I christened my new apartment yesterday. A nice solo job with my jeans down around my ankles and all the freedom of porn that I wanted.
I so missed living on my own.
DC is beautiful these days (although it'll rain tomorrow). I've been a grown-up, getting up at 6am to run trial bus routes to my future workplace. I've already been assigned some work for this weekend.
Joined the Zipcar and took a many-hours drive for apartment essentials. It's my first 1-bedroom and it's obvious that I've lived in studios. Rooms that are almost finished: bedroom, bedroom closet, bathroom, coat closet, kitchen (with a whole 3 shelves of crystal glassware and punchbowl scored from the grandparents - I could host a killer booze party but don't have any food). I have no living room furniture at all except for two bookshelves. I need a couch, rugs.
I'm totally excited about this new chapter of life. I grabbed a coffee downtown by the Naval metro stop - the first coffee I've had in 10 months. I think I'll need it for pep in these early mornings. Realized that I could easily be intimidated by the suits and the "What do you do?" attitude (which equals "What can do you for me?"). But I don't care. I don't care if I don't have killer outfits, that I'm not a hottie 20-something intern, that I'm not living in the most hip neighborhood, that I can't do anything for you.
I've got some dates set up. One with an old, old friend who has known me since CDOA v.1 days and who has been such a savior in my move to DC. We're setting ourselves up in a Daddy/girl situation and I'm excited to try it out with him. I'm also meeting with a dom from FetLife for lunch. He's into women wearing dresses and skirts and I might disappoint in that arena, but we're both into watersports and he's much older than I am so that's attractive. Then, there are a few randoms from OKCupid and FetLife. I'm in no rush. There's a whole city of pervs out there and I'll have my fun.
Meanwhile, my mind wanders back to Scat Man. A guy I met for drinks in Minneapolis and then invited over to the place at which I was crashing. I let down all my guards. I went deep into my kink. I explored more Daddy/daughter roleplay and incest fantasy. The deepest I've gone ever. Where fantasy could blur to action. Where dirty talk wasn't dirty, it just was.
We had such a good time that we stayed in touch when I went back to my parents before driving out to DC. He came down for a visit and stayed in a local hotel. We fucked in the room and then went out for drinks at a small pub. We held hands as we sat at the bar and turned our heads from each other, talking to strangers we'd just met. The whole time, our hands gripping.
When we got back to the hotel we were wasted. And somehow (I don't remember the details - all the whiskey I indulged in, after days of sterility at my parents'), we were in the bathroom. I squatted, and shit in his hands. He rubbed it on my ass, on my arms, on his face. I can still see this fleck of it sticking off the side of his cheek. This is where my drunk brain woke up. Where my drunk brain saw the openness of two people. Where I saw the exploration that could be. Where I tested a limit and went beyond it. Where I trusted someone to care for me and get deep down with me. My shit. My feces. My dirtiest part. My insides... were on us. Something so much more organic and beautifully sick and honest and internal... internal... I can't think of another word. My insides came out - outside. If I have a hard time showing my emotions, speaking words of care or interest, or breaking down the barriers of mind and body -- they were gone. We were dirty and sexy and reveling in our nature.
I had that scent in my nostrils the entire next day. I kept thinking I had shit on the bottom of my shoes, like when you step in dog doo and can smell a bad scent but have no idea where it's coming from. Is it following me? Is it my mind? Oh, fuck, it's on my shoe! But there was no shit anywhere. It was just the memory lodged in my mind.
I've never gone there before. I remember Daisy, a friend who was an escort and dancer. She told me once, as we leaned over the bar and talked closely, about how a client of hers got them a hotel room, brought plastic sheeting, covered his chest, and asked her to shit on him. I was aghast with curiosity and fear. Now I know.
I do not require this kind of interaction and depth, sincerity and honesty in my everyday life, but I am changed for it. We have developed something I don't know that I could find elsewhere. But I am still pining for my future, potential lovers. And Scat Man and I relish in that: he's fucking other women, I'll fuck other men, we'll play with others. It's an easy poly situation in long-distance, but we're not as honest with others as we are with ourselves over chat or email. I had a heart sigh for him - have - but we're anchored on the same boat while freely drifting and backfloating and tickling with the octopus and mermaids.
A nice segway of safety and surprise into this new chapter of my life. I'm excited for the change. I'm excited to see how my growth goes. Many challenging days ahead with the new, high-level job. Many fun nights. Work hard, play hard. And, above all else ---- freedom.
Showing posts with label fetish. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fetish. Show all posts
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Lolita
It's 5 million and 2 zillion fantasy night.
I just finished writing a 6-page re-telling of how I lost my virginity for a woman who is seeking stories for a compilation. The compilation was initiated as a concept for her 14-year-old daughter. She wants to communicate to her that losing one's virginity won't wreck one's life forever - no matter how it happens. I suggested she make a book and seek a publisher if she gets some good stories (FYI: she is looking for people under 50 to tell theirs, from all over the world, gay or straight or whatever, so if you want to write yours - in anonymity or full-on disclosure - let me know).
But now I'm moving into thinking about bdsm stories. I could go over a long list of what I’ve done and just stay there, but I want to dream about what could be (or might just be in my mind) - and explore why.
The first one that comes up most strongly is the little girl. I can imagine being asked about why I like the Daddy/little girl scenario or age play or older/younger theme. I saw a woman a little bit younger than me on the metro today. She sat opposite her older-looking boyfriend and at one point reached across to him and straightened his scarf and zipped his jacket. A gesture of love, caring, or overbearing I have no idea. But for me, I just couldn't imagine doing that. Not to say I haven't done it before, because I have. But I don't want to do it anymore. Sure, if there were a huge spider on his lapel or a tag sticking out, I might want to readjust the situation by brushing it off or tucking it under, but I wouldn't purposefully "straighten him out" as such. Instead, I feel better being the object of that love, caring, overbearing correction. That's a part of it, I suppose.
Another part of it has to do with my eternal youth. People have always said I look about 6 years younger than I am. I've always gone after adventure, explored, loved learning, longed for being taken care of (in doses), needed to be disciplined by someone else, strived to make people happy (while balancing the "I could care less what you think of me" self-confidence), looked up to wise people and craved their knowledge, adored older men, sought approval or recognition for good deeds (although I also do good things for the sake of doing them), and have always retained a curiosity and spontaneity that mirrors the recklessness and eagerness of youth. I am not helpless or sick mentally. I am not weak or lazy. I don't have an unhealthy adoration of my own father.
I own about 20 girlie panties. Ones with cherries, birdies, cartoon characters like Cookie Monster, little poodles with words "pretty girl," Supergirl styles, etc. I usually wear thongs for daytime activities, and then come home and immediately get into a pair of the girlie ones. If I'm lazy and have to run to the store, I might keep them on. I've tried to incorporate them in sexual liaisons or play dates, although this wasn't very often, and never in the past two years. It's not just the comfort factor, because I could pick plain, big lady panties if I wanted that. Instead, I like them because they feel good, are super cute, love what they imply, and can't wait to be able to wear them freely with someone someday!
I can imagine sitting in my Hello Kitty panties, and wearing one of my kid tee-shirts (my favorite is pink, has the dot candy on it, and says DOTS in big letters over my boobies). Maybe I'm on a cozy blanket on the floor. Maybe I'm baking cookies, using my fingers to mash or roll the dough. Maybe I'm at the kitchen table zoned in on a Crayon drawing. Maybe I'm over a knee getting a spanking for doing something bad. Maybe I'm exploring my private parts. Maybe I'm watching Sesame Street and learning my alphabet. Maybe I'm in a sundress on a swing at the playground. Maybe I'm sleepy and brushing my teeth while getting ready for beddy bye. Maybe I'm playing a game of Scrabble with my Daddy.
Sundresses. I love girlie clothes - for particular moments and mostly in the summer. I do love wearing skirts, although in school or work life I prefer pants and jeans. But in those right moments, I love dressing like a little girl. I have several pairs of knee-high socks that I wear all the time and most of my woman dress shoes are based around the Mary Jane style. ... Ha! I'm twirling my finger around one of my pigtails right now.
I'm not sure if there's a certain age I fall into when feeling girlie. I have a pacifier that I picked up in the infant aisle of a store - it says "I love Daddy." I wanted to buy a plush blanket and some of the toys, but didn't. I did own a rubber ducky vibrator when I had a bathtub, and love bubble baths. I used a Sponge Bob toothbrush for a while, and used a sippy cup (although they’re so damn small for drinking enough liquids). I've never worn adult diapers but I'd consider it - for pee play, but I've never been interested in poopie. I don't imagine being able to "goo-goo" as my only language. So, I don't think I fall into an adult-baby role per se.
I'm also not too attracted to behaving like a sexually-charged teenager, because I associate that more with rebellion and seeking independence, both of which I'm not eager to engage in or exaggerate. I was this for many years beyond teen years. As a punk rocker in my 20's, I'd wear short plaid skirts, a thong, and boy boxers, combat boots and tight tank tops. I did this to great effect and affect. I have dressed up as a Catholic school girl for many Halloweens. I'm still into the dress-up factor, but I'd rather be somewhere where I can play in a sandbox, revel in finding new bugs, learn about new ideas, be creative without being conscious of it, and still have disciplinary rules upon me. (Basically, take those elements and grow them up and you'd have me now: still interested in getting messy, adventurous, exploratory, creative, and imposing my own discipline.)
This doesn't necessarily translate into something sexual, but there is an element that I like to incorporate. No, I was never sexually abused or taken advantage of as a kid - neither by my father, other relatives, or strangers. In fact, I was the instigator many times in sexuality exploration with other kids. I was the "boy" in play with a girl friend when we were eight years old -- on top of her and humping like we knew what we were doing. I asked a boy to show me his and I'd show him mine. I'd never really, deeply played with this girlie side within a sexual context. Some lovers might have taken care of me on a certain level, but only a few dared to go into a space where they'd actually focus on me being a little girl and them being older. Two in particular come to mind. One, a vanilla lover, was turned on when I opened the Pandora's box and he saw me - my body - looking like a 16-year-old's and how hot that was. A dom I played with who was twenty-years my senior got into it with me and even went so far as to make me promise not to tell anyone, not mommy, not anyone at school.
At first, I found it silly. I'm a grown woman, and I'm conscious of wanting this but felt ridiculous acting it out. Also, with others my age, I couldn't quite grasp the idea that I could be girlie, under their care or instruction or seduction. And with the dom, I did find it titillating but I wasn't sure I wanted the whole "secrecy" thing - don't tell anyone. I do recall replying back to him though, "I promise not to tell anyone. Am I better than Mommy? I want to be better than Mommy."
So, from here where? I have enjoyed going to sleep with a lover and gently sucking on his cock as a pacifier. I definitely can imagine doing it again. I'd love to get fully into the little girl Lolita. Pigtails, panties, tee-shirt and no bra, a sundress or tomboy jeans. I could make some fingerpaint art for my daddy, beg for bedtime stories, clean up my room in twenty minutes flat, be left alone to play with my smarty pants mind toys, or help take care of any of daddy's owies or needs. I wanna have lollipops, an’ cereal every morning, and an apple a day keeps the doctor away, watch cartoons, go for bike rides, look at birds in the forest, be silly, draw faces on my hand with a purple pen, make birthday cakes, go to the zoo, learn new star names at the planetarium, watch worms in the mud, take baths and scrub behind the ears, meet other little girls and boys, get big pushes in the swing, go sledding down big hills, drink hot cocoa, paint my nails with bright pinks, get bruises and push on 'em, pick at my scabs, wear elephant band aids, drink juice out of my sippy cup, and ask daddy any question I have even if it's naughty.
Yup. That’s what I want. Uh huh.
Oh, and teddy bears and big hugs. I wanna watch scary movies and close my eyes real tight. I wanna chase the pigeons and catch butterflies. Wanna write letters to Santa Claus and try to find four-leaf clovers. Wanna learn how to cook and be careful of fire. Wanna have chores to do like washing dishes or taking the garbage out. Wanna listen to “Free To Be, You and Me” and sing real real loud. Wanna help Daddy fix things and learn how they work. Uhmmmm… What else? Hmmmm… Want Daddy to help me pick out the right clothes and tell me if it’s gonna be real cold or real warm out today. Wanna wanna hmmm…. Be a good girl for sure. Yeah. I think that’s it for today.
(To see the images in larger size, you need to have viewing access to my Flickr pix.)
I just finished writing a 6-page re-telling of how I lost my virginity for a woman who is seeking stories for a compilation. The compilation was initiated as a concept for her 14-year-old daughter. She wants to communicate to her that losing one's virginity won't wreck one's life forever - no matter how it happens. I suggested she make a book and seek a publisher if she gets some good stories (FYI: she is looking for people under 50 to tell theirs, from all over the world, gay or straight or whatever, so if you want to write yours - in anonymity or full-on disclosure - let me know).
But now I'm moving into thinking about bdsm stories. I could go over a long list of what I’ve done and just stay there, but I want to dream about what could be (or might just be in my mind) - and explore why.
The first one that comes up most strongly is the little girl. I can imagine being asked about why I like the Daddy/little girl scenario or age play or older/younger theme. I saw a woman a little bit younger than me on the metro today. She sat opposite her older-looking boyfriend and at one point reached across to him and straightened his scarf and zipped his jacket. A gesture of love, caring, or overbearing I have no idea. But for me, I just couldn't imagine doing that. Not to say I haven't done it before, because I have. But I don't want to do it anymore. Sure, if there were a huge spider on his lapel or a tag sticking out, I might want to readjust the situation by brushing it off or tucking it under, but I wouldn't purposefully "straighten him out" as such. Instead, I feel better being the object of that love, caring, overbearing correction. That's a part of it, I suppose.
Another part of it has to do with my eternal youth. People have always said I look about 6 years younger than I am. I've always gone after adventure, explored, loved learning, longed for being taken care of (in doses), needed to be disciplined by someone else, strived to make people happy (while balancing the "I could care less what you think of me" self-confidence), looked up to wise people and craved their knowledge, adored older men, sought approval or recognition for good deeds (although I also do good things for the sake of doing them), and have always retained a curiosity and spontaneity that mirrors the recklessness and eagerness of youth. I am not helpless or sick mentally. I am not weak or lazy. I don't have an unhealthy adoration of my own father.
I own about 20 girlie panties. Ones with cherries, birdies, cartoon characters like Cookie Monster, little poodles with words "pretty girl," Supergirl styles, etc. I usually wear thongs for daytime activities, and then come home and immediately get into a pair of the girlie ones. If I'm lazy and have to run to the store, I might keep them on. I've tried to incorporate them in sexual liaisons or play dates, although this wasn't very often, and never in the past two years. It's not just the comfort factor, because I could pick plain, big lady panties if I wanted that. Instead, I like them because they feel good, are super cute, love what they imply, and can't wait to be able to wear them freely with someone someday! I can imagine sitting in my Hello Kitty panties, and wearing one of my kid tee-shirts (my favorite is pink, has the dot candy on it, and says DOTS in big letters over my boobies). Maybe I'm on a cozy blanket on the floor. Maybe I'm baking cookies, using my fingers to mash or roll the dough. Maybe I'm at the kitchen table zoned in on a Crayon drawing. Maybe I'm over a knee getting a spanking for doing something bad. Maybe I'm exploring my private parts. Maybe I'm watching Sesame Street and learning my alphabet. Maybe I'm in a sundress on a swing at the playground. Maybe I'm sleepy and brushing my teeth while getting ready for beddy bye. Maybe I'm playing a game of Scrabble with my Daddy.Sundresses. I love girlie clothes - for particular moments and mostly in the summer. I do love wearing skirts, although in school or work life I prefer pants and jeans. But in those right moments, I love dressing like a little girl. I have several pairs of knee-high socks that I wear all the time and most of my woman dress shoes are based around the Mary Jane style. ... Ha! I'm twirling my finger around one of my pigtails right now.
I'm not sure if there's a certain age I fall into when feeling girlie. I have a pacifier that I picked up in the infant aisle of a store - it says "I love Daddy." I wanted to buy a plush blanket and some of the toys, but didn't. I did own a rubber ducky vibrator when I had a bathtub, and love bubble baths. I used a Sponge Bob toothbrush for a while, and used a sippy cup (although they’re so damn small for drinking enough liquids). I've never worn adult diapers but I'd consider it - for pee play, but I've never been interested in poopie. I don't imagine being able to "goo-goo" as my only language. So, I don't think I fall into an adult-baby role per se. I'm also not too attracted to behaving like a sexually-charged teenager, because I associate that more with rebellion and seeking independence, both of which I'm not eager to engage in or exaggerate. I was this for many years beyond teen years. As a punk rocker in my 20's, I'd wear short plaid skirts, a thong, and boy boxers, combat boots and tight tank tops. I did this to great effect and affect. I have dressed up as a Catholic school girl for many Halloweens. I'm still into the dress-up factor, but I'd rather be somewhere where I can play in a sandbox, revel in finding new bugs, learn about new ideas, be creative without being conscious of it, and still have disciplinary rules upon me. (Basically, take those elements and grow them up and you'd have me now: still interested in getting messy, adventurous, exploratory, creative, and imposing my own discipline.)
This doesn't necessarily translate into something sexual, but there is an element that I like to incorporate. No, I was never sexually abused or taken advantage of as a kid - neither by my father, other relatives, or strangers. In fact, I was the instigator many times in sexuality exploration with other kids. I was the "boy" in play with a girl friend when we were eight years old -- on top of her and humping like we knew what we were doing. I asked a boy to show me his and I'd show him mine. I'd never really, deeply played with this girlie side within a sexual context. Some lovers might have taken care of me on a certain level, but only a few dared to go into a space where they'd actually focus on me being a little girl and them being older. Two in particular come to mind. One, a vanilla lover, was turned on when I opened the Pandora's box and he saw me - my body - looking like a 16-year-old's and how hot that was. A dom I played with who was twenty-years my senior got into it with me and even went so far as to make me promise not to tell anyone, not mommy, not anyone at school.
At first, I found it silly. I'm a grown woman, and I'm conscious of wanting this but felt ridiculous acting it out. Also, with others my age, I couldn't quite grasp the idea that I could be girlie, under their care or instruction or seduction. And with the dom, I did find it titillating but I wasn't sure I wanted the whole "secrecy" thing - don't tell anyone. I do recall replying back to him though, "I promise not to tell anyone. Am I better than Mommy? I want to be better than Mommy."
So, from here where? I have enjoyed going to sleep with a lover and gently sucking on his cock as a pacifier. I definitely can imagine doing it again. I'd love to get fully into the little girl Lolita. Pigtails, panties, tee-shirt and no bra, a sundress or tomboy jeans. I could make some fingerpaint art for my daddy, beg for bedtime stories, clean up my room in twenty minutes flat, be left alone to play with my smarty pants mind toys, or help take care of any of daddy's owies or needs. I wanna have lollipops, an’ cereal every morning, and an apple a day keeps the doctor away, watch cartoons, go for bike rides, look at birds in the forest, be silly, draw faces on my hand with a purple pen, make birthday cakes, go to the zoo, learn new star names at the planetarium, watch worms in the mud, take baths and scrub behind the ears, meet other little girls and boys, get big pushes in the swing, go sledding down big hills, drink hot cocoa, paint my nails with bright pinks, get bruises and push on 'em, pick at my scabs, wear elephant band aids, drink juice out of my sippy cup, and ask daddy any question I have even if it's naughty.Yup. That’s what I want. Uh huh.
Oh, and teddy bears and big hugs. I wanna watch scary movies and close my eyes real tight. I wanna chase the pigeons and catch butterflies. Wanna write letters to Santa Claus and try to find four-leaf clovers. Wanna learn how to cook and be careful of fire. Wanna have chores to do like washing dishes or taking the garbage out. Wanna listen to “Free To Be, You and Me” and sing real real loud. Wanna help Daddy fix things and learn how they work. Uhmmmm… What else? Hmmmm… Want Daddy to help me pick out the right clothes and tell me if it’s gonna be real cold or real warm out today. Wanna wanna hmmm…. Be a good girl for sure. Yeah. I think that’s it for today.
(To see the images in larger size, you need to have viewing access to my Flickr pix.)
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.
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.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
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.
It's seductive to offer me things like hearts and comfort and power. As seductive as truth:
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
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
Monday, December 10, 2007
Help! I'm trapped in a dungeon!
Ok, no, I'm not.
I'm just busy. Like, when you work M-F 9-5 you have all this extra time to fraternize, masturbate, converse, ponder, eat, drink, be merry, take photos, make life. When you're in school, classes go until 8:30pm and happen on Saturday from 10am-12pm (which means you have to get up at 8am to get there on time) and then your group from another class wants to meet to go over the project and then you finally leave, cutting them all off, at 5pm. Your free time on Monday is spent running through stores to stock up on food, drink, clothes (damn it - never wash the white bras with a new, black skirt on accident), and Xmas for the family.
With Paris as the lovely back-drop.
Nuit Demonia was great! Sarah and I had dinner and lots of wine. Wilfried came to the apartment. We finished getting dressed and they loaned me a collar so I wouldnt' look like a dominatrix. We walked and talked to a lot of people.
My list of hit-ons:
1- cross-dresser guy with a collar who asked if I was interested in submitting right there,
2- a guy with a bit of a beard and V-neck who asked me where my power? interest? desire? was and grabbed my tit and ass and coochie (through a rubber skirt - not so feasible),
3- a straight-laced guy who said his dominance was in grabbing women's hair from behind while he fucked them (boring),
4- a hot German couple who let me suck her lusciously round and full tits
5- the spanko who didn't really hit on me at all but was sweetly shy
It was a bit of a let-down but I was prepared for that. After all, it was the biggest Paris bash with about 2,000 there. Mostly I saw men as subs (in full-mask dog outfits even) or as cross-dressers or as trannys. And women as starlet models, dommes, flappers in rubber and feathers (Japanese girls). It was the everyone party. I wasn't terribly set on finding anyone but was a bit hopeful. We didn't stay all night - thank goodness because, again, I have horrible priorities called school. Sarah and Wilfried crashed on my futon (I got a new single bed!). Got up the next day and went to class at 10am.
There will be photos I promise and there will be more details. It was a fucking great night to hang out with S&W and to meet so many people and have Sarah write "submissive bitch" on my chest and "slut" on my back and have attention paid to me for that. It was great to see so many subversives and my jealousy seeped out in waterfalls. My time will come, I know this. For now, I have other concerns to prepare myself, but I'm keeping an eye out.
I'm just busy. Like, when you work M-F 9-5 you have all this extra time to fraternize, masturbate, converse, ponder, eat, drink, be merry, take photos, make life. When you're in school, classes go until 8:30pm and happen on Saturday from 10am-12pm (which means you have to get up at 8am to get there on time) and then your group from another class wants to meet to go over the project and then you finally leave, cutting them all off, at 5pm. Your free time on Monday is spent running through stores to stock up on food, drink, clothes (damn it - never wash the white bras with a new, black skirt on accident), and Xmas for the family.
With Paris as the lovely back-drop.
Nuit Demonia was great! Sarah and I had dinner and lots of wine. Wilfried came to the apartment. We finished getting dressed and they loaned me a collar so I wouldnt' look like a dominatrix. We walked and talked to a lot of people.
My list of hit-ons:
1- cross-dresser guy with a collar who asked if I was interested in submitting right there,
2- a guy with a bit of a beard and V-neck who asked me where my power? interest? desire? was and grabbed my tit and ass and coochie (through a rubber skirt - not so feasible),
3- a straight-laced guy who said his dominance was in grabbing women's hair from behind while he fucked them (boring),
4- a hot German couple who let me suck her lusciously round and full tits
5- the spanko who didn't really hit on me at all but was sweetly shy
It was a bit of a let-down but I was prepared for that. After all, it was the biggest Paris bash with about 2,000 there. Mostly I saw men as subs (in full-mask dog outfits even) or as cross-dressers or as trannys. And women as starlet models, dommes, flappers in rubber and feathers (Japanese girls). It was the everyone party. I wasn't terribly set on finding anyone but was a bit hopeful. We didn't stay all night - thank goodness because, again, I have horrible priorities called school. Sarah and Wilfried crashed on my futon (I got a new single bed!). Got up the next day and went to class at 10am.
There will be photos I promise and there will be more details. It was a fucking great night to hang out with S&W and to meet so many people and have Sarah write "submissive bitch" on my chest and "slut" on my back and have attention paid to me for that. It was great to see so many subversives and my jealousy seeped out in waterfalls. My time will come, I know this. For now, I have other concerns to prepare myself, but I'm keeping an eye out.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
ok, just a peek
I spent way too much money. I mean, way too much money. But a girl's gotta dress up now and again, right? And, then she's got to have a ball to attend. Forget the pumpkin when the party's only 2 blocks from her humble abode.
I'm only giving a preview because I don't want to spoil the surprise. (I can hardly contain myself though. It's way too much money but I think I look so damn cute, sassy, strong, spankable, unzippable, lickable, beatable, bindable, like the best whorish bottom ever in the history of slutty subs. Ok, that's a lot but damn I think I look good. And might develop an addiction to rubber and latex. Watch out world!)
Yes, well, as you can see... next week is this rather blow-out annual event called Nuit Demonia. It's sponsored by this bdsm chain store, Demonia. It's not an intimate soiree (lovely stories of these at people's houses or intimate gatherings at small clubs). It's like First Avenue on fetish crack - and only two blocks from my apartment! So, I'll only have the slow click-clack down the 100 stairs, and then the careful swagger up the hill (covered in the long coat of course), and a slight duck-and-weave around the hookers and pimps and tourists. Hm, maybe I should take a taxi. Heh. Kidding. ... La Loco.
I went to Phylea for the get-up and had a great time. I had Tuesday off so I got up slowly, got off real quick (well, it took 2 hours), ate, put on my thick thigh highs and garter, German arty skirt and lolly-gagged down the bus line to Chatlet. Walked slowly through the narrow streets I didn't recognize from when Wilfried brought me on Day One in Paris. Once there, I name-dropped Wilfried, blushed furiously, and finally broke down and asked for dressing help. I told the event, described my interest: short skirt, but modest (like mid-thigh) and a top. HA! I should have taken photos of the costumes. Seriously. Everything fell into line for me to spend too much money. The owner Henvy(?) switched the tunes over to Justin Timberlake's Bringing Sexy Back. Of course. And the dresses and compliments came flowing.
So, there was the long, black, sleeveless, zip-up dress. And a pair of 1-size-too-big, black, shiny platform heels. I loved the shoes. The dress made me think Dominatrix. Not the vibe I wanted to give off. Next was this yellow and red latex see-through skirt with 2 zippers up/down the ass/legs - revealing my ass cheeks for sure (and my garters), with a matching long-sleeve latex yellow and red top. I laughed to him that the boob line didn't match my tits and he said I had to uhm, ahem, reach in and pull them up. A ha! (Such a moron) I pulled them up, but alas they looked like fried eggs.
"Not flattering, and not modest enough for me," I told him.
"Mais non! It's good. You know, when you meet your Master you'll have to dress zis way when he says so."
"Yes, I know. But that hasn't happened yet."
I was a complete wreck trying to get my arms out of that shirt. I was already starting to sweat and sweat+latex=stick. Luckily, he was completely helpful and not at all offended by my casual nudity or inexperience. He did guffaw at my pickiness though. But I told him it was akin to my debutante ball and I wanted to look damn good. I'm wholly exaggerating here, but I've been talking about buying fetish clothes since I got here. Might as well invest in something that will last me a lifetime, or at least until I get fat or someone tears it off me.
The next offering was a black and red rubber skirt with matching long-sleeve rubber top. What's with the long-sleeves? I don't want to melt for fuck's sake. I mean, a stream of sweat is one thing but a complete pass-out melt-down - not hot at all. (hardy har har)
But there was a good ploy on his part. Keep the skirt on the girl and then throw 2 pieces for a top. Very smart businessman. Take advantage of my high and my picky and sell the whole store to me. (Sadly the heels didn't come in my size or I would have probably bought those, too.)
I walked out a bit more broke and a whole lot more excited.
So, here's a sneak.
You'll get more next week, I promise.
I'm only giving a preview because I don't want to spoil the surprise. (I can hardly contain myself though. It's way too much money but I think I look so damn cute, sassy, strong, spankable, unzippable, lickable, beatable, bindable, like the best whorish bottom ever in the history of slutty subs. Ok, that's a lot but damn I think I look good. And might develop an addiction to rubber and latex. Watch out world!)
Yes, well, as you can see... next week is this rather blow-out annual event called Nuit Demonia. It's sponsored by this bdsm chain store, Demonia. It's not an intimate soiree (lovely stories of these at people's houses or intimate gatherings at small clubs). It's like First Avenue on fetish crack - and only two blocks from my apartment! So, I'll only have the slow click-clack down the 100 stairs, and then the careful swagger up the hill (covered in the long coat of course), and a slight duck-and-weave around the hookers and pimps and tourists. Hm, maybe I should take a taxi. Heh. Kidding. ... La Loco.
I went to Phylea for the get-up and had a great time. I had Tuesday off so I got up slowly, got off real quick (well, it took 2 hours), ate, put on my thick thigh highs and garter, German arty skirt and lolly-gagged down the bus line to Chatlet. Walked slowly through the narrow streets I didn't recognize from when Wilfried brought me on Day One in Paris. Once there, I name-dropped Wilfried, blushed furiously, and finally broke down and asked for dressing help. I told the event, described my interest: short skirt, but modest (like mid-thigh) and a top. HA! I should have taken photos of the costumes. Seriously. Everything fell into line for me to spend too much money. The owner Henvy(?) switched the tunes over to Justin Timberlake's Bringing Sexy Back. Of course. And the dresses and compliments came flowing.
So, there was the long, black, sleeveless, zip-up dress. And a pair of 1-size-too-big, black, shiny platform heels. I loved the shoes. The dress made me think Dominatrix. Not the vibe I wanted to give off. Next was this yellow and red latex see-through skirt with 2 zippers up/down the ass/legs - revealing my ass cheeks for sure (and my garters), with a matching long-sleeve latex yellow and red top. I laughed to him that the boob line didn't match my tits and he said I had to uhm, ahem, reach in and pull them up. A ha! (Such a moron) I pulled them up, but alas they looked like fried eggs.
"Not flattering, and not modest enough for me," I told him.
"Mais non! It's good. You know, when you meet your Master you'll have to dress zis way when he says so."
"Yes, I know. But that hasn't happened yet."
I was a complete wreck trying to get my arms out of that shirt. I was already starting to sweat and sweat+latex=stick. Luckily, he was completely helpful and not at all offended by my casual nudity or inexperience. He did guffaw at my pickiness though. But I told him it was akin to my debutante ball and I wanted to look damn good. I'm wholly exaggerating here, but I've been talking about buying fetish clothes since I got here. Might as well invest in something that will last me a lifetime, or at least until I get fat or someone tears it off me.
The next offering was a black and red rubber skirt with matching long-sleeve rubber top. What's with the long-sleeves? I don't want to melt for fuck's sake. I mean, a stream of sweat is one thing but a complete pass-out melt-down - not hot at all. (hardy har har)
But there was a good ploy on his part. Keep the skirt on the girl and then throw 2 pieces for a top. Very smart businessman. Take advantage of my high and my picky and sell the whole store to me. (Sadly the heels didn't come in my size or I would have probably bought those, too.)
I walked out a bit more broke and a whole lot more excited.
So, here's a sneak.
You'll get more next week, I promise.
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