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.
Monday, May 25, 2009
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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