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.

Two thousand

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torture

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

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

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

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

Thx again, Clichemonster, for the flyer! xoxo

One day older and deeper in...

You all are so sweet... so many well wishes in my inbox over the past few days. And, oooo, I'm excited for my surprises from noman over at My Secret Life.

Please don't take offense if I compile my thanks and updates here. I'm short on time right now... but long on appreciation and love for yous all.

The Paris-London trip was quite the quick jaunt overseas. I'm still pulling my pics together but we did a sort of slideshow at my parents this weekend with my sister's pics and mine on their new HDTV thing. Very diverse viewpoints and great snaps. We spent the first 24 hours just travelling. Plane, train, tube, train [under water!], metro, walking to the Paris hotel. You'll get to see a snap my sister took of me just as I popped out of the metro underground into the plaza in front of the Louvre and I've told a few that that was the definitive moment I realized I wanted to go to school there.

We ate at a nice, out of the way corner restaurant where no one really spoke English and I got to try my hand at French. Freshman year of HS in Argentina I took a French course from Madame Bousquet who taught us with a proper Parisian accent and those words and lessons have stayed lodged in my brain. I did quite well, and the old label that the French hate Americans didn't seem to ring true at all. My entire time there I was well-received - from the bus conductor to the small sandwich shop owner to the hotel employees to friendly passersby.

London wasn't quite as impressive for me and the school program/Open Day less so. I'm grateful that I went over and checked them both out because it cemented my decision to go to Sciences Po for sure. Yes, I am going to Paris. Yes, it still feels foreign to say out loud. Yes, it's totally unreal and doesn't feel like me who is planning this or doing this, but some alien occupying my body and saying these things.

I told my family today that I wish I could just be more simple, more simplistic. It would make things a lot easier. But I'm not one to be content to just work a 40 hour work week in Shopko. Listening to "This American Life" in the car on the way home today - about the historic change in the Amer Psych Assoc no longer qualifying homosexuality as pathological - I almost felt I could compare my situation. I can't help but make difficult decisions in my life. Wouldn't we all just wish to be normal, easy, happy, simple? Unfortunately we are who we are and must live up to that or struggle eternally with unhappiness and yearning to fulfill our destinies.

I'm not sure any of this writing is making sense.

There was no sexy fun in Europe. In fact, we both got sick by the end of the trip. When I got back I was still sick and then got my period. No sex for about 2 weeks now. I'm kind of starting to lose my mind but sex has taken a back-burner to all these plans and finishing up my Stats and Econ. I finished out my Econ final last week [and had a very strange conversation at the end of the class with crazy cat lady professor as I was the last one out of the room - the conversation involved her recommending some weird book by some woman who could channel some dead guy named Seth]. My Stats final is tomorrow afternoon. [Although, the Monday after my trip I had my last Stats exam and got an unprecedented 90% on it so there's hope for the final yet!]

Last week and this week at work I'm focusing on department interviews for my replacement. I haven't approached it as such as it still hasn't sunk in. Instead, I'm just going about it as interviewing someone new for our team.

No-name Joe took me out for an early b'day dinner last week. It was a weird day because I'd just seen James at the gym and was literally wiping tears when I saw him b/c I've really missed him so much and just feel rather alone in this whirlwind of decisions. But Joe bought dinner and gave me 2 really cool books, a small box of Godiva, and a handy Paris map. I told him I might cry when we're in Mexico because I've just been holding it in for so long. This is all very overwhelming.

Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled, excited. But terrified. I've never taken out a loan before and to have to take out 2 or 3 for a total of perhaps 120,000$ is daunting. It's an investment. Yes, yes, yes it is. Instead of a house I'm getting a brain.

I spent this weekend and Mother's Day / my b'day with my family. It seemed apropos and my mum was happy. I still woke up forgetting it was my b'day. It's just kind of taken a backseat.

This week it's more interviews and me racing between Madison and Milwaukee to do so, a run up to another city to focus some work, a free Thursday for packing, Friday back in Milwaukee and back in time to meet up with Joe for the totally sold out and hot tickets for The Hold Steady, then we'll nap, jump on the plane that leaves at 6am for Mexico. I'm totally not sure what I've gotten myself into here but I'm sure it will all work out. Hurricane or sunshine, it'll be a needed vacation with no agenda but to see, feel, breathe.

And then I'll be completely out of money. Lord only knows how I'll re-coop in time to get my things out of my apartment by mid-August lease up, buy storage space, buy a plane ticket [one-way or round indefinite?], crash with my parents for a bit, get on a plane, get an apartment in Paris, feed myself, and start school.

Will there be any time for breathing ever again? Any time for my luxurious down-time of days spent with my hand down my pants? Any more binge drinking? Will I carouse on the town again? Or, has my age of innocence passed into a sultry, focused adulthood?

In ten years, I'm sure I'll look back and .....

Now I lay me down to sleep

There's a new guy in the rounds, I'll have to think of a name for him. I went on a date with him a while ago and then this past Friday. I kind of like the variety I have going right now. Each of my lovers meets a part of me and fulfills that part.

I have no poop inside me anymore. At least that's what I'm hoping. I was tasked to have a 'light lunch' and then a liquid diet after through tomorrow when I stop ingesting anything but my own spit. I had to clarify with the nurse lady on the phone what a 'light lunch' meant - like could I have a salad or a bagel or a whole pizza? She said people usually pig out on like a big steak since they know they're going to be without food for a while. I went with a nice healthy salad. I hope it's passed already or the enema tomorrow [self-induced -- god that's gonna be weird] will be messy. Then, at 5/6pm I had to have 1/2 a bottle of something called magnesium citrate. When I called my parents to say good night prior to ingesting this they related that I'm on the same diet they were pre-colonoscopy. Except their mag-cit tasted like crap [not literally] and mine is now flavored with lemon. How nice of the manufacturers.

This was not my experience. In fact, about 1/2 hour later I calmly pooped a nice lil' log and that was it. Where's the rest? Where's the explosion? Where are my innards? I was all braced for some kind of fireworks or pain or moving the TV into the bathroom for the evening. Nope. Okay, something must be wrong with me. Or not. Then again, about a year ago James force fed me Epsom salts to drink to make me poop one weekend -- and it didn't work. Oh well. We shall see tomorrow morning I guess. Ugh.. enemas...

So, yesterday I had to plan for this crazy liquid diet. Yeah, I eat twigs and seeds at work and for meals, but I also chow down at dinner and on weekends. I love food. Really I do. I love healthy food and junk food. And the idea of not eating from 12pm-12am was tormenting me. I cruised Copp's food store - liquid and clear, clear and liquid, clear liquid. Great choices. I bought about 3 Gatorade fancy sports drinks all clear and flavored some berry thing. Unfortunately these clear Gatorades did not come with electrolytes which I was relying on keeping me going and not passing out ... People, I said I love my food - it gives me joy and energy. Yes, 12 hours of no food will wither me. Then, I bought about 4 Glaceau fruitwaters - electros, clear, and berry tasty. I also bought some apple juice which I thought I recalled they said would be fine. And, some veggie broth and miso soup just in case. [So what if I can get 50% of my RDA of sodium in 1 fucking miso - I needed food!!!]

Well, I'm off to bed momentarily and I can speak to the yummy of the fruitwaters and the retardedness of the Gatorade bottle shape. Although they are a bit like baby bottles which is kinda sexy.

I am definitely wasting away right now, withered at least 3 pounds I'm sure. And all I can think about is Lays potato chips, tuna salad, cereal, veggie burritos, green beans with butter, whole tomatoes, beer, rice milk, Le Petit Ecolier, nutella, ... aw, man, I gotta stop. I'm salivating.

Anyway. I'm sucking the last of some of the liquids [I'll probably burn the rest of the bottles after the surgery tomorrow - no more liquid diet ever!] before I'm cut off at 9am. Then, at 9, I'll crouch on my elbows and knees in the bathtub and try to put a fleet enema in my bummie. Thanks to SirMax I now know what they feel like and how I'll feel upon being filled, and the toilet is less than a step away. Poopsie poosie. Then, the 2nd fleet at 9:30 and so help me it'd only expel water at that point.

Cab comes. Head to the hospital. Wait, do whatever, get drugs, answer questions [or, rather, answer questions, get drugs], surgery for an hour, recovery with my gal Mary. She'll bring me home with a care package [hence why I asked her to join me in recovery - I get movies and treats!], hand me over to James who will put me to bed in the afternoon, feed me when I wake up hungry, give me pills every 3 hours, rub my head to make sure I'm alive, then push me over and snore next to me all night long until he has to run to work in the wee hours of Thurs. [Right, James? Just like that, huh? hahahaha]. And on Thursday, I am going to pig the fuck out on anything I want and watch all the bad movies I wanna [although "new boy for whom I will find a nickname" is bringing over some cool blues documentary on Robert Johnson and his crossroads -- all my talk of getting the lil' devil tail removed].

I kindly appreciate all your well wishes, darlings. Think of me during the day. Deep in your heart you should meditate at least for 2 minutes so that your commands and reminders make it to Hades. Remind that lil' red guy that he cannot take me yet for I have so much more of his work to do on this earth. And, maybe, if you're lucky and gross I'll send you [individually cuz I'm not into this on the w.w.w.] a pic of rosebud healing. And, in a few weeks, if you're more lucky and nice I'll send you a pic of a perfectly puckered and clean and dazzling bumstar. And, in a month or so, if you're super duper extra lucky and naughty I'll send you a pic of me feeding bumstar some nice, hard, long dildo. Or cock!

Kisses to you all my darlings.

Nigh nigh


[time +1]

When I let myself...

There's an imagination of me drifting off counting backwards, naked under the gown on a bed that is as wide as mine at home but much more sturdy and metal. Squeaky wheels and masks and it's like ER or St. Elsewhere or any Hollywood formica floor, soft petal blue and pepto pink walls with softer lighting and nurses with mascara. And, I can hear them. I can hear them "Hemorrhoids from kids? She looks so young." "No, no, bad diet and anal sex." "Oooo. Of course, it's always the whores." I try to say something but I'm just a tiny little hermit crab trapped in a semi-truck of a body. Squeak squeak peep peep. This is what coma must be like. Struggling to force my mouth to say "I can fucking hear you, you bastards!" But nothing. And I can hear the slice, the prod, the blood, the wipe, the suture, the clean, the wheeling out. And all the while, I get to say nothing. Trapped, numb, alive.

Then there's the horror of going so deeply down that I don't come out. That it's so nice and blank out there under anesthesia that I'm comforted and drifting and floating and nothing. I loose days or weeks or ages or years. I loose important things I was trying to remember and my "to do" list, my friends' names, my parents' faces. I practice this at the gym when I'm in the weight room. I'm laying down, lifting a long, silver bar above my chest, lining up my hands, staring at a dot in the ceiling. This is not me. This is someone else. I'm only seeing through this person's eyes. And the fear disintegrates. I could almost watch the arms come down from the ceiling, slightly curved, and just not lift again. Slowly, agonizingly slow, drop drop drop the bar and the weights and sense a crushing sensation, understand a shortness of breath, but be so far gone outside/inside to not notice or care.

Then there's the terrifying fear of what I will say while outside myself. I know I'll probably cry coming out from under, but will I say ridiculous things? It's a huge moment of weakness. It's not even comparable to being black-out drunk - which I have practiced many times and succeeded in blacking out while still functioning for myself. This is a medical manipulation of reality and a distortion of myself and I will be weak. I will not be able to whimper to mama like after the wisdom teeth came out. I will not be shuffled to the car and ushered in to my teenage bed to be surrounded by the scents of mother-ness, dinner, sweet fabric softener, comfort and care. I will instead be smiled at by an unsteady and overly sisterly co-worker whom I call friend and who I recognize as my real sister in so many ways. I knew she'd be good to pick me up from the hospital, drive me home and babysit me until James came free from work. And will she smile in that "aw, Lola's cute when she's drugged up" condescending way not realizing how pained I am by vulnerability? Will she coddle me almost too much? Will I forget my manners under the waves of numb and mumble curses or insults?

James says we'll see. We'll see if he really needs to be here to babysit. That it's really just a hospital insurance. It used to be that they kept people in the hospital over night but realized it wasn't necessary, an added cost and burden. So they made sure the patient signed all the right release forms and made sure they had someone to care for them - or said they did - and then let them go out in the world. Sutured up and stapled up and on their own. He says it's really not necessary to wake someone up every 1/2 hour to make sure they're alive like my mum did after the wisdom teeth came out. He doesn't think I'll need him to stay the night.

I'm not familiar with blood. I've never broken a bone. I have suffered only in so much as knowing hospitals intimately due to asthma, ear infections, chronic bronchitis and sinus infections and many wounds on my privates. I have suffered only when the fear of the needle was so great that I had a filling in a molar without novocaine. I have never been alone when they cut me. I was not alone when they pulled out gum between my front two teeth in hopes that I'd spend an hour a day pushing them together since I fought braces. I was not alone when they put the laughing gas then the anesthesia and then took out my wisdom. I was not alone when I feel on my head and broke said front tooth and concussioned my head. I was not alone when I tore the big toe off when moving my futon around. I do not want to be alone. I am scared. I am not thinking about it because I will cry. I don't want surgery. My perfect little body might not wake up. Recovery might be harder than suffering. I am scared.

I do not want "let's see." I want hugs and I want my mommy.