March 6, 2011


As a 24 year old woman, I have a perfectly "normal" libido (substitute also: lively, vigorous, voracious, etc.). Despite present attempts to temper said voracious libido, it remains untamed. Perhaps I'm just reacting to the abundance of attention showered upon newly single little me. I feel as though I have a red neon "Available" sign emblazoned above my head. The attention is all male, of course. I look decidedly straight. I haven't the slightest idea how to successfully navigate the lesbian dating scene. I'm doomed.

I made a decision to lay off the sex for a bit. It seems the universe obliges by making every person I find attractive immediately available to me for any pleasure I may seek. Thank you, Universe, for the timing. So, I "laid off the sex" for all of a week. I'm struggling with that journey.

I have a baby crush on a girl I work with. She is oh-so-taken already, and is a step or two above me on the workplace ladder. This attraction spells disaster anyway you hang it. I know I have to bury this little infatuation, when in the past I may have acted upon it. Step #1 in that same journey. I still look at her every time she passes, still imagine I see a spark of returned interest. I find it embarrassing that at my age I am unable to quell the attraction outright.

I am beginning to believe I am drawn only to trouble.

February 5, 2011

My, me, mine

I let the submissive parts take over. I rolled, tail tucked, belly exposed. I said, "yes, master." What a game to play. All the while I knew I was better than that. All the while I knew who the dominate one was. Now I'm disgusted. Now the dominate one is biting and clawing its way right out again. If the suppression continues I'll be shredded when it all ends. The dominate one is too insistent. I know what truth looks like. I know how lies disguise themselves. I let the passion conceal everything else. Shameful, really.

I'll lick my wounds. I'll regret. I'll believe I made a fatal error.

I'll emerge a cliche. A caterpillar, a butterfly.

July 27, 2010


This town seems enveloped in a culture of poverty. Generally, the middle and upper classes have a hard time understanding the ways of the lower economic classes. Blowing hard earned money on beer, drugs, or outings for the kids seems an extreme waste of such delicately balanced resources. The elite, or even moderately well off, do not understand that the smaller the apartment or house, the harder it is to keep it looking clean and uncluttered. They do not understand that after a stressful month of barely making bills, working non-stop, fretting about eviction, and trying to find rides to work, the most sensible action is to go buy some happiness.

It seems not to make any sense to maintain the extra cost of cable or ordering pizza, when cutting those costs out would make rent easier to manage. For people who have nothing to look forward to but after work television or an easy dinner, these costs are worth it.

It is difficult to break out of the culture of poverty. It follows you. Poverty is not about making an insufficient amount of money for stable living. It eventually becomes a mindset. The same person, barely able to afford necessities, will often maintain poverty even if allowed to come into a larger sum of money. Old habits die hard. This I know.

I have a difficult time comprehending the layout of this city. Driving side roads, you will see a dilapidated street overflowing with tilted properties, peeling paint, jagged window remains, and people unable to afford dental care, dressed in clothing that rightly should have been tossed years ago. The next street up, you'll view immaculate siding, landscaped yards, energy efficient windows, children's play sets and no people, as they are all likely at work. Is it possible for such poverty to exist next to the smartly dressed middle class set?

I read Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged some years ago, and enjoyed it for the clever writing and unique moral. Rereading the novel while washing laundry at a local laundry mat years later, different aspects of the story jump out. A particular paragraph leapt at me, more because of the tone of desperation than anything else. Dagny and Rearden are on a unplanned vacation, driving just to drive:

"They drove through small towns, through obscure side roads, through the kind of places they had not seen for years. She felt uneasiness at the sight of the towns. Days passed before she realized what it was that she missed most: a glimpse of fresh paint. The houses stood like men in unpressed suits, who had lost the desire to stand straight: the cornices were like sagging shoulders, the crooked porch steps like torn hem lines, the broken windows like patches, mended with clapboard. The people in the streets stared at the new car, not as one stares at a rare sight, but as if the glittering black shape were an impossible vision from another world."

The people here do appear like Rand's description of the houses. They seem defeated. Poverty has beaten them down. Many people ride bicycles or walk, not for exercise, but for lack of transportation. Beyond the strange pattern of upper and lower class neighborhoods, I have the hardest time understanding the mindset of some people in my acquaintance.

Too many people seem fine with the status quo. Some do not appear to be seeking employment, although they cannot pay for cigarettes, a place to live, or food. Some find employment, but do not work to keep it longer than a month or so. Several people seem to live on scraps alone. The rates of depression are high here, the rates of suicide higher. There is a war to be won here, but who are the soldiers?

July 7, 2010

Plan for the winnings

Being the lucky, lucky girl that I am, I have entered a total of 3 contests online, and have won items from 2 out of 3. Not bad odds. I recently won the Njoy Pure Wand from a contest through Dangerous Lilly (an amazing blogger!), this particular toy donated by SheVibe. I am beyond pumped about winning it, and am greatly anticipating many long hours partnered and solo with the gorgeous toy!

Thank you to
Dangerous Lilly, SheVibe, and many other contest-hosting bloggers and sponsoring companies. You guys make the internet a far more interesting place.


May 7, 2010


I need a "how to" manual, like "How to be Monogamous" or "How to Halt your Raging Urges" or "How to Keep your Legs Closed in 10 Easy Steps."

I love sex. Love, love, love it. Most people do. I realize I am not alone in this. I understand monogamy. I enjoy it, for the most part. The idea of kissing only this woman, loving only this woman, fucking only this woman...well, the idea is just fine.
Then, one morning, I'm in terrible need of a vigorous fucking and she is not home. My skin is alive with need, my mind filled with slow-motion pornography, my body aching to be fulfilled. My busy little brain plots for me. Higher reasoning has vanished with the morning mist, and my thoughts are consumed with the whens, wheres, hows. Music I listen to daily suddenly becomes other, becomes foreign, becomes a throbbing part of me.

When I get these mean reds my thoughts do not touch on my devotion to my significant other or the pain catting around would cause. I feel no guilt, I feel no conscience, nothing. I feel echoes of past lovers, twinges of remembered passions, and a deep desire to revisit those sensations. I have the presence of mind to think, "I should not," and that's about it. There are no emotions or judgments attached to those words. The emotions come later. The guilt wakes me from sleep with the fear that I have been discovered. Later, I feel I deserve to be unhappy, deserve to feel pain for the pain I've caused.

Goddess forbid any lover of mine should turn me down. The world run by the strange creature called "Lust" has no room for individuals who would refuse such a persistent need of mine. It feels like a curse.

Before you suggest it, masturbation is no stranger to me. It does not meet these needs.

I do need a solution. I love this woman. I fear the day I lose all reason and hurt her. She and I have talked this over. She knows what I've written here, how I feel. I want only her, but where does one find the strength to fight the irrational?

April 29, 2010


We giggled together, rolling over, pinning each other playfully. We'd take breaks for deep, throbbing kisses. The "breaks" became near continuous, the gentle dominance play falling away. Sex was not part of the evening's agenda, but I could not help responding to those lingering kisses. Your fingers grazed the delicate skin found at the bend of elbow and wrist, breaking a gasp from my lips. You let your hands run over the skin on my torso, my hips, but not my breasts, not delving past the line of my pants. I knew the mood was exploratory. I knew the caresses weren't to lead to anything further. Your touch was beautiful torture, hands and lips lighting me on fire. I fought the rising hunger. I fought the burning. I fought the urge to push your hands between my legs. You needed sleep. So did I.

Hours later, the room dark and drowsy, I feel you move and wake a little. Eyes shut, I hear, "hmmmm," deep and low. More movement. Somehow your hands are between my legs, and I am wet for you. I writhe against you, the dormant desire aroused earlier again roaring to life. The mood no longer exploratory, instead informed by lust, you push into me, past me, rolling me under and over. Sleep fogged, the sensations rise as though they have been submerged. Each exquisite touch emerges from those liquid depths, encountering no resistance. Your eyes, there they are. Look at me. Love my pleasure pain. I'm fighting it. I'm fighting losing myself so completely here in front of you. "Come for me," you say.
I let go, drowning. No air, no tactile senses, only you. You and those eyes.

April 12, 2010


I’m attracted to corporeal sensation. I write as if I’m imagining that I can contain the tactile feeling of blood driving through my veins in each sentence; as if I could encapsulate the minute fireworks of each exquisite orgasm in these words. It will not happen. I yearn to describe, but only what cannot be accurately captured. I hate trite description: his engorged member, her heaving bosom. Never.

Let liquid language flow instead. I like to marinate in words. I choose writers accordingly. So few maintain a liquid flow I can immerse myself in.

I want my sex to be all consuming, my reading to be all consuming, but never my love. I do not want an all-consuming love. I feel that a love like that eats your life. I want someone I can share life with, not someone that swallows it for me. I hate what I’m feeling now, as much as I love it. My thoughts rarely stray from her. I despise the hours after I leave her. I ache with missing her, with fear that I will not see her again soon enough. The adjustment period owns me. Life seems a paltry thing without her ever-living fire next to me. Music does not move me, infectious smiles do not reach me, nothing pleases me without her presence.