered me a smoke of hash cigarette (they don't smoke the maryjane here). It was like usual, a missionary fuck (which I had commented earlier bored me - when he asked what I didn't like or liked in men). He twisted my nipples and filled me like Andy could, god praise southern cock and northern cock! Then I passed out. The smoke gets me all the time now.
"I wanted a scooter when I was a kid," he said. "But my mother said it was too dangerous. So I asked for a telescope so I could see the moon. So I could see the American flag there. ... I memorized the terrain of the moon," he told me.
I slept off and on while he would get up and change the music, smoke some more. Leonard Cohen - Suzanne. Opera - wistful. I asked him if it was winter time. He said no. I said, I thought you only listened to opera in the winter? He replied, I was mistaken, and changed it. It is the coming down from vacation, I thought. Not that he wishes to love fake-tit girl. Not that he isn't enjoying my dozing off. I don't care. I'm tired. .... His skin, like Neapolitan ice cream, brown and raspberrry mixed. There is a slight less tan where his swim suit bottom would be. His skin, slightly scratchy from repetitive sun. His skin, warm. Like a cookie. His cock, too big for my mouth. My body - not entirely free.
I had not spent the night before and it's not that I regret it now, but I do wonder what I gained or lost. I slept for shit. With intermittant music, getting up and fucking, thirst, sunshine, elevator, snoring. I got up when the sun was starting to peek in and debated - take the sleeping pill or leave. I decided that since I couldn't find my clothes easily without waking him, I'd pop the pill. Finally, I slept a bit.
You know those weird moments where someone wakes up, goes the bathroom, and you, in desperate need of more sleep and something to drink, get up, run to the kitchen, drink a gallon, jump back into bed to pretend not to have woken at all? I think he did that while I was in the bathroom. I heard the wood floor squeaking and water and then quick run back and he was in the same, albeit slightly awoken, state as when I left him for the bathroom.
This kind of bums me out. I try to establish with all my lovers the freedom to do and do as pleased. Don't want to touch me in the morning? What do I care? Want water and to keep sleeping? Do it.
So, we had morning sex instead of sleeping. And he slept on - or wanted to sleep on - and I dressed and left. The morning at 10am on a Sunday is a delight to see for a short while.
I ate a huge bowl of cereal and drifted to sleep reading about crazy Gilles. The cat drifted in and out and I ignored an SMS from Bike Man.
Photos, writing, lazy masturbation, and a decision that I need sun but couldn't leave the apartment today and need to see the sun tomorrow made me decide to call in sick tomorrow. (Shut up, DU) So, I lazed around, cooked food when I had to eat. Read when I wanted to lay down. Played with photos. Played with myself. And then wanted more cigarettes. So, I ran down to the plaza cafe, where they have a machine. Ha. Of course. Economist in jeans, white shirt, flip-flops, sitting at a table with a brunette and a chiller for champagne or white wine or something. Out of the corner of my eye. I'm not a stalker. I get my smokes and leave, looking for a second as he is up and arranging the table for something.
I get home and go back to work, thinking a bit about him, and get "...placer de pasar esa noche 'missionaire' contigo..." Pleasure to pass this night "missionary" with you. Ha ha and ha. He's a very good playboy, or a very deceptive man or a nice guy. I'm not so sure about these things. I follow my gut through most of my life and my gut tells me that there is something very out-of-place with him. Nothing hangs on the walls. Nothing occupies much space in the bathroom - no bathroom mirror hiding spots. Glasses in the kitchen are different. But I've seen the closet and the depressingly similar work suits. And the strange porn.
It reminds me of the rich old man who tried to seduce me in his "bachelor pad," although that featured photos of his family and more lived-in look.
I do want to believe the scenery isn't changing between visits. That
that everything
but then.. KEXP plays Nick Drake's "Pink Moon" after I had sent him the album, thinking he'd like it considering his wistful smoke to Leonard Cohen. And, considering, I haven't heard that song in forever.
I do want to believe.
Because after his SMS I sent, "Placer de verte - you look good in white tonight." (Pleasure to see you ...) and he replied, "..Ole..."
We want what we cannot have.
While Bike Man hoped to see me before his week-long bike around the lake - he told me he was hungover, too, when I replied that I was too hungover and needed sleep. And he ended the SMS that he missed me, bitch. And I knew he had bought a new riding crop. And I know my tits and body are sensitive - too sensitive to be beaten, and too distracted to see him.
The playboy distracts me.
We want what we cannot have. What seems to be out of reach. What seems good and we want to return. What was good and ends up not being the same.
A lesson to remember when I return to Cinque Terre. I
I am not trying to recreate a feeling. I am not trying to have what I had before. I am trying to see if things mean the same again. I am trying to find myself. My heart. My heat. My place. My space in this world.
He collapsed on top of me after fucking. His cock almost hurts my cervix, it reminds me of Andy. Bracing himself with a bit of his left arm. A cookie burnt red arm. I found myself unable to lay there motionless, and raised my hands to his back to caress it, his arms, his back, his shoulders, the valley of his spine, the sweat spot above his ass, his round ass, his formed ass, his tanned ass, his thighs, his arms, his neck. I behaved like my men have with me and opened an eye to look at him laying beside me. His tanned, bronze face like every 1950's movie star. Fake sleep, real sleep. The intrigue is the insecurity. What makes this man even consider spending time with me? There are so many others. His lips. His nose.
we want what we cannot have - ever.
The Bike Man was quickly replaced by hormones and desire. I'm totally PMS'd or pregnant, the latter which seems impossible at this time but - as every month - I worry. Really, I should just get my tubes tied and find comfort in knowing that using a condom will not result in any offspring. But, I'm not one to say 'never.'
And then...
Friday, 12:21
...nos vemos el sabado?..
I giggled in happiness. Of course, I knew the Economist was coming back from Spain on Saturday, but was half sure that he wasn't interested or that I wasn't going to show any interest. After all, despite a lazy bougeouis ignorance of email, he could have emailed once over three weeks. But then, I didn't, so whatever.
We want what we can't have.
I showed the Russian friend the SMS and was momentarily excited in our depressing last days of working together. I felt this way - depressed at good-byes - when our first year grad school classes ended. I had been distracted with the Butcher and decided not to see my Canadian friends, with whom I bonded closely, before they left - for good, to other schools for the second year. And such went with the Russian. The last week was a strange dance of her coming closer, more needy, and me, pushing away, believing I had serious work to focus on or she was big enough to do things on her own. She hurt her hand biking to work and I wanted to help and we visited the doctor together and the radiologist and I translated French to English (a minor accomplishment in language learning). But at the same time, I was trying to push her away a bit. It's my historical response to these things.
I'm not sure when I learned it, but after moving so much in life, at some point I realized there was no use in suffering the departures of friends or my departure. Maybe I got this when I got to high school. When we all had to pretend to be cool with emotions. And now it's a biological response. A repulsion to the person once it's established we're not to share the same geological positioning. I tend to find fault then. Tend to find other endeavors. Other occupations and preoccupations. It's an obvious defense mechanism, and I'm not letting go yet.
But then, when she came around to say goodbye, all I could think was to hug her, strongly and closely - instead of the 3-times cheek-kissing of Geneva. It's not sexual of breasts touching, but of placing hearts close. I learned hugging from the hippies in my life. Their overly-long embraces, their strong grasps, their sighs of "can you feel that? our spirits are touching!" Or whatever. But after a while, I got it. There is something funny about our US culture. When we meet people, we send the distance orb out - this is my space, that is yours - shake my hand. The Europeans and South Americans have developed the cheek-kiss. It breaks barriers and makes us human. But it still is a formality, where the hug is a breaking of all barriers. Husky, strong firemen in NYC will do it for bonding, girl friends do it for closeness, families do it for assurance. I miss hugs. And I tried to cling to Russia for a bit and she did that patty-pat-pat on my back, trying to break free. I understand completely.
So, I waited about 7 hours to reply to Economist. I was a silly schoolgirl. Don't reply quickly - too obvious and needy and eager. Don't reply too late - he'll make other plans or be put off. So, in the evening, after dinner (after thinking all day and night about what to say), I SMS'd back, "Pourquoi pas?" Why not?
Of course.
Saturday I kind of mourned the Russian and got up lazily and slowly. There were things I wanted to do and see but without a partner it was different. Got out the door and on the road at 2pm to the cemetery here to pay homage to Borges and Calvin and found so many others of note. Spent a good hour there and then trekked up on bike through the western part of town. (We never went south or west since the Russian couldn't cross into France without a visa.) Climbed a hill along the river and up to another cemetery and along the river and on and on. The Economist SMS'd me "...un whiskey a las 20h?" A whiskey at 8pm? I sent back, sure.
Kept on biking. I had to find myself again.
Came home and made dinner. And just as I was fondling myself for pre-relief, "..a las 20h en la terraza de siempre.. gusto de verte.." (At 8pm in the terraza like always - pleasure to see you.) What's with all the periods? Of course, in the terraza where we first met, like has been our short-lived habit. I was late and nervous. He was early and oh so tanned. From being on his boat in the Med, sailing and drinking and fucking and bathing nude. He was cold and did I want a drink or get one back at his place? What was the rush, I wondered. No, one here first would be good. We went back to his place and I did not perform well at all. I was super PMS girl who had political arguments and griefs about the world, but I asked how his trip was and who he fucked and how fishing was. He fucked a friend of his, and he wasn't sure if he'd forgotten or not noticed, but she got new tits. I don't like new tits, but I loved his description that they looked, while she was reclined on the boat, nervous. Nervous tits. Shaking a bit. Trembling. A nice visual.
There was no coke this time. But he offered me a smoke of hash cigarette (they don't smoke the maryjane here). It was like usual, a missionary fuck (which I had commented earlier bored me - when he asked what I didn't like or liked in men). He twisted my nipples and filled me like Andy could, god praise southern cock and northern cock! Then I passed out. The smoke gets me all the time now.
"I wanted a scooter when I was a kid," he said. "But my mother said it was too dangerous. So I asked for a telescope so I could see the moon. So I could see the American flag there. ... I memorized the terrain of the moon," he told me.
I slept off and on while he would get up and change the music, smoke some more. Leonard Cohen - Suzanne. Opera - wistful. I asked him if it was winter time. He said no. I said, I thought you only listened to opera in the winter? He replied, I was mistaken, and changed it. It is the coming down from vacation, I thought. Not that he wishes to love fake-tit girl. Not that he isn't enjoying my dozing off. I don't care. I'm tired. .... His skin, like Neapolitan ice cream, brown and raspberrry mixed. There is a slight less tan where his swim suit bottom would be. His skin, slightly scratchy from repetitive sun. His skin, warm. Like a cookie. His cock, too big for my mouth. My body - not entirely free.
I had not spent the night before and it's not that I regret it now, but I do wonder what I gained or lost. I slept for shit. With intermittant music, getting up and fucking, thirst, sunshine, elevator, snoring. I got up when the sun was starting to peek in and debated - take the sleeping pill or leave. I decided that since I couldn't find my clothes easily without waking him, I'd pop the pill. Finally, I slept a bit.
You know those weird moments where someone wakes up, goes the bathroom, and you, in desperate need of more sleep and something to drink, get up, run to the kitchen, drink a gallon, jump back into bed to pretend not to have woken at all? I think he did that while I was in the bathroom. I heard the wood floor squeaking and water and then quick run back and he was in the same, albeit slightly awoken, state as when I left him for the bathroom.
This kind of bums me out. I try to establish with all my lovers the freedom to do and do as pleased. Don't want to touch me in the morning? What do I care? Want water and to keep sleeping? Do it.
So, we had morning sex instead of sleeping. And he slept on - or wanted to sleep on - and I dressed and left. The morning at 10am on a Sunday is a delight to see for a short while.
I ate a huge bowl of cereal and drifted to sleep reading about crazy Gilles. The cat drifted in and out and I ignored an SMS from Bike Man.
Photos, writing, lazy masturbation, and a decision that I need sun but couldn't leave the apartment today and need to see the sun tomorrow made me decide to call in sick tomorrow. (Shut up, DU) So, I lazed around, cooked food when I had to eat. Read when I wanted to lay down. Played with photos. Played with myself. And then wanted more cigarettes. So, I ran down to the plaza cafe, where they have a machine. Ha. Of course. Economist in jeans, white shirt, flip-flops, sitting at a table with a brunette and a chiller for champagne or white wine or something. Out of the corner of my eye. I'm not a stalker. I get my smokes and leave, looking for a second as he is up and arranging the table for something.
I get home and go back to work, thinking a bit about him, and get "...placer de pasar esa noche 'missionaire' contigo..." Pleasure to pass this night "missionary" with you. Ha ha and ha. He's a very good playboy, or a very deceptive man or a nice guy. I'm not so sure about these things. I follow my gut through most of my life and my gut tells me that there is something very out-of-place with him. Nothing hangs on the walls. Nothing occupies much space in the bathroom - no bathroom mirror hiding spots. Glasses in the kitchen are different. But I've seen the closet and the depressingly similar work suits. And the strange porn.
It reminds me of the rich old man who tried to seduce me in his "bachelor pad," although that featured photos of his family and more lived-in look.
I do want to believe the scenery isn't changing between visits. That
that everything
but then.. KEXP plays Nick Drake's "Pink Moon" after I had sent him the album, thinking he'd like it considering his wistful smoke to Leonard Cohen. And, considering, I haven't heard that song in forever.
I do want to believe.
Because after his SMS I sent, "Placer de verte - you look good in white tonight." (Pleasure to see you ...) and he replied, "..Ole..."
We want what we cannot have.
While Bike Man hoped to see me before his week-long bike around the lake - he told me he was hungover, too, when I replied that I was too hungover and needed sleep. And he ended the SMS that he missed me, bitch. And I knew he had bought a new riding crop. And I know my tits and body are sensitive - too sensitive to be beaten, and too distracted to see him.
The playboy distracts me.
We want what we cannot have. What seems to be out of reach. What seems good and we want to return. What was good and ends up not being the same.
A lesson to remember when I return to Cinque Terre. I
I am not trying to recreate a feeling. I am not trying to have what I had before. I am trying to see if things mean the same again. I am trying to find myself. My heart. My heat. My place. My space in this world.
He collapsed on top of me after fucking. His cock almost hurts my cervix, it reminds me of Andy. Bracing himself with a bit of his left arm. A cookie burnt red arm. I found myself unable to lay there motionless, and raised my hands to his back to caress it, his arms, his back, his shoulders, the valley of his spine, the sweat spot above his ass, his round ass, his formed ass, his tanned ass, his thighs, his arms, his neck. I behaved like my men have with me and opened an eye to look at him laying beside me. His tanned, bronze face like every 1950's movie star. Fake sleep, real sleep. The intrigue is the insecurity. What makes this man even consider spending time with me? There are so many others. His lips. His nose.
we want what we cannot have - ever.
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.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
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