It's odd.
Well, my life is odd.
I travel so very little, which is something that I place a lot of value on- going new places, experiencing new cultures, ideas, architecture, values, and yet my life still seems to fascinate other people who have traveled and done so much.
I went down to San Diego this weekend.
Really, I did a lot this weekend. Being down there was only a small part.
Friday was sushi in Culver with some friends, then used book shopping and coffee in Santa Monica, topped with the midnight showing of The City of Lost Children at the Nuart. Saturday was getting my roots touched up in Beverly, then my oil changed, then more used book shopping and lunch with my mother. Then down to San Diego, where a nap was acquired, then a massage, dinner in Old Town, clubbing in Downtown, and back to bed. Woke up to another massage.
It's rather wonderful, having an ex-lover who is such a gifted masseuse.
We haven't had sex in at least four years. Maybe five. He was always my in-betweener sex, the one guy that was always there when a relationship of mine ended. Hung like a freaking bull, his size tends to scare girls off of him.
The last few times I've gone down to visit, he's tried to initiate that dynamic again. He's well aware that I won't fall in love with him, won't try to date him, don't mind driving the distance between us, won't cockblock him (will even encourage him) when it comes to other girls, and will always be honest with him when it comes to my needs and the things that make me uncomfortable, because that's what I do, what I've always done. He values that. He's smart. I don't know any other girls that do that, that keep that open flow, monitor their emotions to make sure things will not swing in a romantic direction, and then take steps to prevent it if they do.
But I turned him down.
Things have changed. I have changed, so very dramatically. He's thirty-one and he seems so damn young to me. All of them do. It's rare for me to be attracted to a man under 35 these days. I really should say under 40.
It's not that I need the older look. It's that I need experience and maturity. I need men who know who they are, know what they're doing, who are aware of themselves and their needs, and who can communicate them effectively to me. It's been very difficult to find in the younger crowd.
And I keep calling them "kids" or "kid" in my head.
I mean, fuck, really?
I went out to a club last night and there were a few guys that fit my physical type, probably ranging in age from 27 to 35, and I kept referring to them as "kids" when I noticed them.
"That's a cute kid."
"God, look at the ass on that kid."
"I would wreck that kid so hard."
Some of this I would vocalize to my friends. And I didn't even think about my vocabulary usage until later on. I was just doing it without thought, just a natural flow.
Heh, and last time I was down there, I started playing with this cocky bastard I wrote about in some overly long blog a month or two back. He gives me his number, I give him mine, I do this little social/sexual dance, spin his head, and he's mine if I want him.
Of course, some of the girls I was with feel the need to separately inform me throughout the course of the evening that this man was a "player" and I should "watch out" because he's a "bad boy" and "sleeps with tons of women" and "just uses them".
Which is just a turn on for me, really. High partner count? Effective seduction tactics? Sexual experience? Take me now.
So, after letting him know that I will be at the club, in case he wants to drop by (and, of course, he does), I broach the subject. Yes, I'm direct. Yes, I know it's offputting. No, don't really care.
He tells me he doesn't know, doesn't keep track of his number. So I tell him to guess, and not to low- or high-ball me.
Somewhere in the thirties.
Really, that's it?
Okay, okay, it's probably in the forties.
Really? Here I was led to believe that he had a high partner count. I mean, I significantly blow him out of the water and I don't consider myself as having a high partner count. Now, GV8, he's got a partner count in the 400 range. For never having been in porn, that's a pretty damn decent number for a guy.
Yes, impress me.
It was disappointing. Every time I think about hooking up with someone and they have such limited experience, it's a let-down. Throw into the equation that SDBoy rolls submissive and can't spell for shit, he's completely lost my interest. I'm still going to be his date to the CD release party over at Spaceland later on this month, however. The band is one I enjoy.
I think G was right when he told me that I needed to not read books on the game, seduction, the PUA community, the biology and psychology of sex, that they would just remove the rest of the magic out of the whole thing because no one would ever really wow me and get under my skin again. I miss having my mind blown by a guy. GV8 came close because of his extensive, extensive experience both in life and in bed, but once I noticed that was happening, I emotionally cockblocked him with Glasses.
It's all about moving the pieces around.
Even though Glasses is a flake, he still took the edge off of my head getting spun by GV8. I knew he would, which is why I asked him out.
Monitor and maintain.
Oh, and SFPlayboy sent over some shots from one of his photoshoots. God, that man is built. I was looking at them going, "I've... totally been hitting that." He's not hung, but he can go for hours and he bruises me so nicely. GV8's a total sensualist, so we rarely do the rougher stuff I enjoy, Glasses is a flake, but he's a very experienced dom, and Blondie, young and so very hot, but dumb as a post. He's hung and fun, knows how to move. I can't wait until he breaks up with his girlfriend again so we can have rebound sex. Again.
Like I said, dumb as a post.
If he wasn't so very goddamn hot, I would've left it as a one-night stand, instead of letting it turn into a booty call. My decision. Oh well.
Anyhow, back to last night.
The dancing was good, until the club got so packed there was so very little point.
But, as I was looking around, I saw two things.
Two people, actually.
One, T, I see about every six months up at various clubs in LA. He used to be one of the best dancers in the scene. But something happened. I don't know if he was in an accident, or if he started using heavy drugs, but something happened to his coordination and rhythm. It's very very depressing. I remember, years ago, there was a huge, multi-club event at the HAC for Thanksgiving. T and I danced together all night, right in front of the speakers. Hours of dancing, nonstop. He was so good.
Now he stumbles. I watched him try to dance and he actually fell down the stairs leading up to the platform. It was so very sad. It's like when you have a beloved pet and, as they age, they start getting more and more messed up, until they're falling over their own limbs with their watery, unfocused eyes staring into space and you know that you have to put them down, that they're too miserable and too wrecked to continue in that state of being.
What was weirder was that the DJ, someone I had never heard spin before, started playing the old school stuff, tracks I hadn't heard in years, tracks that used to be played constantly when the hottest club in the scene was on a Thursday and getting a higher headcount than any of the weekend clubs, and we'd drive up to Hollywood, laughing and telling jokes, park in the same place every time, go up the stairs, get our wristbands, and let the bass hit us as soon as we pushed aside that curtain. Videos would be playing on multiple projectors, the stage would be packed of the best dancers in the scene, fans would be blasting onto the main dancefloor and we would go all night, climbing up and down off the boxes, sliding across the floor, laughing hysterically whenever the last song of the evening would come on and it would be something so horrible it would chase everyone but the most drunk or dedicated off the floor. We'd go to the smoking patio to cool off, watch the limos and pedestrians on Hollywood Boulevard, give the begging homeless people change, get into conversations with with them, and then go back inside to do it all over again.
Glory days of that club.
They're so over now. I stopped in there a Thursday night a few months ago and it was like a forgotten carnival. I stayed until midnight and just didn't see the point after that, drove back home.
So, back in the current, the DJ is playing these tracks, I watch T fall down the stairs into some unsuspecting dancers, and I look up on the stage and see a face I haven't seen in two or three years. One I had completely forgotten, don't even remember her name, have no idea where she went, if she lives down in San Diego or is just down for the weekend, like me.
She's amazing. Best dancer in the club, hands down. I noticed her, thought her legs were killer and that she looked familiar, but when I saw her start moving with that Los Angeles old school style that I favor, I knew it was her.
It was so odd, seeing her and T on the same stage, dancing to the old music. T, totally unable to dance, her, rocking the entire club with her moves and body. It shunted me down memory lane so very hard and fast. I just stood there, leaning against a rail, and watched her dance to that music, let memories flow over me.
The old crowd, the old music, the night after night of clubbing. Same faces at different venues as we bounced from club to club to club, when one promoter was on top of the scene, and now it's a constant war between three of them, with a fourth trying to wedge themselves into the mix.
Hitting the Del Taco on Santa Monica Boulevard, colliding with the Tiger Heat kids coming out of the Avalon, trying to guess which were actually women, and which were just very convincing men. The IHOP and In and Out on Sunset, driving through Carl's Jr at 4AM, attempting to actually refuel our bodies before we passed out from the exhaustion of dancing all night. Keeping a roll of papertowels in the trunk so we could wipe off the excess sweat before getting into car, keeping a change of clothes for the same purpose, changing in the parking lot.
It was a good time.
It's been seven years of doing this circuit, coming up on eight. Clubs have changed venues, shut down, re-opened, shut down again, shifted nights, changed DJs, been remodeled. The people have changed, but you'll still catch the old faces at certain events.
I'm getting tired of it again. This happens when I go out too much. I'm probably going to take a few months off, spend my weekends doing other activities. Like, gasp, curling up at a coffee shop and reading all night. Not going to happen anytime soon, though. This coming weekend's events entail a release party, a concert, and another sex marathon, toss in a birthday party and I'm sure a few other things that I'm forgetting, but I will be reminded of as the week goes on.
We'll see what happens, like we always do.
No, that's not the royal we.
It was funny, now that I think about it. Lying in bed with my ex on Saturday. He mentioned to me that, of all his friends, I'm the one with the crazy sex life. I was shocked, because he has some rather promiscuous friends, and contested this. He argued and won, and said something to the effect of, "I know we're probably never going to have sex again. I don't feel too rejected, but I am still one of your fanboys."
I laughed at this, and then realized he was semi-serious. I keep forgetting about the fanboys. I think I'm trying to block that whole thing out. I was never meant for that much attention.
Good night.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
She's moving up slowly
Yesterday, yesterday I had one of those evenings where my mind was exploding and all I wanted to do was write. If I give into it, it's great. If I don't, I end up more and more out of my gourd and disconnected from the immediate reality.
Well, more than I already am.
I was unable to sit down and write.
I, instead, went out to dinner with a man I slept with a couple of times, who is now referring to me as his 'little sister' because I took our budding sexual relations and purposefully killed them last Decemember because I was seeing too many men and it was really, really starting to overwhelm me. If I didn't have the whole work/school/social life thing going on, it would be infinitely easier to handle five or six lovers, but, well, I do.
That whole "making something of yourself" thing can be a real drain on your sex life.
So we sat and caught up. His company was bought out a few months ago and, due to bad management, and illegal activities on the part of the owner, lawsuits have been flying. He's been busy as hell dealing with all the litigation crap.
It took me about twenty minutes before I stopped having to review in my mind the dialogue set before me. He would speak, and I would run through a list of things that may or may not be appropriate in response, and then adjust my facial expressions accordingly. This must be what autistic people feel like all the time. Social interaction must be exhausting for them.
Eventually, I mostly snapped out of it. Then, of course, I was distracted by a man at the bar. Good face, bad voice, bad facial expressions, midwest dress-style, wedding ring. The more he talked with the bartender, the less attractive he became.
Wanted to go over to him, put my finger on his lips and go, "Sssssh, just sit there and be hot. There's no need for this 'talking' business."
Glasses texted me earlier this week. Wanted me to go to a club I haven't been to in years with him and some of his friends, then go to some hotel suite he was getting near the club. I was up for it. He's gorgeous and brilliant, I can only assume his friends would be the same. Potential group sex, or at least a MMF or MFF? Sure, I'm down.
Wasn't coming together fast enough, though. Trying to set my schedule for the weekend is almost always a very intensive activity of calling and texting people, seeing who is doing what, when, where, and with who. Then you have to go through the freeways in your head for transit times. Construction? Holidays? Conventions? Concerts? If you're planning on hitting the 10/110/101 interchange, these are things you have to know. People wonder how I do so much all over the place, and it is because I take into consideration everything I can, and most people are willing to adjust their get-togethers in order for me to make it, or understand that I will be late.
So, when Thursday rolled around and it still wasn't set, and I had other people calling me for this weekend's activities, I decided it just wasn't worth it.
You've got two lines of thinking here:
1. I decide I will go to his club with him, which would, effectively kill my previous Saturday night plans and a chunk of Sunday day.
Then:
A. If things come together smoothly, that's great. I'd still be meeting his friends for the first time, though, so if I did not pull that off well, I could be boning myself for future encounters. Potential date-ambush.
or
B. Things don't come together. I end up cancelling my other potential plans for no good reason. And I look like I'm willing to bail on whatever activities I have going on just to possibly spend time with him. That's just no good.
2. I decide not to go with him. These leaves me with invites for multiple things in LA or San Diego, and I'm free to choose the weekend's hijinks. Yes, hijinks. Escapades? Capers? Shenanigans?
Two outcomes happen from this:
A. I never see him again. He wants a girl that will just fall by his side when he calls. I'm not going to be that girl, and if that's what it takes to have him in my roster, of things he is, worth it is not one of them.
or
B. I see him again. This would probably mean that either he was okay with me opting out on his plans, meaning he respects my individual decisions, or that he didn't care one way or the other. Of course, if it was the latter, he wouldn't have bothered inviting me at all, much less introducing me to his friends.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I get to determine how this is going to run by sending one text message and spending my weekend by going out and having an excellent time because whatever I decide to do, it will be fun.
If I don't see him again, it's no loss because he's confirmed to me that he isn't worth investing time, energy, or emotion into. If I do, it's excellent because he has confirmed that he is worth it, at least for a short time, depending on how things play out.
Either way, I win.
You can't control what other people will or will not do, but you can control how you react to the situation.
We might be meeting up on Sunday late afternoon, early evening. We'll see how that goes, if it goes. It very well might not. If it doesn't, you will very likely find me kayaking in La Jolla, as one of my ex-lovers has been trying to convince me to join him... for the last several months. It's an unsuccessful venture as it is hard to get me out of bed before 11 or 12 after a night of clubbing. It does not help that his bed is extremely comfortable and I tend to stay in it and groan at him for daring to wake me.
This weekend is shaping up to be rather crazy. I should be used to it by now, but... no, not really. I don't think I'll ever really get used to it. Leaping from place to place, party to coffee to club to book signing to art gallery to play to dinners to concerts to family events with so many different faces.
My mother told me recently that she never expected me to be like this. That because of my anti-social nature and bookworm tendencies that she expected me to be a homebody, and probably live with them the rest of my life.
If things hadn't fallen out the way they had, she would have been correct.
No one expected me to do the things I did, no one expected what happened as a result, and how the impact of those results would change me.
I should have been a librarian or an accountant. I should have been a frazzled secratary living in a one bedroom apartment with three cats and a lot of tacky art on the walls featuring kittens and cottages, shopping out of the Sears and Land's End catalogs, reading romance novels and dreaming of that One Guy that would see me One Day and See Me for Who I Am Inside, past the white cotton underwear and ill-fitting flesh-colored bras, past the tacky wardrobe and gold-rimmed glasses.
I love how no one recognizes me from a few years ago. I love how I run into people from high school and they have no idea who I am, even after I tell them we went to high school together, even if we were in the same classes, sat next to each other, since junior high.
I earned this life. It's mine, and it's good.
Well, more than I already am.
I was unable to sit down and write.
I, instead, went out to dinner with a man I slept with a couple of times, who is now referring to me as his 'little sister' because I took our budding sexual relations and purposefully killed them last Decemember because I was seeing too many men and it was really, really starting to overwhelm me. If I didn't have the whole work/school/social life thing going on, it would be infinitely easier to handle five or six lovers, but, well, I do.
That whole "making something of yourself" thing can be a real drain on your sex life.
So we sat and caught up. His company was bought out a few months ago and, due to bad management, and illegal activities on the part of the owner, lawsuits have been flying. He's been busy as hell dealing with all the litigation crap.
It took me about twenty minutes before I stopped having to review in my mind the dialogue set before me. He would speak, and I would run through a list of things that may or may not be appropriate in response, and then adjust my facial expressions accordingly. This must be what autistic people feel like all the time. Social interaction must be exhausting for them.
Eventually, I mostly snapped out of it. Then, of course, I was distracted by a man at the bar. Good face, bad voice, bad facial expressions, midwest dress-style, wedding ring. The more he talked with the bartender, the less attractive he became.
Wanted to go over to him, put my finger on his lips and go, "Sssssh, just sit there and be hot. There's no need for this 'talking' business."
Glasses texted me earlier this week. Wanted me to go to a club I haven't been to in years with him and some of his friends, then go to some hotel suite he was getting near the club. I was up for it. He's gorgeous and brilliant, I can only assume his friends would be the same. Potential group sex, or at least a MMF or MFF? Sure, I'm down.
Wasn't coming together fast enough, though. Trying to set my schedule for the weekend is almost always a very intensive activity of calling and texting people, seeing who is doing what, when, where, and with who. Then you have to go through the freeways in your head for transit times. Construction? Holidays? Conventions? Concerts? If you're planning on hitting the 10/110/101 interchange, these are things you have to know. People wonder how I do so much all over the place, and it is because I take into consideration everything I can, and most people are willing to adjust their get-togethers in order for me to make it, or understand that I will be late.
So, when Thursday rolled around and it still wasn't set, and I had other people calling me for this weekend's activities, I decided it just wasn't worth it.
You've got two lines of thinking here:
1. I decide I will go to his club with him, which would, effectively kill my previous Saturday night plans and a chunk of Sunday day.
Then:
A. If things come together smoothly, that's great. I'd still be meeting his friends for the first time, though, so if I did not pull that off well, I could be boning myself for future encounters. Potential date-ambush.
or
B. Things don't come together. I end up cancelling my other potential plans for no good reason. And I look like I'm willing to bail on whatever activities I have going on just to possibly spend time with him. That's just no good.
2. I decide not to go with him. These leaves me with invites for multiple things in LA or San Diego, and I'm free to choose the weekend's hijinks. Yes, hijinks. Escapades? Capers? Shenanigans?
Two outcomes happen from this:
A. I never see him again. He wants a girl that will just fall by his side when he calls. I'm not going to be that girl, and if that's what it takes to have him in my roster, of things he is, worth it is not one of them.
or
B. I see him again. This would probably mean that either he was okay with me opting out on his plans, meaning he respects my individual decisions, or that he didn't care one way or the other. Of course, if it was the latter, he wouldn't have bothered inviting me at all, much less introducing me to his friends.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I get to determine how this is going to run by sending one text message and spending my weekend by going out and having an excellent time because whatever I decide to do, it will be fun.
If I don't see him again, it's no loss because he's confirmed to me that he isn't worth investing time, energy, or emotion into. If I do, it's excellent because he has confirmed that he is worth it, at least for a short time, depending on how things play out.
Either way, I win.
You can't control what other people will or will not do, but you can control how you react to the situation.
We might be meeting up on Sunday late afternoon, early evening. We'll see how that goes, if it goes. It very well might not. If it doesn't, you will very likely find me kayaking in La Jolla, as one of my ex-lovers has been trying to convince me to join him... for the last several months. It's an unsuccessful venture as it is hard to get me out of bed before 11 or 12 after a night of clubbing. It does not help that his bed is extremely comfortable and I tend to stay in it and groan at him for daring to wake me.
This weekend is shaping up to be rather crazy. I should be used to it by now, but... no, not really. I don't think I'll ever really get used to it. Leaping from place to place, party to coffee to club to book signing to art gallery to play to dinners to concerts to family events with so many different faces.
My mother told me recently that she never expected me to be like this. That because of my anti-social nature and bookworm tendencies that she expected me to be a homebody, and probably live with them the rest of my life.
If things hadn't fallen out the way they had, she would have been correct.
No one expected me to do the things I did, no one expected what happened as a result, and how the impact of those results would change me.
I should have been a librarian or an accountant. I should have been a frazzled secratary living in a one bedroom apartment with three cats and a lot of tacky art on the walls featuring kittens and cottages, shopping out of the Sears and Land's End catalogs, reading romance novels and dreaming of that One Guy that would see me One Day and See Me for Who I Am Inside, past the white cotton underwear and ill-fitting flesh-colored bras, past the tacky wardrobe and gold-rimmed glasses.
I love how no one recognizes me from a few years ago. I love how I run into people from high school and they have no idea who I am, even after I tell them we went to high school together, even if we were in the same classes, sat next to each other, since junior high.
I earned this life. It's mine, and it's good.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Gospelstitch
Late last year, I was seeing this guy. He was probably one of the most intense people I have ever met, which is saying a lot. We blew each other away the when we first met. I became addicted to his voice, like so many people have.
Anyhow, he introduced me to the poetry of a friend of his, Buddy Wakefield.
When I read Wakefield's "Gospelstitch", I was enraptured. Half a year later, I still am.
Gospelstitch
I pray thanks
for the woman's heels
I heard on the way here tonight-
they sounded like salt.
When I pray
I pray thanks for the small things,
for flowers and other natural holidays,
for my eight-year-old niece flying her kite
like an umbilical cord.
When I was eight
I prayed for a chest of kites.
Now I pray for You to open
my chest of kites.
Lord, let me write,
leave me autistic and typing
until my windows bust into a thousand silver doves
and I know the poem is done.
And when the words break too much glass inside me
I run when I pray.
I run when I pray on trails
watching the branches blur
to the sun's Holy Sanskrit.
I carry your forests
in my heart.
Your fields
are on my back.
I have not fit your ocean into my chest
yet
but I have fit its sound.
Like trees,
like lightning,
our prayers come
from the ground up.
My God's abridged book
is a children's story
where the lessons are simple
and the smiles lift like first grade watercolors.
When I pray
I pray in museums.
I pray over sweat-stained stages.
I pray with vinyl prayer wheels.
I pray by reading math, eating pocket-watches
to suck the chain back to your chest.
You are the men and their saws.
You are silence.
You are gospels.
You are the shoulders of woman
whose name I never learned.
You are the fire returned back to itself
with every
burnt
book.
When we pray
our chests peel back
like open love letters the size of tide,
the way tide sounds
when it crashes your tympanum,
the way tympanum sounds
when it turns the word eardrum into a cymbal.
We play percussion when we pray.
We sing when we pray.
We laugh when we pray.
When I pray I move my feet
for the goosebump
in the heartbeat...
And I drop my jaw at fire when it's flyin' out my eyes, Lord
I plunge my coiling wires in the water till I rise
above frogs
and pop rocks
and boxes
of roof tops
and the noises I can't outrun
even when I'm running twice the speed of sound already
and three times the speed of my blood
'cause everybody's got voices
and everybody's got some they can't contain
like my need to be redeemed
at any time
in any place.
So you can bring on your boogieman loading his fuss
and gunning his fattening desire
'cause we've got bees on flowers
with honey on hold
for those made of gold
but wrapped in wires
who keep themselves inspired
by the way they feel their spines
screaming, sparkling gods
who gotta live by the way they shine.
And this is not a dot-to-dot plot
or a battle on your god
of the makers of money (odd mockers of the drum)
who all peel and staple great gobs of large labels
to a god they just wanna slum.
No,
this is my time and place.
This is me saving my saved face.
So if my heart starts to radiate bold broken glass,
y'all,
relax...
it always pumps this fast.
So get thee behind me blindness
and come to me quietly light.
Our god loves people like poems,
loves poems like prayers,
and loves prayers even when they are silent.
We pray until our words run out,
and Yours
linger
still.
Anyhow, he introduced me to the poetry of a friend of his, Buddy Wakefield.
When I read Wakefield's "Gospelstitch", I was enraptured. Half a year later, I still am.
Gospelstitch
I pray thanks
for the woman's heels
I heard on the way here tonight-
they sounded like salt.
When I pray
I pray thanks for the small things,
for flowers and other natural holidays,
for my eight-year-old niece flying her kite
like an umbilical cord.
When I was eight
I prayed for a chest of kites.
Now I pray for You to open
my chest of kites.
Lord, let me write,
leave me autistic and typing
until my windows bust into a thousand silver doves
and I know the poem is done.
And when the words break too much glass inside me
I run when I pray.
I run when I pray on trails
watching the branches blur
to the sun's Holy Sanskrit.
I carry your forests
in my heart.
Your fields
are on my back.
I have not fit your ocean into my chest
yet
but I have fit its sound.
Like trees,
like lightning,
our prayers come
from the ground up.
My God's abridged book
is a children's story
where the lessons are simple
and the smiles lift like first grade watercolors.
When I pray
I pray in museums.
I pray over sweat-stained stages.
I pray with vinyl prayer wheels.
I pray by reading math, eating pocket-watches
to suck the chain back to your chest.
You are the men and their saws.
You are silence.
You are gospels.
You are the shoulders of woman
whose name I never learned.
You are the fire returned back to itself
with every
burnt
book.
When we pray
our chests peel back
like open love letters the size of tide,
the way tide sounds
when it crashes your tympanum,
the way tympanum sounds
when it turns the word eardrum into a cymbal.
We play percussion when we pray.
We sing when we pray.
We laugh when we pray.
When I pray I move my feet
for the goosebump
in the heartbeat...
And I drop my jaw at fire when it's flyin' out my eyes, Lord
I plunge my coiling wires in the water till I rise
above frogs
and pop rocks
and boxes
of roof tops
and the noises I can't outrun
even when I'm running twice the speed of sound already
and three times the speed of my blood
'cause everybody's got voices
and everybody's got some they can't contain
like my need to be redeemed
at any time
in any place.
So you can bring on your boogieman loading his fuss
and gunning his fattening desire
'cause we've got bees on flowers
with honey on hold
for those made of gold
but wrapped in wires
who keep themselves inspired
by the way they feel their spines
screaming, sparkling gods
who gotta live by the way they shine.
And this is not a dot-to-dot plot
or a battle on your god
of the makers of money (odd mockers of the drum)
who all peel and staple great gobs of large labels
to a god they just wanna slum.
No,
this is my time and place.
This is me saving my saved face.
So if my heart starts to radiate bold broken glass,
y'all,
relax...
it always pumps this fast.
So get thee behind me blindness
and come to me quietly light.
Our god loves people like poems,
loves poems like prayers,
and loves prayers even when they are silent.
We pray until our words run out,
and Yours
linger
still.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Inertia Creeps
My heart is bothering me again.
I'm years from needing surgery, but sometimes I wonder how soon it'll happen, with the way I live.
Since I was sixteen, I remember my parents:
"V, you're running yourself into the ground again. Stop before you get sick."
And I would tell them that I knew, that there were just a few more things to do before I would get enough sleep, stop drinking so much coffee and energy drinks, that I would stop going all the time.
There's just so much to do, so much to experience.
I don't want to miss anything.
I'm years from needing surgery, but sometimes I wonder how soon it'll happen, with the way I live.
Since I was sixteen, I remember my parents:
"V, you're running yourself into the ground again. Stop before you get sick."
And I would tell them that I knew, that there were just a few more things to do before I would get enough sleep, stop drinking so much coffee and energy drinks, that I would stop going all the time.
There's just so much to do, so much to experience.
I don't want to miss anything.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Compare and Contrast
Baby shower.
I'm up in the boonies of Westlake Village. Gated community. Uniform condos.
It's family again.
I drove up with my sister, alternately talking and listening to some old Rollins spokenword albums. I have to keep it mellow, but not overly so, as I cruise the highways, avoiding holiday weekend traffic as best I can.
We arrive.
I shut down.
Shy and awkward, I avoid conversation, avoid eye contact as I desperately try to get through the evening.
There's something to be said about manipulating the groups around you, becoming the center of attention, being the life of the party.
I don't do that with family.
It's not out of respect. It's not because I just want to relax and be myself.
It's the opposite.
I can't relax, I can't act as I normally do. I'm one of two black sheep in my family, of my generation, though the other makes me look like I belong in the Walton family. To relax, to talk, to engage the people around me, requires behaviors and topics that would make my family squirm, would make them look at me and wonder how I happened.
So I bring a book, and I read. Or I hide behind the lense of the camera.
Can't talk, too busy capturing this event in pixels. Sorry.
It's my expected behavior.
This is what happens when you wreck yourself.
... ... ... ...
A gathering on Saturday afternoon shifts to a birthday party Saturday night.
Hole in the wall Mexican restaurant. Amazing food, horrible neighborhood.
I walk in, take a quick survey of the faces. I know none of these people, other than the ones I arrived with. It's a different generation- I'm the youngest person here.
I consider. Drop my eyes, keep to my starting group, or see what I can do.
I slide in next to a man in glasses. I introduce myself immediately to him and those within reaching distance. Handshakes are exchanged. He's a fetish photographer, specializing in stockings. Another man joins us, sits to my left. I vaguely recognize his face, and he jogs my memory by telling me of the small band he's in, that I saw play at a club a few months ago.
My friends are across from me, and one down, talking amongst themselves. I bounce the two guys off each other, and they start competing for my attention. Neither of them are what I would consider playmate material, but this is practice.
Eventually, the musician falls to the wayside. He can't keep my attention, and I'm enjoying the photographer more. The birthday boy comes by to gain introductions, and compliments me on my glasses.
Everyone loves my glasses.
I notice the musician playing games on his phone, and I gently neg him. This gets his attention, and he becomes flustered, defending himself. I haven't offended him, but he's trying so hard to prove himself. I take this and bring my friends into play, tossing him back into the conversation, forcing him to interact.
Whenever he starts being silent, I neg him again. I do this all evening.
The birthday boy keeps coming by and hovering over the back of my chair. I flirt, I touch.
He's not desirable to me at all.
The front door to the restaurant opens, and a man walks in that I know and do not care for.
He sits down with his friends at our end of the table, at the very end. I immediately bring my friends into conversation, bodies tilting towards me. He's at their backs. We're laughing, joking, and the guys on the way down from us are leaning in to hear what we have to say.
The man I did not care for was completely cut off as I drew my friends into conversation with the one person he could have spoken to. He might as well have been at a different table across the restaurant.
An hour later, the door opens again.
I take one look at the man walking in and mouth the two words I know will halt the leader of my friends in her tracks, so she'll know exactly who he is. She nods, and asks if I want to leave.
I don't.
He sits down two seats to my left, on the other side of the musician. The birthday boy comes over and gives him a hug. They're obviously decent friends.
Fortunately for me, after hugging him, the birthday boy's eyes returned to me again. I strike up conversation with him and the musician, while my friends, sitting across from him, interact with themselves.
I've managed, within a few minutes of his entry, to put two people I dislike in one corner and completely cut them off from any interaction with the other party members unless they go through me.
And they won't.
They both know better than that.
One tries to fight for it, tries to get the birthday boy's attention while said birthday boy is standing over my chair, probably looking down my top. Almost as though I wished it aloud, the musician stands up to go to the restroom and the birthday boy sits down in his seat, to my left. On the other side of him is the asshole. When the musician comes back, aw, poor guy, his seat has been taken in a very crowded restaurant. How is he supposed to sit by his friends?
I, with the noblest of intentions, offer my seat.
When the birthday boy offers to let me have the chair he stole, I inform him that I had been planning to sit on his lap, but if he'd rather I wouldn't, I would completely understand and certainly wouldn't hold it against him.
Unless, of course, he wanted me to.
He immediately scoots out his chair and I take a position on his right thigh so he has to look to the right, away from the asshole, in order to talk to me. Also, whenever the asshole did feel the need to talk to the man whose lap I was occupying, I was there, looking down on him, stroking the birthday boy's hair, occasionally leaning foward to talk to the people across the table from us.
After twenty to thirty minutes of this, the asshole gave up. He completely and totally gave up.
It was hysterical, watching him wiggle out from the crowded table and go outside for a smoke that lasted well over forty minutes. I thought he had gone home, he was gone for so long.
By the end of three hours, I had befriended the head of security at one club enough to have some pull, politely rejected the musician's advances without offending him, received the business card/phone number of the photographer for a date in the future (isn't going to happen, but, eh), given the birthday boy my general web info so he could find my public blog (he did that evening, as well as the photographer who I did not give my blog information to), and completely socially cockblocked the two men who arrived who I really did not like.
Only leaving my seat to use the restroom and to sit on the birthday boy's lap.
It wasn't bad.
I suppose, for some people, this is a normal evening. Even toned down.
But I'm not a social creature. I've always been buried in a book. This was my second round at ever trying to do something like this, the first about a month ago. I usually stick to talking to one person- I never, ever try to manage a group.
We learn new things every day.
It's time to adapt.
I'm up in the boonies of Westlake Village. Gated community. Uniform condos.
It's family again.
I drove up with my sister, alternately talking and listening to some old Rollins spokenword albums. I have to keep it mellow, but not overly so, as I cruise the highways, avoiding holiday weekend traffic as best I can.
We arrive.
I shut down.
Shy and awkward, I avoid conversation, avoid eye contact as I desperately try to get through the evening.
There's something to be said about manipulating the groups around you, becoming the center of attention, being the life of the party.
I don't do that with family.
It's not out of respect. It's not because I just want to relax and be myself.
It's the opposite.
I can't relax, I can't act as I normally do. I'm one of two black sheep in my family, of my generation, though the other makes me look like I belong in the Walton family. To relax, to talk, to engage the people around me, requires behaviors and topics that would make my family squirm, would make them look at me and wonder how I happened.
So I bring a book, and I read. Or I hide behind the lense of the camera.
Can't talk, too busy capturing this event in pixels. Sorry.
It's my expected behavior.
This is what happens when you wreck yourself.
... ... ... ...
A gathering on Saturday afternoon shifts to a birthday party Saturday night.
Hole in the wall Mexican restaurant. Amazing food, horrible neighborhood.
I walk in, take a quick survey of the faces. I know none of these people, other than the ones I arrived with. It's a different generation- I'm the youngest person here.
I consider. Drop my eyes, keep to my starting group, or see what I can do.
I slide in next to a man in glasses. I introduce myself immediately to him and those within reaching distance. Handshakes are exchanged. He's a fetish photographer, specializing in stockings. Another man joins us, sits to my left. I vaguely recognize his face, and he jogs my memory by telling me of the small band he's in, that I saw play at a club a few months ago.
My friends are across from me, and one down, talking amongst themselves. I bounce the two guys off each other, and they start competing for my attention. Neither of them are what I would consider playmate material, but this is practice.
Eventually, the musician falls to the wayside. He can't keep my attention, and I'm enjoying the photographer more. The birthday boy comes by to gain introductions, and compliments me on my glasses.
Everyone loves my glasses.
I notice the musician playing games on his phone, and I gently neg him. This gets his attention, and he becomes flustered, defending himself. I haven't offended him, but he's trying so hard to prove himself. I take this and bring my friends into play, tossing him back into the conversation, forcing him to interact.
Whenever he starts being silent, I neg him again. I do this all evening.
The birthday boy keeps coming by and hovering over the back of my chair. I flirt, I touch.
He's not desirable to me at all.
The front door to the restaurant opens, and a man walks in that I know and do not care for.
He sits down with his friends at our end of the table, at the very end. I immediately bring my friends into conversation, bodies tilting towards me. He's at their backs. We're laughing, joking, and the guys on the way down from us are leaning in to hear what we have to say.
The man I did not care for was completely cut off as I drew my friends into conversation with the one person he could have spoken to. He might as well have been at a different table across the restaurant.
An hour later, the door opens again.
I take one look at the man walking in and mouth the two words I know will halt the leader of my friends in her tracks, so she'll know exactly who he is. She nods, and asks if I want to leave.
I don't.
He sits down two seats to my left, on the other side of the musician. The birthday boy comes over and gives him a hug. They're obviously decent friends.
Fortunately for me, after hugging him, the birthday boy's eyes returned to me again. I strike up conversation with him and the musician, while my friends, sitting across from him, interact with themselves.
I've managed, within a few minutes of his entry, to put two people I dislike in one corner and completely cut them off from any interaction with the other party members unless they go through me.
And they won't.
They both know better than that.
One tries to fight for it, tries to get the birthday boy's attention while said birthday boy is standing over my chair, probably looking down my top. Almost as though I wished it aloud, the musician stands up to go to the restroom and the birthday boy sits down in his seat, to my left. On the other side of him is the asshole. When the musician comes back, aw, poor guy, his seat has been taken in a very crowded restaurant. How is he supposed to sit by his friends?
I, with the noblest of intentions, offer my seat.
When the birthday boy offers to let me have the chair he stole, I inform him that I had been planning to sit on his lap, but if he'd rather I wouldn't, I would completely understand and certainly wouldn't hold it against him.
Unless, of course, he wanted me to.
He immediately scoots out his chair and I take a position on his right thigh so he has to look to the right, away from the asshole, in order to talk to me. Also, whenever the asshole did feel the need to talk to the man whose lap I was occupying, I was there, looking down on him, stroking the birthday boy's hair, occasionally leaning foward to talk to the people across the table from us.
After twenty to thirty minutes of this, the asshole gave up. He completely and totally gave up.
It was hysterical, watching him wiggle out from the crowded table and go outside for a smoke that lasted well over forty minutes. I thought he had gone home, he was gone for so long.
By the end of three hours, I had befriended the head of security at one club enough to have some pull, politely rejected the musician's advances without offending him, received the business card/phone number of the photographer for a date in the future (isn't going to happen, but, eh), given the birthday boy my general web info so he could find my public blog (he did that evening, as well as the photographer who I did not give my blog information to), and completely socially cockblocked the two men who arrived who I really did not like.
Only leaving my seat to use the restroom and to sit on the birthday boy's lap.
It wasn't bad.
I suppose, for some people, this is a normal evening. Even toned down.
But I'm not a social creature. I've always been buried in a book. This was my second round at ever trying to do something like this, the first about a month ago. I usually stick to talking to one person- I never, ever try to manage a group.
We learn new things every day.
It's time to adapt.
Tastes better on the way back down
His place was made for play.
I walked past the stacks of mattresses, the Liberator furniture, the mirrors and stacks of mats. Boxes of lingerie and stilettos in the back, framed fetish art wrapped in heavy brown butcher paper beside them.
He hired a group of graffiti artists to tag the walls of his place with huge murals. His bed rests against a large purple and neon green tag, lamps light up the walls with wire arms directing illumination.
Bottles of water, stacks of towels, a liter bottle of grapeseed oil. Body pillows, tan comforter, shag rug for my knees.
There's a motion sensor in the bathroom that flips on the light when I walk inside. Sanitized Sybian attachments drying on the sink.
He gives me a tour, takes me to the vault, takes me through his office, past the motorcycle collection and various items picked up over the years. He's doing renovations, stacks of things in boxes and plastic. I can't identify it all, I don't try.
Five minutes later, we're in bed.
He's fun, and he knows what he's doing. God, does he know. He can make me squirt in, thus far, four different ways, without the aid of toys. He's had so much practice in his lifetime, and I soak in all of it that I can.
We shift through positions, through angles and thrusts we ride. For a break, he takes out the Sybian and sends me through a near-screaming orgasm while he watches and slowly strokes himself, lying back across the bed.
Four hours pass, we don't notice. Each time we think about getting food, one of us pulls the other back with fingers and tongue driving deep and stroking.
We drive out to Mel's Diner and refuel, sore and tingling, checking out the people that walk in and out while we talk. I check my cellphone and find that Glasses texted me. If I hadn't been already occupied, I know that conversation would have led me down to his bed that evening.
We drive back to his home and fall into bed. I'm at the edge of exhaustion, been running all week, out every night, up too early each morning. He tosses me on the Sybian for a bit, then covers me in the grapeseed oil. Full body massage, I moan when his fingers stray.
He lies down on his back, tells me to kiss him all over. I translate this to my usual biting and nipping, tongue rolling down the grooves of his spine with careless twists and turns. My teeth graze his ribs, my lips tug gently on his earlobes and I tease him with light kisses and lips wherever I can reach, straddling the side of his thigh, grinding gently.
My energy runs out around 3AM. I've been pushing myself too hard.
We wake at 9. I go to brush out my post-sex hair and I find that he's placed three different bits of lingerie, still happily in their packaging, on the bathroom counter. Each piece of clothing is open at the sides. He loves my tattoo, loves to run his hand up my side, up those black squares, over my hip to my underarm. He found the perfect pieces to display it.
He finds me in the bathroom, comes in with a pair of leopard print stilettos dangling from his fingers. Not my style, but I love to please him. A sheer black tube dress with open-sides, I lean against him while I buckle the heels, painted maroon toenails peeking out.
Directing me to the Sybian again, he lubes it up and I slide down onto the attachment. I'm sore, but the oil feels good. I take off the shoes, leave on the dress, and he stands in front of me, cock inches from my lips. How could I say no to that?
I grind against the machine and lick him from balls to tip until I can't take the stimulation anymore.
I continue to blow him. He's wonderful for this, perfectly responsive. I ask him if there's any movement he would like, anything he would want me to add in, and he instructs me perfectly, tailoring my mouth and hands to his needs. A few minutes later, he's shouting, knuckles turning white as he grabs the sheets while shooting load after load down my throat. This continues for about ten seconds, and I begin to worry that he's gotten too sensitive, that merely being in my mouth now that he's orgasmed is too much.
Then I catch more semen and realize he's still going.
He can orgasm an average of nine times in a night. His refractory period is, at max, ten minutes.
I curl up next to him. Warm chest, rising and falling rapidly as his body goes back to normal. I press against him and wait, trailing nails over his body until he rolls over and asks for a massage.
Afterwards, I'm beneath him again, ankles locked behind his lower back as I use that as leverage to lift my hips and drive down on him. Perfect angle, even as he flips me onto my stomach and begins to rub his cock at the enterance to my ass.
"Which hole do you want?" he bends down and murmurs into my ear.
"Either. Just get back in me."
He does.
We don't get out of bed until 1230, only leaving because we're so damned hungry.
He hints to me, throughout the time we're together, that he wants me to help him run his business. That he wants me to take control of parts of the company so he can focus on growth. I begin to wonder if this is going to be something he will be slowly driving towards, even though he knows I'm going to be going back to school for my Master's in the fall. It could work, but I'm not so sure it's a good idea.
When I go to leave, he stops me and wraps his arms around me.
"Mine," he says.
I smile at him, kiss him, kiss his neck. I do not say what I'm thinking:
I'm only yours when I'm with you.
I walked past the stacks of mattresses, the Liberator furniture, the mirrors and stacks of mats. Boxes of lingerie and stilettos in the back, framed fetish art wrapped in heavy brown butcher paper beside them.
He hired a group of graffiti artists to tag the walls of his place with huge murals. His bed rests against a large purple and neon green tag, lamps light up the walls with wire arms directing illumination.
Bottles of water, stacks of towels, a liter bottle of grapeseed oil. Body pillows, tan comforter, shag rug for my knees.
There's a motion sensor in the bathroom that flips on the light when I walk inside. Sanitized Sybian attachments drying on the sink.
He gives me a tour, takes me to the vault, takes me through his office, past the motorcycle collection and various items picked up over the years. He's doing renovations, stacks of things in boxes and plastic. I can't identify it all, I don't try.
Five minutes later, we're in bed.
He's fun, and he knows what he's doing. God, does he know. He can make me squirt in, thus far, four different ways, without the aid of toys. He's had so much practice in his lifetime, and I soak in all of it that I can.
We shift through positions, through angles and thrusts we ride. For a break, he takes out the Sybian and sends me through a near-screaming orgasm while he watches and slowly strokes himself, lying back across the bed.
Four hours pass, we don't notice. Each time we think about getting food, one of us pulls the other back with fingers and tongue driving deep and stroking.
We drive out to Mel's Diner and refuel, sore and tingling, checking out the people that walk in and out while we talk. I check my cellphone and find that Glasses texted me. If I hadn't been already occupied, I know that conversation would have led me down to his bed that evening.
We drive back to his home and fall into bed. I'm at the edge of exhaustion, been running all week, out every night, up too early each morning. He tosses me on the Sybian for a bit, then covers me in the grapeseed oil. Full body massage, I moan when his fingers stray.
He lies down on his back, tells me to kiss him all over. I translate this to my usual biting and nipping, tongue rolling down the grooves of his spine with careless twists and turns. My teeth graze his ribs, my lips tug gently on his earlobes and I tease him with light kisses and lips wherever I can reach, straddling the side of his thigh, grinding gently.
My energy runs out around 3AM. I've been pushing myself too hard.
We wake at 9. I go to brush out my post-sex hair and I find that he's placed three different bits of lingerie, still happily in their packaging, on the bathroom counter. Each piece of clothing is open at the sides. He loves my tattoo, loves to run his hand up my side, up those black squares, over my hip to my underarm. He found the perfect pieces to display it.
He finds me in the bathroom, comes in with a pair of leopard print stilettos dangling from his fingers. Not my style, but I love to please him. A sheer black tube dress with open-sides, I lean against him while I buckle the heels, painted maroon toenails peeking out.
Directing me to the Sybian again, he lubes it up and I slide down onto the attachment. I'm sore, but the oil feels good. I take off the shoes, leave on the dress, and he stands in front of me, cock inches from my lips. How could I say no to that?
I grind against the machine and lick him from balls to tip until I can't take the stimulation anymore.
I continue to blow him. He's wonderful for this, perfectly responsive. I ask him if there's any movement he would like, anything he would want me to add in, and he instructs me perfectly, tailoring my mouth and hands to his needs. A few minutes later, he's shouting, knuckles turning white as he grabs the sheets while shooting load after load down my throat. This continues for about ten seconds, and I begin to worry that he's gotten too sensitive, that merely being in my mouth now that he's orgasmed is too much.
Then I catch more semen and realize he's still going.
He can orgasm an average of nine times in a night. His refractory period is, at max, ten minutes.
I curl up next to him. Warm chest, rising and falling rapidly as his body goes back to normal. I press against him and wait, trailing nails over his body until he rolls over and asks for a massage.
Afterwards, I'm beneath him again, ankles locked behind his lower back as I use that as leverage to lift my hips and drive down on him. Perfect angle, even as he flips me onto my stomach and begins to rub his cock at the enterance to my ass.
"Which hole do you want?" he bends down and murmurs into my ear.
"Either. Just get back in me."
He does.
We don't get out of bed until 1230, only leaving because we're so damned hungry.
He hints to me, throughout the time we're together, that he wants me to help him run his business. That he wants me to take control of parts of the company so he can focus on growth. I begin to wonder if this is going to be something he will be slowly driving towards, even though he knows I'm going to be going back to school for my Master's in the fall. It could work, but I'm not so sure it's a good idea.
When I go to leave, he stops me and wraps his arms around me.
"Mine," he says.
I smile at him, kiss him, kiss his neck. I do not say what I'm thinking:
I'm only yours when I'm with you.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Four rotating hips...
Across from him at the dinner table, I wonder what I did.
It's almost comical, really.
Two kings. Two kings in their respective scenes.
And I have them both, at least for the moment.
He's gorgeous. Black hair and blue eyes, like me. Muscular where I am curvy. Wicked smart, polished, amazing dresser. When I saw him, I wanted him.
So I told him... and then we went out.
He walked me to my car, I tossed my purse into the passenger seat and closed the door without getting in. Leaned against the car.
This is the moment.
If there was ever a given moment during a date when I consistently test my playmate for the evening, this is it.
He looks at me, and I marvel at the planes of his face, at his perfect bone structure, perfect coloring. "So... are you up for next week, then?" he asks and steps partially in front of me, closing off my space, but leaving me that opening. He did not control his body language all evening, mirroring my movements consistently as I carefully watched and controlled the poses we went through.
I smile at him, "Of course."
He closes our circle, stepping fully in front of me. Lips meet. Teeth clash for a moment- we're both biters. I don't fight him, and he takes my lower lip between his teeth.
Perfect.
I'm good with my mouth, I'm known for it in certain groups.
Within a few minutes this man, this amazingly gorgeous and intelligent man, is eyeing my car.
"I haven't messed around in someone's backseat for a long time," he tells me.
"Is that a suggestion?"
He tosses me a smile and opens the backdoor. My carriage awaits.
It's been years for me as well. Backseats are for people who don't have their own space, and I make sure that if I cannot provide a place, my partner can and will.
He was worth it.
My backseat is roomy, no cramping, no struggles. I straddled one of his legs and took him in my mouth, his hands buried in my hair.
I always keep a hair-tie on me. Left wrist. I keep my hair long solely so a man can wrap it completely around his fist, but wisps always manage to escape. He's amused at this, but his amusement is cut short when I go to work on him.
Aside from the initial attraction, I went to him because he is a dominant. I typically select alphas and loners, and within those categories, I need the sexually dominant. He's an alpha dominant.
Forcing my head down, he leaves me deep throating him for minutes while I attempt to breathe around his width and let my tongue continue to dance. When air becomes too scarce, I tap him lightly on the thigh, twice, and he lets me up a bit.
When he orgasms, he traps my head in his lap and keeps me there, dick in mouth, for several minutes while I try to swallow around him. He's thick, which makes it hard not to clip him with my teeth as my throat muscles attempt to force the fluids down.
I sit up, and he leans forward to kiss my forehead.
He's perfect.
It's almost comical, really.
Two kings. Two kings in their respective scenes.
And I have them both, at least for the moment.
He's gorgeous. Black hair and blue eyes, like me. Muscular where I am curvy. Wicked smart, polished, amazing dresser. When I saw him, I wanted him.
So I told him... and then we went out.
He walked me to my car, I tossed my purse into the passenger seat and closed the door without getting in. Leaned against the car.
This is the moment.
If there was ever a given moment during a date when I consistently test my playmate for the evening, this is it.
He looks at me, and I marvel at the planes of his face, at his perfect bone structure, perfect coloring. "So... are you up for next week, then?" he asks and steps partially in front of me, closing off my space, but leaving me that opening. He did not control his body language all evening, mirroring my movements consistently as I carefully watched and controlled the poses we went through.
I smile at him, "Of course."
He closes our circle, stepping fully in front of me. Lips meet. Teeth clash for a moment- we're both biters. I don't fight him, and he takes my lower lip between his teeth.
Perfect.
I'm good with my mouth, I'm known for it in certain groups.
Within a few minutes this man, this amazingly gorgeous and intelligent man, is eyeing my car.
"I haven't messed around in someone's backseat for a long time," he tells me.
"Is that a suggestion?"
He tosses me a smile and opens the backdoor. My carriage awaits.
It's been years for me as well. Backseats are for people who don't have their own space, and I make sure that if I cannot provide a place, my partner can and will.
He was worth it.
My backseat is roomy, no cramping, no struggles. I straddled one of his legs and took him in my mouth, his hands buried in my hair.
I always keep a hair-tie on me. Left wrist. I keep my hair long solely so a man can wrap it completely around his fist, but wisps always manage to escape. He's amused at this, but his amusement is cut short when I go to work on him.
Aside from the initial attraction, I went to him because he is a dominant. I typically select alphas and loners, and within those categories, I need the sexually dominant. He's an alpha dominant.
Forcing my head down, he leaves me deep throating him for minutes while I attempt to breathe around his width and let my tongue continue to dance. When air becomes too scarce, I tap him lightly on the thigh, twice, and he lets me up a bit.
When he orgasms, he traps my head in his lap and keeps me there, dick in mouth, for several minutes while I try to swallow around him. He's thick, which makes it hard not to clip him with my teeth as my throat muscles attempt to force the fluids down.
I sit up, and he leans forward to kiss my forehead.
He's perfect.
Friday, May 22, 2009
I think I kinda lost myself again...
I've always been a trial by fire kinda girl.
As my seventeen year-old screams rend the air, fighting for space with the whirr of the vaccuum motors, they scrape the tiny, sucking tube through my uterus.
It's a violent violation, the physical pain is intense, anathestics did nothing. I can feel every twitch of her wrist as she siphons me out.
I scream, I scream of the years, of the sex, the drugs, the alcohol, the binges, the drunken copulating, the hurt, the abuse, it explodes out of me as I attempt to exorcise my demons.
The body learns new pain, muscles expand and reach outwards.
They have to hold me down, several pairs of hands on my limbs and torso.
And, then, I'm alone.
As my seventeen year-old screams rend the air, fighting for space with the whirr of the vaccuum motors, they scrape the tiny, sucking tube through my uterus.
It's a violent violation, the physical pain is intense, anathestics did nothing. I can feel every twitch of her wrist as she siphons me out.
I scream, I scream of the years, of the sex, the drugs, the alcohol, the binges, the drunken copulating, the hurt, the abuse, it explodes out of me as I attempt to exorcise my demons.
The body learns new pain, muscles expand and reach outwards.
They have to hold me down, several pairs of hands on my limbs and torso.
And, then, I'm alone.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Recollect me, darling...
My phone rings.
Hard to believe I was getting any signal in this steel box that my friend calls home.
"Hello?"
Feminine sobs answer me.
My brain immediate goes into emergency mode, emotions are shut off as I run through the options of what might have happened and plan my route to my car, tossing freeway routes through my head, weighing traffic and construction along each one.
"What happened?"
"Oh god, oh god..." she whimpers at me and I can hear her ragged breathing. My insides clench in frustration.
"K, what's wrong?"
"He's crazy, oh god, I didn't know, I didn't know it was this bad, I did not know he did this, I didn't know, I didn't know!" almost incoherent babbles through tears. But I understand what she's trying to say, I know what happened.
"What happened, K?"
"I didn't know, I didn't know he was this bad! I didn't understand why you left, oh god, he's crazy! I can't believe he did this to you! I didn't know, I never understood." Each sentence is followed by a sudden and violent gasp, and I can tell she's about to go over the edge into hyperventilating.
"Is he there right now?"
More gasping, more sobs.
"Is he at the house right now, K?"
"No," her trembling voice, "No, he left. I don't know where he went and when he'll be back."
"Give me twenty minutes."
She quietly assents and I end the call.
Excusing myself, I leave. I drive quickly, lacking the knowledge of his whereabouts, I do not want to be caught at the house when he returns. If he returns.
I still have a key. They never changed the locks. I let myself in.
When I open her door, she flies into my arms, still crying.
I listen to her sob, listen to her attempt to communicate what happened through her tears. Her words re-enact a watered down version of my nightmare, but it still should not have happened. When I left, I left her without protection.
And when she was done crying, I repeated to her the words that I had been told so many times.
I betrayed her.
Hard to believe I was getting any signal in this steel box that my friend calls home.
"Hello?"
Feminine sobs answer me.
My brain immediate goes into emergency mode, emotions are shut off as I run through the options of what might have happened and plan my route to my car, tossing freeway routes through my head, weighing traffic and construction along each one.
"What happened?"
"Oh god, oh god..." she whimpers at me and I can hear her ragged breathing. My insides clench in frustration.
"K, what's wrong?"
"He's crazy, oh god, I didn't know, I didn't know it was this bad, I did not know he did this, I didn't know, I didn't know!" almost incoherent babbles through tears. But I understand what she's trying to say, I know what happened.
"What happened, K?"
"I didn't know, I didn't know he was this bad! I didn't understand why you left, oh god, he's crazy! I can't believe he did this to you! I didn't know, I never understood." Each sentence is followed by a sudden and violent gasp, and I can tell she's about to go over the edge into hyperventilating.
"Is he there right now?"
More gasping, more sobs.
"Is he at the house right now, K?"
"No," her trembling voice, "No, he left. I don't know where he went and when he'll be back."
"Give me twenty minutes."
She quietly assents and I end the call.
Excusing myself, I leave. I drive quickly, lacking the knowledge of his whereabouts, I do not want to be caught at the house when he returns. If he returns.
I still have a key. They never changed the locks. I let myself in.
When I open her door, she flies into my arms, still crying.
I listen to her sob, listen to her attempt to communicate what happened through her tears. Her words re-enact a watered down version of my nightmare, but it still should not have happened. When I left, I left her without protection.
And when she was done crying, I repeated to her the words that I had been told so many times.
I betrayed her.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Before I can open my all too eager eyes...
"You're one of the most unique people I've ever met."
"...that doesn't really sound like a good thing when you say it."
"Yeah, there was a little kid around. What I wanted to say was that you're one of the most fucked up people I've ever met."
"Well, golly, thanks."
I hear his sigh and then, "You know what I mean. You've embraced your damage so fully, made it such a part of you. The only thing you have solid in your self-concept is sex and desire. Everything else is totally amorphous."
"I know. I'm working on it."
"You hate being vunerable, you hate showing weakness, but this is something you have to do."
"I already am."
"Are you?"
"...that doesn't really sound like a good thing when you say it."
"Yeah, there was a little kid around. What I wanted to say was that you're one of the most fucked up people I've ever met."
"Well, golly, thanks."
I hear his sigh and then, "You know what I mean. You've embraced your damage so fully, made it such a part of you. The only thing you have solid in your self-concept is sex and desire. Everything else is totally amorphous."
"I know. I'm working on it."
"You hate being vunerable, you hate showing weakness, but this is something you have to do."
"I already am."
"Are you?"
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Doesn't hurt me to be free...
I went out with the boys from the tattoo studio last night, out to a concert at the Key Club on Sunset.
The band was amazing, the company was attractive all around, the club itself was packed way beyond capacity and the occupants were screaming along with each song.
It wasn't my scene, wasn't my world.
As each meticulously made up petite faux-blonde passed me, I felt more and more out of my element. These girls were so young, so groomed, so very sculpted for this lifestyle. I try to imagine growing up in a household where money is no issue, and the thought of potentially spoiling one's child never occurs. When a way of living allows for hours of grooming, of getting wasted or spun each night, of so much money dropped on clothes and accessories.
Stress free.
Well, not stress free. I'm sure they have plenty of stresses that are as alien to me as their fashion sense and social standards.
Reality free.
But, then, they shape their own reality. They are born into a lifestyle, or they force themselves, work hard for that lifestyle, and then they design who they want to be, determine their priorities.
I take my hair from the natural ash-blonde to a chocolatey black with red highlights.
My eyes have been bleached from hours in the sun, leaving them sky blue with gold rings.
I try not to tan, leave my skin as pale as possible, though not due to any goth or emo leanings.
I got home at three in the morning.
The freeway curves welcomed me as I slid over them. Sobriety suits me, has for years.
I took a shortcut, blasting through various residential neighborhoods well over the speed limit. A previous lifetime leaves these routes marked in my head, knowing which will get me home with the least chance of cops and the least appearance of traffic signals. I find no red lights to slow my drive.
Windows rolled down, hair pulled back, a song put on repeat, heater blowing on my feet. I could drive this blind, but the memories triggered by this path are valuable, remind me of someone I used to be. This corner, that coffee shop, this fence, this hill, that bench. I was there, years ago, and I give a mental half-hearted salute as I fly by. Thanks for the good times, thanks for showing me the way I could have been.
This is my world.
I get behind the wheel and guide my car through the twisted roads through hills. I pick my routes based on curves and lack of slowing impediments. I would rather be here, in this moment, consuming the miles of endless road, than with the people of Sunset Boulevard.
There is no connect, no common ground other than humanity.
I am my own.
The band was amazing, the company was attractive all around, the club itself was packed way beyond capacity and the occupants were screaming along with each song.
It wasn't my scene, wasn't my world.
As each meticulously made up petite faux-blonde passed me, I felt more and more out of my element. These girls were so young, so groomed, so very sculpted for this lifestyle. I try to imagine growing up in a household where money is no issue, and the thought of potentially spoiling one's child never occurs. When a way of living allows for hours of grooming, of getting wasted or spun each night, of so much money dropped on clothes and accessories.
Stress free.
Well, not stress free. I'm sure they have plenty of stresses that are as alien to me as their fashion sense and social standards.
Reality free.
But, then, they shape their own reality. They are born into a lifestyle, or they force themselves, work hard for that lifestyle, and then they design who they want to be, determine their priorities.
I take my hair from the natural ash-blonde to a chocolatey black with red highlights.
My eyes have been bleached from hours in the sun, leaving them sky blue with gold rings.
I try not to tan, leave my skin as pale as possible, though not due to any goth or emo leanings.
I got home at three in the morning.
The freeway curves welcomed me as I slid over them. Sobriety suits me, has for years.
I took a shortcut, blasting through various residential neighborhoods well over the speed limit. A previous lifetime leaves these routes marked in my head, knowing which will get me home with the least chance of cops and the least appearance of traffic signals. I find no red lights to slow my drive.
Windows rolled down, hair pulled back, a song put on repeat, heater blowing on my feet. I could drive this blind, but the memories triggered by this path are valuable, remind me of someone I used to be. This corner, that coffee shop, this fence, this hill, that bench. I was there, years ago, and I give a mental half-hearted salute as I fly by. Thanks for the good times, thanks for showing me the way I could have been.
This is my world.
I get behind the wheel and guide my car through the twisted roads through hills. I pick my routes based on curves and lack of slowing impediments. I would rather be here, in this moment, consuming the miles of endless road, than with the people of Sunset Boulevard.
There is no connect, no common ground other than humanity.
I am my own.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Electrical current, hallowed be thy name...
He looks so normal, even with those yellow eyes.
We sit at a table, eating sushi, on the Sunset Strip.
He looks so normal, but then the words that flow out of his mouth make me realize how very out of my league I am. He's not just a predator, he's a beast. I can't play games with this one.
Not that I need to.
He lavishes me with affection. If he sees that something has truly caught my eye, he buys it without me saying a word, whether it's a few dollars or a few hundred dollars. He's incredibly generous and experienced in bed, has taught me things about my body that I had never even considered. Any place I want to go, he takes me when I say the word. He shows me parts of LA that I have never seen, or had never been able to afford. His conversation is rich with stories, with knowledge and experience. He hooks me.
He has hooked me.
I hate that.
If I had known, when I approached him at the club, who he was, I would have handled it very differently.
But he blends so very well. I had no idea. He shifts back and forth between worlds and it leaves me breathless and impressed... and a little frightened.
Whatever it was that I did, it got his attention. For how long, I don't know. But he wants me. He loves my mouth, my tongue. My lips make him moan. Those years of practice have paid off. I know I'm good, and he loves that I know it, loves it when I grin around his cock when my tongue makes him gasp and twitch.
He talks of long-term, though not that of a relationship, which pleases me because, at this time in my life, I have no interest in pulling myself off the field. I am having too much fun, and have too much going on, to focus entirely on one man.
But I'm missing something still. I know I am.
I'm gonna need a bigger boat.
We sit at a table, eating sushi, on the Sunset Strip.
He looks so normal, but then the words that flow out of his mouth make me realize how very out of my league I am. He's not just a predator, he's a beast. I can't play games with this one.
Not that I need to.
He lavishes me with affection. If he sees that something has truly caught my eye, he buys it without me saying a word, whether it's a few dollars or a few hundred dollars. He's incredibly generous and experienced in bed, has taught me things about my body that I had never even considered. Any place I want to go, he takes me when I say the word. He shows me parts of LA that I have never seen, or had never been able to afford. His conversation is rich with stories, with knowledge and experience. He hooks me.
He has hooked me.
I hate that.
If I had known, when I approached him at the club, who he was, I would have handled it very differently.
But he blends so very well. I had no idea. He shifts back and forth between worlds and it leaves me breathless and impressed... and a little frightened.
Whatever it was that I did, it got his attention. For how long, I don't know. But he wants me. He loves my mouth, my tongue. My lips make him moan. Those years of practice have paid off. I know I'm good, and he loves that I know it, loves it when I grin around his cock when my tongue makes him gasp and twitch.
He talks of long-term, though not that of a relationship, which pleases me because, at this time in my life, I have no interest in pulling myself off the field. I am having too much fun, and have too much going on, to focus entirely on one man.
But I'm missing something still. I know I am.
I'm gonna need a bigger boat.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Waltz for Venus
I'm poised over him, his tip at my enterance.
He's someone new, I found him at a club the weekend before last.
We're on a white leather couch in one of his stores on La Brea.
Balancing myself with one hand on the back of the couch, my knees on either side of his thighs, I rub against him, making him slick and smooth. He leans his head back and moans when I use him to pleasure myself.
The only light comes in through a window above the storefront, all other light being blocked by the metal siding that shows this location is closed for the day. Even though it is midafternoon and sunny, everything is gray through this glass filter.
When I near orgasm, he flips me onto my back, fingers driving deep and searching. Puddles pool on the leather as my body spasms and spasms again.
As my breathing stabilizes, his cock finds its way to my mouth.
He wants something from me, something other than sex. I do not know what it is, though I listen to his words, listen to the things he does not say, does not comment on, and try to piece it together. I think I'm missing information, but I'll understand soon enough.
He's someone new, I found him at a club the weekend before last.
We're on a white leather couch in one of his stores on La Brea.
Balancing myself with one hand on the back of the couch, my knees on either side of his thighs, I rub against him, making him slick and smooth. He leans his head back and moans when I use him to pleasure myself.
The only light comes in through a window above the storefront, all other light being blocked by the metal siding that shows this location is closed for the day. Even though it is midafternoon and sunny, everything is gray through this glass filter.
When I near orgasm, he flips me onto my back, fingers driving deep and searching. Puddles pool on the leather as my body spasms and spasms again.
As my breathing stabilizes, his cock finds its way to my mouth.
He wants something from me, something other than sex. I do not know what it is, though I listen to his words, listen to the things he does not say, does not comment on, and try to piece it together. I think I'm missing information, but I'll understand soon enough.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Do you remember...
"I'm obsessed with you."
The words make me stop, make me look again.
"I don't use that word lightly. But I am. I dream about you, fantasize about you, and get jealous when I hear about your male exploits."
He continues.
"I can't imagine any sort of future with you. None. We'd self-destruct, and I know it. But I can't help but want to try."
I don't attempt to stop this flow of words. I don't tell him the truth: that he only wants me because it will make him feel better about himself. That me wanting him in return will validate him as desirable and worthwhile.
He knows we are wrong for each other, knows that I would eat him alive, but he still wishes and wants... and he doesn't know why.
I did not do this on purpose.
I swear I did not.
It just happens. I stop paying attention to what I am doing, start relaxing, and then my platonic male friends elevate me to pedestals without my knowledge or consent. He's not the first. He's no where near the first.
He tries to buy me presents, offers me money if needed. I just have to tell him what I want.
I could financially ruin him, but my ethics get in the way.
I could tell him the reasons why he wants me the way he does. I wish I could point him to chapters in books, to short paragraphs about seduction and desire, about the games that I have naturally been playing for so long that people come to me for advice and instruction.
I could.
But I won't.
The words make me stop, make me look again.
"I don't use that word lightly. But I am. I dream about you, fantasize about you, and get jealous when I hear about your male exploits."
He continues.
"I can't imagine any sort of future with you. None. We'd self-destruct, and I know it. But I can't help but want to try."
I don't attempt to stop this flow of words. I don't tell him the truth: that he only wants me because it will make him feel better about himself. That me wanting him in return will validate him as desirable and worthwhile.
He knows we are wrong for each other, knows that I would eat him alive, but he still wishes and wants... and he doesn't know why.
I did not do this on purpose.
I swear I did not.
It just happens. I stop paying attention to what I am doing, start relaxing, and then my platonic male friends elevate me to pedestals without my knowledge or consent. He's not the first. He's no where near the first.
He tries to buy me presents, offers me money if needed. I just have to tell him what I want.
I could financially ruin him, but my ethics get in the way.
I could tell him the reasons why he wants me the way he does. I wish I could point him to chapters in books, to short paragraphs about seduction and desire, about the games that I have naturally been playing for so long that people come to me for advice and instruction.
I could.
But I won't.
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