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.

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'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.

an excess of men, all blurring together into a dramatic apotheosis

My brain is drunk on images.

It is that time again.

Disintegration.

If I could sink as low as I feel my thoughts could go, I would plummet in a slow motion rip through the wooden floors of this building. The wood would peel back in splinters and me, along with this wicker chair, would rush through the levels separating privacy and violation all the way into the concrete and brick of the basement and through to the dank, spooge, grease of the sewers. That is where I would rest. Splattered with wood splinters gouging my soft skin. Hair torn off in strands caught on the jagged floor above me. Black ooze splashed up into my eyes and sliding down my calves. The rats gathering curious after the loud disruption. And me, sitting, calmly, staring at a slight forty-five degree angle at a crack slightly lit by some life from the hole above my head. My heart a stuttering horse galloping across the dips of my chest cavity. The empty firepit of my belly filling with phlem. Mechanically, I would pierce through the sludge below to grab a rabid rat and would rub rub rub him between my legs until rugburn and tears.

I am in love with incest. When I think about my own father he is replaced by a melting pot of beautiful men I know in my life. But I don't think of my own father. I read stories of other people's fantasies. When I hear the father next door argue with his seventeen year old daughter about her lateness or her absence or her homework and then the voices go silent, I imagine his anger really comes from desire and he muffles her moans as he forgives her. They fuck in my head endlessly and I want to ask him about it, tell him he must describe it to me. Tell me every detail so I can find out if the shuffles and echoes I hear match what I imagine is going on. Does he push the back of her head so her mouth gags on his cock like he did me? And will he call me his fille when he shoves his hand inside me? When my American friend, the professor, visited, sitting so vulgarly next to his wife, button-up shirt unbuttoned showing his white undershirt covering a pot belly only exaggerated by his overtly loud annoying American behavior earlier in the day. He tells of his new caregiving of their children and how his three year old sits with him watching portions of Roman Polanski and says, "But this is boring to me." He pauses with memory behind his eyes and hesitates in finishin the story. And I imagine he has a hand on her golden curls and is placing sweet kisses along her arm as she giggles.

"Incest, like pedophilia or bestiality or cannibalism are only taboos erected by social convention, always identifying with the victim. There is nothing inherently evil in them and any damage they might do is also socially constructed. In other words, he felt that they could only be damaging if you believed they were inherently evil. Why then succumb to such weakness? He felt that if Anaïs were to put this into her own words, she would support his explanation that this was something unique, a great sacrilege, a radical transgression of the forbidden. That was how it should be judged. Why impose conventional bourgeois sentiments upon it if that is what you think? Anglo-Saxon culture in particular had trouble understanding that blood is the most potent substance on the earth; Spanish culture understands it but rightly fears it; only French culture had learnt to understand it to some degree, which is why he chose to live in Paris."

There is sacredness to blood. I try to imagine what this means to Parisians and I'm afraid that I'm so far away from them that by the time I reach them, my time will be up and I will be without an EU citizenship to stay on to figure them out. "Rank concluded these fantasies produce three kinds of people: (1) the normal person who is able to deal with its implications and get on with life; (2) the neurotic, who requires psychoanalytic guidance; and (3) the artistic person who translates them into their writing. It was the third of these that Rank was interested in here."

Why the fuck am I here?

I have four red daisies in the middle of a white room. I am writing on an antique round table which can fit three or eight people. I have two tiny speakers begging and craving Louis Attaque to my heart. Elle est pas.

I have stumbled over my own desires. I am running to find someone, something and I am refraining from seeing things. I am told it is my own ignorance of myself that is blinding and beauty. I have no idea I am sexy. I keep aiming for it, thinking I'm failing and tryiing all the more harder. And yet, it is flypaper while I think it is bug repellent. Come together over me.

I am going to fail my economics exam. I am going to half-ass my law paper and I'm going to totally give a fuck on my statitics paper.

It is that dissentigration. I can't keep my hands out of my pants and I'm begging for a beating.

Remember that guy several years ago who wooed me when I was a drunkard? (If you're trustworthy I'll give you the passcode to CDOA v.2) And then we found each other again last year in Madison and he brought me a fishnet body suit and porn and then bored me over lunch? He's moving to Saudi Arabia for a big money making job and sent me all his porn. It's illegal over there. So I have a 2-foot tall stack of CDs of all kinds of porn on my counter top. And now he's asking to see me again. I am not an alter at which to be worshiped. I am not to be psychoanalyzed and told that my independence will let me down. I am not to be wooed with promises of comfort and seduction and ultimate pleasure.

I am to be broken.

I imagine there's an equally strong hand for my equally challenging ass.



It is true that confidence overwins any other default. Someone posted a simple ad on Craigslist/Paris looking for a girl who would be interested in bondage. I was bored, proscrastinating and sent a reply. He's a (struggling) fashion photographer who is attracted by Shibari. He's been in love with Japan and Paris. I was shy our first meeting at his place. He cut me short on the elongated, drawn-out email exchange I sometimes enjoy as foreplay. I thought we'd be going for the (new) Ang Lee movie but we ended up talking for hours. I was shy. He sat on a stool in his bedroom cum living room and squirmed. It's always odd to me when men squirm in front of me. Have they no idea that I'm pacing and trembling and cowering on the inside? I'm chalking his body twisting up to the fact that he hadn't smoked the maryjane in days and was without a contact. Not that it's addicting, mind you, but that he just felt even more microscoped without it. I was kind of burning him with my stares. (We all know that intensity only masks utter insecurity, right?) I was amazed by his arms. Ok, he said he was a rollerblader (which in this country isn't quite as lame as in the US, it's more of an alternate mode of transportation coupled with daring feat), but where did his arms come from? I'm a sucker for strong hands, but was keenly aware of his biceps for some reason. Perhaps it was the way he was dressed like Kerouac. Poor, artist, Henry Miller, wine, short on cash, all those things I had left behind.

"Most virtue is a demand for greater seduction." - Natalie Clifford Barney

So he sent in an email mentioning that next time he'd like have his way with me. I had wondered if I'd made any good impression at all. A million beautiful women in his apartment/studio. We kissed cheeks good-bye with a closer lip kiss on the second, and a second spread out between us when he leaned in and gave me a quick third kiss. Just like a playground, acceptance and maybe he likes me. I was convinced he'd have a girlfriend or wife or both and I'd just be a professional experience. And in the meantime, I suffer my hormones.

Disintigration into debasement.

Anais Nin fucked Henry Miller who fucked June (who needs no last name). But she also fucked her father at the suggestion (perhaps) of her psychoanalyst who also fucked her in order to replace her obsession with her father. While unethical it worked and she wa able to leave him. I wrote a paper in the 8th grade on Munchausen Syndrome and child abuse. I'm not sure how much I plagerized but it wasn't all me. In 7th grade I convinced my Mormon science lab partner to do our student project on viscosity of liquids and we won. But I've never eagerly or voluntarily fucked my parent. That's a feat I don't know I could do. Although it is, as James pointed out, the ultimate taboo and I am probably only attracted to it because it's so wrong.

"i am and i still don't get it. those words don't seem like you - which means i still don't get you. ........ i don't mind being reduced to similar to other people so i hope you dont mind if i try to generalize you. but i know guys like you. successful, driven, workaholic, etc and i've yet to meet one who doesn't want it the other way - to be dominated as opposed to dominate. to have a wifey and kids at home and a mistress in boots telling him what to do sexually. so 'power. domination. control.' they seem foreign coming from "you," i guess."

"I'm never predictable. Give me a chance.
"No, I think you're completely wrong. I've been forced to be that mold that you speak of - by my core, my true being is to be hedonistic, to be pleasure seeking, to be athoritative in my true wants and desires. Let me be so to you. Let me show you what it's like to be with a man who knows what he wants, knows how he wants it, yet know how to bring along a partner to get him to that point. Fuck. Fun. Power share. Sexual pleasure. Real life. Give up to me. Let me have you. Comfort in my desire.

"Be yourself, yet be mine. It's not confusing - think of me as something different than you've experienced. Think of me as your protector and as your safe harbour. Where you can lay down your guard and submit to letting your pleasure be fulfilled. Trust me and you'll be free. Trust me and you'll have your shelter. Your sexuality will bloom. You have never never felt such happiness.

"Lola:
But ultimately, I'm not trying to analyze you. I just want to get you naked, fuck you hard, and want you to want more. If you're hooked, and if somehow you end up wanting to see me again and again- then I'm happy wit whatever result comes from that.

It' simple. Bodies first, minds maybe later.
It's hard for you - I know. We need to spend some time. You still don't trust me."

It's seductive to offer me things like hearts and comfort and power. As seductive as truth:

"I would appreciate to know you better and i propose you to check if we could fit for you to become my casual toy for some plays and driving.

I wont be long this time as i know i have 99 chance on 100 to get deleted without even have been read.

I am wise and have a very good imagination. You are right the brain is the biggest sex organ of the body. Driving your brain correctly will provide you safety, extasy, fulfilment and deep emotions.
I am a cary man with a good knowledge and i see in bdsm quite a spiritual way.

If interested in further talks let me know.

Wish you happy and safe
With respect [name]"

I'm vulnerable right now. I'm aware of this which is good and necessary. But I am primed after such a long time without my needs met. Sure, I've been getting cock since I got here (thank the gods!), but meeting bare necessities for a highly sexed girl like me doesn't do much but tease. I could very easily fall for an for a casual encounter on Craigslist or a tempting invitation to use my body. And in other parallel universes my body isn't caged and I'm doing these things. And in those parallel universes I am asking first and then, once I've found my voice, insisting I am paid.

I have these thoughts so many times a day. I watched the madam pace up the corner of the block yesterday. I had a short class, stopped by Demonia to browse the sales, and decided to eat a late lunch at the cafe on Pigalle. I've seen this woman so many times as I round the corner from the metro down the walk to my apartment. She's always looking the same way. About 5'3", black dyed hair pulled back in a slick ponytail, a face with a bit of Eastern European roundness but Italian fire in her eyes. A kind of black bomber jacket with fur-lined hood that is long enough to cover her ass, black pants, black casual sneakers. She looks like she could be your sister or a waitress on a smoke break or a tour guide, but instead she tries to entice men - gently, which is refreshing to see - to go into a club around the corner. We've made eye contact on a few times but me sitting in the cafe gave us both a better chance to eye each other up. So, later last night, when I was off to the bondage soiree, pigtails and heels covered up under my long coat, we made eyes in one of those 2 seconds seems like forever stares and we *knew*. I have deep dreams that she stops me next time and suggests I be the English-speaking escort at her bar. I am so close to the edge of exploring this world but ... hahahah... lord, my morals or fear are holding me back. I certainly don't want to be stupid about this, but I wouldn't mind using my god-given talents to earn a few Euros. I'd be so damn good at it too.

I'm reading "The Prince" by Machiavelli on the metro lately. I read it all the way down to the bondage soiree to be there at 11pm to meet Wilfried & Sarah and friends. I had written down the wrong number on the street. I was sweating on the metro in my corset. I read the book all the way back up the metro. It wasn't a night blown, but it was a "stupidity tax" as BadMan put it.

I'm taking up a French-English language exchange and had my first meeting today. I think it will be impossible as it's supposed to be with the husband of my pregnant colleague. He smells like need and I smell like desire and she smells like ... a bubble. It's dangerous. I could already tell. Despite her presence today, I couldn't help but giggle and do that weird accidental deep looking into his eyes. I just don't think there's a single way for me to live another way. Everyone is sexual to me, every object is something I'd like to shove into my mouth or cunnie.

Disentigration.

Man, I want a cigarette.

"Paris was pulsing away in Anaïs’ bloodstream well before she began her strange flirtation with Antonin Artaud. What Anaïs wanted was to provoke a crisis in herself: an excess of men, all blurring together into a dramatic apotheosis."





with help from Sexual Fables

fastest update in the EU

-Julien and I have fucked twice more. I've taught him how to say "screw" when he wants to do it. I'm also slowly teaching him not to massage my tits like a 15-year-old (sigh) but to play with the nipples. He's over-joyed by either my cock-sucking skills or by the fact that I do it period. He wants to fuck my ass. I also taught him that I call it bummie. What have I gotten? Rather reliable fucks? A nice, decent-sized cock to fill my oral fixation. Tequila beer one night and Chinese beer the next. Laziness in that he climbs up to my apartment and I don't have to go to his (because he still lives with his ex - a nicety for me).

-Too bad the Scot and I haven't been able to hook-up again. I think he's left for south France.

-I'm having horrible fantasies about fucking the old director of our program. He sent me a couple of photos he took of me (actually, photos of another colleague taking photos of me at the castle we stopped at over our weekend retreat). I'm not sure if he did that for all the students or if it was a gesture of him knowing I was a photographer and wanting to show me his 'work' as it were. Not sure there, but I felt very flirtatious at our one-on-one meeting at the department. Each student had to meet with him to give kind of an overview in addition to what was on our CV or application. The info goes to all the professors to get a better idea of who we are. Needless to say, my 'interview' was fun, a bit nervous, a bit giggly, and a bit flirty. I have no idea if he engages this way with all the female students. I know it's completely inappropriate and he's actually not hot in any way and is actually a bit un-charming. Either way, I was very sickly/absurdly excited when I found out today that he is my academic adviser. Soooo naughty.

-I went to the 2nd S-Munch and it was better than the first. I was a bit more relaxed and the group was a bit smaller. My French is definitely improving and I found it highly amusing to listen to older women dominatrixes explain how they felt about "La Dependance: Excitante ou Dangereuse." One of the new men at the meeting sat by me at one point and found it interesting that in the 1-1/2 months I've been here I've been to two S-Munches. I don't think he was hitting on me since most of the men at these events are subs and the women are dommes. I told him it was because I knew Wilfried, but there's more to it. I really want to meet a dom. How badly though? Not too badly yet. As I said before, it'd be nice to fulfill my basic needs first so I'm not so sexually frustrated and can actually concentrate on submissiveness.

-I think I'm too old to be flashing my tits anymore. Or, maybe I need to lay off the wine at soirees. Granted, it was a soiree with all the program students who are generally in their mid-20s - not a serious Frenchy soiree. Still, I think the tits have lost some elasticity and really shouldn't be popping like that. Oh well.

-I also need to remember to eat before going out. I could have fucked a couple of young men at the party but ended up really drunk in a bed with another girl colleague and a gay colleague talking about who knows what and not getting laid. Focus, woman, focus!

-I think the new haircut makes me look older. I think I need to deal with getting older and enjoy it. I can't play a teenager anymore. It looks pathetic.

-I'm going to Berlin tomorrow for 6 days. I would love to end up back at the Kit Kat Club or the other sex club that pdh and I went to years ago but I don't think that will happen. I'm not sure how to make things happen right now. I need to go shopping. I need to forget the budget and lay some bucks down on latex, leather, heels, and such. Europe is a lot about dressing up, costumes. I'm not so much like that. I need to let Halloween be every day.

-It's that time of the month again where I skipped French class today and instead played with myself all day. But I have to leave now. Things to do. I feel incredibly guilty about making puddles in my panties and not being responsible. I need to stop freaking out about that.