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.

April 1, 2010


Hot hot heat today. Body temperature rising, all reason lost with the increase. Open windows provide no relief, air still. Heat throbs in me. Jeans come off, peeled from skin. Damned detestable stickiness. Cooler air embraces limbs, legs bare right up to the lace of black panties. Cross-legged on the couch in camisole and panties. Desire is intense today, combined with tension of being caught.

Fingertips trace lips, sensitized surfaces outlining each other. Teeth graze fingerprints, gliding across tongue wetted skin. Tongue tip licks up salt, savoring the flavor. Fingers trace down the skin of a delicate chin, skimming downy hairs on the sensitive neck, hand delving between pert breasts. Breasts slowly palmed, one, then the other. Unbearable electric thrill from a brush of a nipple. Slowly, slowly. Short nails pass over skin, tracing down a ticklish side, running across the bump of a hip, dipping down to the hollow at the junction of the thigh. Hand stills there, presses gently, evoking instant charged desire. Hips rise lustily to meet the downward swoop of the hand brushing scant pubic hair. Fingers spread to cup the softness found there, to follow folded curves. Hand damp, exploring. Hand wet, plunged deep. Low, heated noises: moans, sighs, whimpers, murmurs. More. Body rising, heat rising. Tension building in the legs, body shaking with it. Explosive moment of clarity. Knees weak, breath labored. Coming down. Breath slowed.

March 23, 2010


She is demanding. We sat cuddled together for much of the night. She'd get up, then would return to me. A raised eyebrow demanded I reposition to accommodate her sitting between my knees. She gives me little orders. "Come here," she says; a demand disguised with a sweet tone. When she refilled my glass, I told her she was pouring too much. "Shut up," she said, and chuckled. She overfilled anyway. She lifts my limbs when we're resting on the couch, places my hands where she wants them, grumbles when I move them away. Later, in bed, she tells me to roll over. She tells me, "lie still."
She wants to know why I like this about her. She's touchy about it, presumably because others have hated it.

Truthfully, I love the authenticity of her demanding nature. She doesn't let others stand in the way of wanting what she wants. She does not sugar coat. She lays it all bare. It is what it is, take it or leave it. I admire this. I enjoy it exponentially more because I do not let many people make demands of me. She does it properly. I fight back when what she requests runs counter to my wishes. She's not used to this either. I know I am not what she expected. She tries to be smooth. She tries to be extra polite. I told her to cut the bullshit. She laughed. Authenticity.

She's particular about her appearance. She gets hit on quite often. I love this. I like that many others see her as the gorgeous creature she is. Most woman would be jealous. So many of us are exact paper cut out replicas of limited personalities. I try so hard to blur my lines. I am so excited to find others that do too.

March 13, 2010


She is boyish. Sure of herself. Magnetic. She has dark hair, and moody eyes. Except, the eyes aren't really so moody. They just look like they should be. She laughs and curses in equal measure. My kind of girl.

We're giving it a chance. There's tension between us. Tomorrow we find out if it's the right kind. I'm throwing myself out there to try new things. She said, "I have something for you to try. Try me." She laughed. Indeed, love. I will.

Yes, I'm taking a risk. The risk adds to the heightened arousal. I have high hopes. I'm seeking something in her, and it certainly isn't love. I need to be taken.

The rest of the story will follow soon...

March 8, 2010


I'm a lucky girl.

Forcing it hurts. She is not stable. Maybe what I feel for her is not stable, and she remains unchanged. Some days I hate her. Some days, her constant demanding makes irritation rise like bile in my throat. Some days, I can't escape her scent. I want to throw myself against her much like any cat might. I want her scent to swallow me, make everything better. Anything for her.

"We're leaving," she said, and leave we did. I felt like a tramp, felt so well used. She planned on using me again. I knew her game. She had dressed me for dancing; choosing the tight jeans, silver grey bondage top, tie at the sides Provocateur panties. I would not need a bra with such a biting top. Nipples were part of her play.

I balked at being led down the stairs. She bit her lip at my reluctance, but tugged me onward. Silent displeasure in the car. I did not want to. She hissed at me, "Don't appear so reluctant at the club. You do not want to embarrass me."

No, never embarrass you. Nothing to make you angry, nothing to risk displeasure. Tell me what to do, anything, I'll do anything. Just please don't be mad. Please.

Silence. Upon arrival, I play my part well. I smile winningly, I exude sexuality, I dance with abandon. My eyes track her as she stalks the floor. She's searching. Please. Not tonight, please. I'm desperate, please no. She finds one, locks eyes with me. "No," my eyes say. "Now," hers reply.

The one she found is a pretty one. Boyish, like she prefers. I play the game, dancing, whispering, cajoling. She'll be so displeased if I don't capture this one for us. The girl seems to respond, seems captivated, but I see her eyes tracking another girl over my shoulder. No, no, no. Focus on me, tomboy. I'll be whatever you want. No, I've lost her.

She is displeased. We leave. "If you'd go to the gym more often," she tells me, "if you wouldn't wear such dark eyeshadow." "If you'd smile more, if you'd dance better, if you'd flirt right, if you'd...the litany begins. I'm quietly relieved. I did not want the tomboy in our bed tonight.

March 1, 2010


A friend of mine once said that a certain rawness shows through my writing. I told this friend that I feel raw, and I am glad the rawness translates.

Not today. Today I feel raw, but it is the wrong kind. I do not feel exposed so much as abraded open with brillo pads and bleach. It wounds me further that what I am feeling now is but a 10th of what she feels. Only a 10th.

What must it feel like, to love someone as she did? I cannot imagine the depths of devotion she maintained for him. He was not only her first born child, but a first born child with major disability. Nothing was more important to her than her child. She slept little, adhering to his schedule, waking when he would wake. She loved the sunshiny days when the temperature wasn't too warm, wasn't too humid, because he was positively giddy to be outside. She dropped everything each and every time he got pneumonia, and often forgot to eat or sleep while caring for him. His life was a miracle, and she celebrated that miracle with every fiber of her being.

I can't know what it's like to love someone so much that they become a part of you. The way people use the word "love" means nothing. What she had was love transcending the meaning of the word. She had an honest unconditional devotion to this other being. No imperfection was actually a flaw, because you cannot just love pieces of a person. You must love the whole being. She loved him. He was born to the right people. I just wish that they could have kept him a little bit longer.

February 25, 2010


You, with your messy, blonde, layered bob. Your nauseously bright, hot pink tights. Your blue floral lampshade dress. You had seductively baby-fat round calves atop glass ankles. I loved the Crayola blue eyes lined in kohl; punk eyes peeking from a child's face. You're the kind that gets what she wants with a coquette's batted lashes. You giggled becomingly at each of his witless jokes.

What a counterfeit you are; what a dirty fake. What is it you're getting from him? Money? Sex? Is it adoration? It is, isn't it. Adoration. I bet you get it from anyone you want. You can't live without it. He's such a slouch that he doesn't see it. He thinks he's a real winner. He thinks he's catching you!

I love watching your game. What do you do, my little witch, when you are done with them?

I can see the game now. You keep him around, don't you, until his stupidity begins eating at you. You lose your patience with him. You needle him with a seductive combination of praise and insult designed to make him love you, but begin to hate himself. He feels like he is failing you, so he tries harder. Double entendre for each phrase you utter, but you reel him in with witch kisses when you're done breaking him down. I bet you make a big show when he buys flowers for you. You preen on those kissable calves, those delicate ankles. You throw those luscious arms around him on tip toe. You make him want you again.

What happens when he has been successfully dissolved? Do you suck your poison right out of him again, your poison mixed with the personality he once had? I bet his friends wonder what happened to him. He stopped hanging out with his friends right? Because every time he was out, you called. You made it impossible for him to refuse you. You'd make yourself damaged, pathetic, in need of some strength that only he could provide. He rushes to your side, knight in shining armor style. His friends grew tired of being left in the dust. Now the only person left to care for him is you. You, who just wants him destroyed.

You minx. You radiate sweetness to the tips of your pink painted toes. You look all bubblegum and light. You cloud his mind with your cloying perfume. You make him see innocent little you through loving eyes, but all you are doing is dropping crumbs for him to scramble after.

Perfect little you. He didn't even see you coming.

February 23, 2010


I made a rather momentous decision recently. Six months ago, my life was headed in a different direction. I was primed to "do something" and "be somebody." Understand please, that I've been receiving these messages my whole life; messages from friends and family that I am somehow special, somehow different from the rest, somehow destined to do great things.

I have never felt enormous pressure from my family, but I have been conditioned to believe that I would be a success at anything I do. I set my life on a step by step plan to grow up and have a big career, to get published in scientific journals, to become a teacher, to make some groundbreaking discovery over the course of my research.

See, let's lay it out.
First, bachelors. Show I'm capable, work hard, raise the GPA, work in a lab, do independent research. Check. Second, get into a doctorate program. Show I'm capable, work hard, raise the GPA, work in a lab, do independent research. Third, compete to get a great internship. Show I'm capable, work hard, do independent research. Fourth, get hired. Show I'm capable, work hard, do independent research. Yeah. All that would be great if I had a passion for proving myself and performing independent research.

I had an epiphany. It seems so plain now, written above, but this was something I missed for four years.

I have also always had a huge fear of becoming so wrapped up in striving for a "successful" career that I lose the good parts of me. I did not see that it was already happening.

I bought stacks of books with an unspoken promise that I would one day get to read them. I constantly refused nights out with friends. I never did yoga or went for a jog (things I love!) because catching a little extra sleep was more important.
This last semester, I lost 15 lbs. completely on accident, because stress made me nauseous.

No more. I am no longer going to be the little unhappy ball of stress I have been. For the next few months, my one true goal is to get back to me. The one true me. The me that dances, sings, does yoga, reads, cooks for god's sake. The rest can wait.

I met someone. We share a platonic relationship, but life-changing conversation over coffee the other night made me see her for who she is. She burns. You know how I so love those passionate people. She reminded me that in life, there are no rules save the ones we choose to abide by.

I'm ready to move forward. Ready to create a life full of my own rules.

Rule #1: There are no rules.

February 19, 2010


I refuse to hide who I am. See me.

I play the coquette in crowded rooms. While attending the New Year's Eve party, I yearned for a like-minded person. I shot shielded glances, smiled sly smiles, I watched pursed lips, I watched eyes follow me. No takers. Are we all just so painfully shy? I want someone a little more fearless.

I want to be a little more fearless myself. Fearlessness in women tends to offend people. I love that. I'm still trying to break out of the old mold. I'm trying to offer myself up for all life experience. I'm trying to be as many people as I can before the fear of my own mortality takes me.

In every room, I look. Where are you, precious one? Just one, somewhere, who burns.

What do you look for in a man? What do you look for in a woman? They all ask it.

The laundry list begins: intelligent, witty, kind, tall, dark, handsome, funny, dedicated, responsible, muscular, musical, talented, adventurous, family oriented, reliable, open-minded. Blah. These are all the same words you'll hear from anyone. What does it mean to be dedicated? What qualifies one as intelligent?

No. That is not how I play. Give me someone who burns. The rest doesn't matter.

February 9, 2010


"What will you be forced to do?" her blog asked. Hmmm, forced.

Do it. Push me against the door hard enough to leave a bruise where my shoulder hits the frame. Crush yourself against my body, thrust your thigh between my legs, bite at my lips and teeth and tongue. Decide that is not enough, and flip me around roughly. Press yourself against the curve of my ass, pinning me to the door. Yank my shirt over my head, use it to imprison my arms. Nip at my neck. Leave the imprint of your teeth buried in the skin of my shoulder. Use your free hand to caress my breast, side and hip, back up to pinch my nipple rudely until I squeak. Use that hand to seize my hair, pulling my head to expose my neck, that tender, tender neck.

Take me.

Pull me to the ground with you, your ardor burning so brightly that making it to the bed does not matter. Keep your fingers tangled in my hair, keep pulling. Make me arch for you. Nibble down my side, drinking in my heat, devouring. Stuff yourself with the taste of my skin. Use those teeth to unbutton my pants, push them violently to my knees. You want me too badly to care about freeing my legs. Grab my hips, and jerk me to your mouth. Don't rise for air.

Consume me.

Climax comes quickly, too quickly, my passion yanked from me. I'm wet, saturated with desire, legs still bound by tight jeans. Coming down, cooling off. You don't want me coming down. Quick movements, and I have my face buried in carpet pile, my ass exposed. Once, twice, three times you slap in fast succession. My face reddens with stinging pleasure-pain. You invade me with your fingers, a tight, wet, forced fit. You grab at my hair, yank my head back, offering your wet fingers to my lips, pressing them passed my teeth to my tongue. You grind against me, the hard tip of you seeking. You place yourself carefully, but thrust deeply. You are such a tight fit, my legs bound, your weight against my back. Your movements confirm your arousal, your movements short and charged with energy. Closer, I feel you coming, closer. Closer, and you are there, writhing against my back, making last final thrusts deep.

Finished with me.

You withdraw, pleased with yourself. I roll to look at you, timid gaze from beneath hair. You smirk, so satisfied. Look at you.
You loosen the harness, let the dildo fall. I laughed when you first strapped the harness around yourself. I am not laughing now. "Go clean yourself up," you demand. "We're leaving."

February 3, 2010


So much to read, and so little time for reading.

I am passionate about bookstores. I love these little places where all bits of knowledge gather. Something about the atmosphere breeds a new persona for me. They are tantalizing places, and they vary so widely.

Barnes and Noble gives off corporate-elite airs. Borders greets consumers with a slightly hippie front. Books-A-Million man-handles shoppers into a hug. Musky, dusty, little independent bookstores prime inquiring minds for a rainy afternoon's perusal. Each store broadens the possibilities for the future, but often so widely that I almost have a panic attack thinking of all the reading I have yet to do.

I'm young. I read voraciously in adolescence, but focused on contemporary (mostly vampire) fiction. My teenaged self adored Anne Rice, Anne Bishop, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Laurell K. Hamilton. Then I devoured John Grisham and David Baldacci. I morphed into love for Neil Gaiman, and Chuck Palahniuk. I still adore selected works by most of these authors.

I grew up a little. I started reading Austen, Swift, Capote, Edith Warton, but as class requirements. I skimmed over them in my procrastinating way. I wish to revisit them all. I read Oscar Wilde and Dorothy Parker for leisure, and swallowed Lewis Carroll and Ayn Rand right along with them.

Now, I yearn to discover more of the Greats (only a capital "G" will do). I want to consume everything. I have stacks of books not yet read. William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, Toni Morrison, Thomas Hardy, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Victor Hugo, Dante Alighieri, Gabriel García Márquez, Vladimir Nabokov, Jorge Luis Borges, Franz Kafka, James Joyce. I want to read so many more. They are a marching military force, and I can only pick them off one by one. How does one conquer such a force?

How can I, with part-time employment, full-time student responsibilities, and a lively social life, enjoy them all?

January 31, 2010


I thought I was finished. I thought I was completely free. I was wrong.

Choosing a background picture, I stumbled across an old picture of her. I felt the same old electric jolt, the same hot rush. No! "No," I say.

I had hoped to rinse it all away, standing disconsolate beneath the shower head. Water streaming against my body, head hanging, I hoped to cleans myself. I hoped to rinse away every last petty insult, every last little barb. I hoped to forget as easily as I was forgotten. I hoped to lose those poignant good moments right there with the stinging remarks, right there with all of the rage. Let it all wash away. Force it out. Let it all swirl down the drain. That same old cleansing ritual: breathe in pure white light, force out bad black air. I submerged myself, a baptism. Hot water streaming, pooling in my mouth, covering my face, warming me, cleansing me. Water gently pounding at my eyes, water trickling across my lips, wrapped in the sensation alone, all thoughts forced away.

Stepping away from the stream, the cold strikes me, pin-pricks my skin, tears away my comfort. It's the same old game. Nothing feels as good as that water, that hot, beautiful flow. Nothing feels as horrible as being forced out, out into the cold, out to face the emotion the waters numbed.

I want to sit you down, I want to ask you "why?" Why do you hate me?

The pleasant moments still grasp at me. They pull at my skin, my hair. They taunt me, dancing their path inside my head. They leave a filthy dark residue, a permanent stain. They break my resolve. I want to feel nothing when I look at you. Stop TAUNTING me.

January 25, 2010


I like surprising people. I like toying with notions of gender.

I am a feminine woman. I am not any incarnation of high femme, but I wear eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara. I paint my toes pretty colors. I like heels, but seldom wear them. I wear curve-accentuating clothing, but still love sleeping in huge baggy sweatpants. Feminine enough. I have natural nails; no French manicure for me, thanks.

I like taking on stereotypically male roles. I love the little jump-start surprise men get when a femme woman holds the door open for them. I love the discomfort men display when they can't decide whether to walk through the proffered open door, or to attempt to encourage the woman through instead.
I take secret delight in taking up more space than I need, as men so often do. Maintaining the "'own your space' butch sit" (see Roxy's blog) while owning a femme identity replete with cleavage, pink lip gloss and ass hugging jeans tends to create visible dis-ease in others.
If you've noticed, while walking, many men refuse to make way for a passing woman. This is easily noted in malls. Women will yield, making space for men to pass; a femme woman refusing to make space garners many strange looks.

Defining oneself requires some measure of defining one's gender and one's sexuality. Any possible assemblage of gender and sexuality is acceptable, but maintaining fluidity confuses people. My definition: I am femme, I am bisexual, I am a woman who chooses to perform gender in any way I wish. Performing gender my way is my fluidity.

I have had the pleasure of meeting many people who enforce strict roles for themselves. A slightly feminine lesbian acquaintance allows the length of her hair to dictate the role she inhabits. A longer cut exposes her submissive behaviors, allows her to let others take charge. A short cut yields masculine behaviors, brings out the "player" in her, gives her confidence to walk like she owns herself. This friend is discomfited when I pay for meals, initiate sex, or hold doors open for her. Because I am a femme woman, I am subverting her masculinity. This same friend prefers women daintier than I; it seems the smaller her partners are, the less threatening they become. I am not surprised that maintaining traditional masculine behaviors scratches her itch for gender definition.

I fully understand why a woman would choose to maintain a rigid, masculine gender performance, and why a man would choose a feminine one, but I take pleasure in loose definition.

January 20, 2010


Oh, I do so cherish those I can be real with. I delight in the ability to say, "You know, I actually haven't thought of you at all," without provoking offense. Thank you for that.

Nothing piqued me more than B's creation of this alternate personality for me. I do not take offense easily. I do not fly into jealous fits of rage. I do not do things to intentionally piss anyone off, and then pretend the action was innocent. I do not manipulate people. I do not send snide text messages. The creature B thinks I am does these things.

The actual me aims to be brutally honest. I ask for what I want. I tuck unwarranted jealousy away, and do not act on minor outbursts of anger. How could my character be so grievously mistaken? Very little of what I say has hidden meaning. I do not understand. Perhaps an over-reliance on introspection leads B to believe my character bears similarity to the antics she displays?

Because I am female, people assume I will exhibit specific behaviors. Men assume I will fall in immediate postcoital love. Women assume I am casting a jealous eye toward any female person they speak to. No one believes I visit gay clubs without underlying reasons (relating to spying on exes, of course.) How droll.

Is it unbelievable that I would dare, as a woman, to approach a man? Is it implausible that I could enjoy sex for sex's sake? Is it crazy to think that I am a reasonable human being, merely because I'm female? JFC.

Three Seed

I leave you with this song today. The music steals me away. The song is a blog all it's own, as it says so much more than I can say.

Don't forget to press play.

January 19, 2010


"The defining emotion of the romantic period was yearning, not love," I heard today while passing another classroom. Yearning. The word creates delicious feelings for me. It was a pleasure to overhear this morsel of information. Yearning. It echoes so mysteriously for me.

Reading a book review via Bookslut awoke another yearning for me, today. Touching others' creations breeds a yearning to create something myself.

This passage resonated particularly strongly:
"...and the reason I was so transformed wasn’t that it was an opaque experience, with its workings hidden, allowing me to forget that it was a creation, of actors (onstage), of a director (now invisible), of a writer (once alive). It was exactly the opposite. It was that I was participating in that whorl of energy. I could feel the creation happening, right at that moment. And the best books allow their creation to bloom up, again and again, whenever they’re read, and maybe even when they’re closed, on the shelf."

Read the full review here.

January 18, 2010


Nothing infuriates me nearly so much as being judged. The slightest indication of disapproval makes me want to hurl expletives at you as if they would strike you with any significant force. They do no damage, however.

What holier-than-thou judgment can you pass on me for being free? Others say your judgment is a product of your green-eyed monster. I do not care for the cause.

I do not find flaw in my licentiousness. You enjoyed my writing when you were among the subject matter. I am amused that my compositions become contemptible following some perceived offense against you.

I write about my all-consuming moments, about what stirs my passions. You should count yourself lucky to be listed thus.

My writing is truth and fabrication, and an extension of me. With a scornful voice, you alert others about it. About me. You warn potential partners about my propensity to write about sex, as if they would need a warning, as if I would not ask before posting, as if what I do is dirty in some way. You insult me.

Writing, for me, is a potent expression of pleasure. Many things please me. Yes, sex pleases me. Yes,intimacy, love, affection, and joviality please me. Yes, literature, art, music, dance, individuality, free form expression, and writing please me. I immerse myself in my loves here. I recline on my literary couch and indulge in a little lotus-eating here. I am not ashamed.

January 17, 2010


I said in a previous blog, "Give me someone who burns the way I burn."

I am continuously drawn back to this. Match me. Exceed my expectations. There is no room for timidity here.

The first night she was pissed because I showed my nerves. She would explode if I were to ask her, "Can I have you?"
I understand. When you want to be swallowed up, the last thing you want to hear is a request for permission.

I am multi-faceted, as is everyone else. I force exhibitionism. I create this alter, this other me. This alter, she exudes fervent sexuality. She rides the men she wants; she seduces the women. She's capable, strong, independent, and in constant need of a fucking. She abhors fragility.

Fragility. It should be a name. The other part of me. The one I too abhor. The one who questions. The one who would dare query, "Can I have you?" The one who thinks, "What if?"

There is no reconciling these two opposing entities. Whether I am Fragile or Exhibitionistic matters little, as I still burn.

It is clever that I can be so many things. I am still playing. I am still trying on so many, many hats. I hope never to be forced to choose just one. No rule exists requiring a permanent hat, right?

Today, give me the Thoroughly Bad one.

January 16, 2010


There are blogs sitting in my drafts list, blogs that I want more than anything to publish. Being the exhibitionist that I am, I told the wrong people where to find this blog. Too much truth for all the wrong people.

I'm working to fix my error. I may need to delete a few details, but I will post as soon as I am able.

January 6, 2010


She begins it with a burning, a yearning, a small fire. I’ll be seeing a movie, checking my email, sitting in class, driving home or reading a book, and suddenly she’s there: an intrusive demon requiring placation. She rears her head, smiles her sadistic, toothy grin, and will not be buried. She tells me, “Now. The time is now. Do it.”

The beast visits often; I am no longer surprised by the calls. I still try to drive the need away, burying myself amongst the pages of the book I was reading, narrowing my focus back to the film I was watching. I tighten my control each time in a mere attempt to keep her at bay. I always believe my will is stronger than hers, this fiend, this she-devil. It is never so.

She prods me from inside, stroking my brain’s synapses, performing a tap dance on my mental sinews. She writhes against my lungs, causing my heart to palpitate, my breath to come short. She slides her lithesome body inside mine, pressing herself into my veins until she becomes a wet, throbbing part of me. She makes me her marionette; making me dance, her unwilling victim on strings. I cannot ignore her.

Perched in my ear, she implants ideas, stories and images. She creates other lithesome, seductive, bewitching little succubi with my fragmented thoughts and her wretched kisses. Together, these succubi straddle my ankles and bind my wrists with their tongues. They pour poison into me, and the poison always eats its way out. Her words paralyze me as if they were toxins; forcing me to take my hands, use them for her purposes.

I fight her. I tell her, “No! I can’t!” When she has had her way with me, I tell her, “No more. I have no more to give.” She nods her head, smiling again, hissing, “Yes, you have more, and you’ll give more.” She makes me. I give her what she wants.

My she-devil, my beast. My inspiration, my muse.