FairNine

Lyrics

2011-04-12T13:09:00.002-05:00

Nothing compares to the feel of this music. Rolling into me, through me, carrying me with it, I so easily lose myself in the flow of it. Move with it. Hips rocking, the music a sensation all it’s own. Pick the right soundtrack, and you’ve made the night. My pick is always heavy with drums, bass, and excruciating guitar riffs in combination with delicious lyrics. Always this music steals me away, each beat satin inside my skin, evoking emotions better left dormant, most often desire - exquisite, this music, this feeling.

Moving music always includes provocative lyrics - incendiary, visceral lyrics. Lyrics of lust, of being consumed by love or desire, lyrics of burning. I want solid concepts. These are not always positive notions, but also include desperation, living/dying, lust and love lost. Many, many beautiful songs are heartbreaking in their intensity, speaking of pain, of sorrow, of absolute despair - music of a passionate life.

One song in particular affects me like no other. The initial sweep of guitar drugs me, speeding my pulse, narrowing my focus until all sense is drowned out. My mood and the events of the day do not matter. Nothing matters. Within this song, all things are possible. The lyrics do not form a cohesive story for me, they are just bits of danger, of something menacing lurking. The bass centers and binds, the guitar pulls and whips, the two creating a rend within, a frenzy of torn longing. I’m left with an uncomfortable feeling, and an irresistible pull to play it again.

Abandon

2011-04-07T15:54:00.002-05:00

She surprised me with her daring. I expected her to protest, straddling me, as I slide her up to meet my mouth. She utters no protest, but complies, already grinding against my lips, teeth, tongue. Her self-possession is darling. Later, legs astride my hips, she continues her rocking motion. With complete abandon she pounds herself into me until another exquisite orgasm rocks my core. After each one, she purrs, “You’re so fucking sexy!” The words draw out, melting in her mouth, a heartbreaking expression of feeling. After each one she seems completely unsatisfied with her work, and pushes to continue on. Kisses resume; she slides back down between my clenched knees. I beg her, “a break! I need a break,” but she doesn’t comply. I know that desire. I remember being so consumed with scent and taste and touch that I could continue eternally. She doesn’t know that it does run on for me, even after I leave her. I am consumed by her, my skin aflame with echoes of what she wrings out of me. Never have I been loved to the point of absolute exhaustion like she loves me.

She is an enigma to me. So self-assured, so willing to abandon anything for this pleasure. She so willingly mounts me, her face between my legs as I bury my face between hers. She loses herself in sensation as her pleasure peaks. She grinds, rides, thrusts against my face, fierce, just like I thought it would be. Exquisite.

She’s an enigma because she’s so free, and yet so chained. She makes my blood burn.

Agony

2011-04-06T13:14:00.002-05:00

“Oh fuck,” she says, “oh fuck baby, oh fuck,” each syllable delicate, girlish. “Oh fuck,” she cries, her legs wrapping, unwrapping, grasping, pulling, tugging at my head. That first night she whispers, “I want to fuck you,” and I swear I swoon. Titillating to hear such a harsh word uttered with that exquisite, fragile little voice. Her desperation is the sweetest part. I want to immerse myself in those longing hips, continually wrap myself between those thighs and knees. Her delicate frame belies the ferocity she demands in lovemaking. I’m addicted to that muscular back; deep kissable dimples found low, sinewy lines up and up spread into a perfect curve from hip to shoulder. Her voice alone is enough to make my desire run hot. What would she be like, legs astride my face? Fierce, I’m certain, and very powerful.

My skin is awash in scent; the scent of her, of cologne, of cigarettes, of beer, of her mouth, of cunt. I’m rolling, swallowed up in it, in her. Strange to attribute all this to chemical reactions when surely it must be much more.

A kiss before she runs off and with a soft growl she cries, “stop looking so sexy!” My mind is an agony of her words, her sensations. I don’t see what she sees, but all I see is her.

Fearless

2011-04-05T10:00:00.000-05:00

This one has no visible display of passion. I ask her what lights her fire, she tells me, “This.” So many, many things light mine. In my perverse journey to find someone who matches me, I find only people with some madness of their own. What madness do others see in me?

She’s still radiant, even with her small madness.

Crossing the bridge my heart beat with the whipping wind. Constantly pushing boundaries and challenging small fears, this bridge has always been one of my trials. The city lights are incomparably lovely, the glint off the roiling waters magnetic but also alarming. The bridge does not cause my alarm, nor does the fierce wind. It’s the water. The fairly shallow water should not produce anxiety either, but it is the water I fear. Even the gentle lapping against the bank seems like an impassioned boil, the opaque depths seem an angry living thing. Surely some creature must be slipping around beneath the surface, ready to burst forth in a spitting fury of water. I do not understand how something so enthralling can be the source of such tension.

Fearless. I want to be fearless. Conquering that emotion is the first step toward complete freedom. Last night, I was fearless. My skin could not hold me in. I felt buoyed by the constant buffeting wind, overjoyed by the warm air, the embracing dark and leafless branches a perfect backdrop to my fire. I belong.

Memoirs of A Single Girl: Lesson #1

2011-04-04T14:14:00.004-05:00

Lesson #1

If you’re going to try online dating, invest in a text friendly phone.

Who does not have a text friendly phone in this day and age, you may ask? Well…Ok, so before all these smart phones came out, I was a firm believer in the “my phone is for my own damned pleasure” mentality. As in, if I don’t want to talk, I’m not gonna answer the damned thing.

*Gasp!* I’m sure to hear from potential readers.

And to you I say, “get over it.” Also, phones were for texting and talking. Not for Facebook, Angry Birds, and watching episodes of How I Met Your Mother. I’ve changed my mind though. Now I WANT to play Angry Birds, but even the adequate phone I purchased the first time around sent it’s touch screen capabilities to cell phone heaven. My carrier kindly gave me a loaner phone…from the 80’s. No QWERTY keyboard folks. Ugh. Flash back to the 7 potential dates I’m currently texting…

FLASH!

Ok, not 7. Seven is overkill, and only exists in my dreams of social butterfly-hood. Still, even one or two potential suitors in addition to random texts from friends means my down time is now filled with furious (but very, very slow) texting. I’m almost like, “omg, just call me.” Not quite though. I just want my old phone back please.

K thanx bye.

Steps

2011-03-06T18:18:00.002-06:00

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.

My, me, mine

2011-02-05T12:23:00.004-06:00

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.

War

2010-07-27T10:55:00.009-05:00

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?

Plan for the winnings

2010-07-07T15:53:00.003-05:00

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.

Muah!

Dangerous Lilly's 2 year Blogiversary!

2010-06-18T08:33:00.003-05:00

Dangerous Lilly is having a contest to mark the 2nd anniversary of her blog and has 6 prizes to give away! Check out the original contest post on her site to find out how you can enter, too.

The Prizes and Sponsors:

Kink Academy

One lucky winner will get a full 1-year membership to the Kink Academy, thanks to Princess Kali. A membership to Kink Academy normally costs $9.95 a month which is a really damn good deal for all the new content that gets uploaded every month, and all the existing content.

Shevibe.com

Shevibe.com generously has donated Lilly’s Holy Grail sex toy, the Njoy Pure Wand.

Fascinations

Fascinations has something for the boys – not just a Fleshlight, a Fleshlight Lady Vibro Touch! This one has a special inner texture and spots to tuck in 3 little bullet vibrators so you can have it vibrate if you want.

MyPleasure.com

MyPleasure.com has donated a beautiful Tantus dildo, the Twilight Vamp Dildo! Gorgeous, pale and sparkly silicone.

MauiKink.com

MauiKink.com, a great manufacturer of tons of gorgeous, handmade (in Maui!), kinky accoutrements and bondage rope is donating not 0nly a beautiful “frat” style Mahogany and Koa wood paddle, but also (2) 6MM 15ft lengths of Natural Romanian Hemp Rope.

Good Vibrations

Good Vibrations is giving one winner the Wahl 2-Speed massager, a powerhouse external vibrator.

I'm working hard to win the Njoy Pure Wand. The Pure Wand receives rave reviews from many in the sex blogging community, comes from an amazing toy company, is free of toxins and extremely durable, and received AVN's "O" Award for Outstanding non-powered product. What more could a girl want in a sex toy?

I am practically jumping up and down yelling, "Please, Please, PLEASE!!!"

Solution

2010-05-07T09:29:00.000-05:00

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?

Waking

2010-04-29T09:19:00.002-05:00

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.
Ok.
I let go, drowning. No air, no tactile senses, only you. You and those eyes.

Beauty

2010-04-28T12:13:00.003-05:00

Let me tell you about the beauty found in small details.

I found a coffee shop today. Finding a coffee shop soothes my art hippie soul. Examining new customers as they arrive and seat themselves for lunch soothes my need for people watching. This place is a smattering of corporate business types, nurses, police, and people who do god knows what. There are three of us with laptops, two on the coffee shop couches. Most of the people choose to dine at tables. I chose a spot nearest the windows.

I glance up and notice miniature unicycle replicas carefully displayed, recessed in the cutout wall. The ceiling over the majority of the shop is bronzed tile, reminiscent of architecture I saw in London and Rome. The floor spreads in a hideous yellow and white cafeteria tile. Regardless of the floor's appearance, the ceiling and displayed unicycles please me.

The postsecret this week was lovely and surprising. Here's the card the fellow stumbled across.

Frank-

I've been following PostSecret for years and have never seen one of my secrets posted. But something happened a few days ago that was much cooler.

I opened your latest PostSecret book at Barnes & Noble and read that secret on page 5 about the note found on the plane. I was shocked to realize that I had written the note a couple years ago.

I had left the note on the airplane in hopes that I could wake somebody up from the trance we get stuck in everyday and realize what is really important.

I hope he and his new wife are very happy together.

-Minneapolis

Thoughts expressed, like that of this postsecret fellow, create an echo in me. I feel I could write a life manifesto.
I left my career track life for fear of becoming stuck. I am priming myself for a move most find questionable because I cannot abide by leaving such a gaping unknown. I still yearn for immersion in more creativity than I, myself, express. I'm touched by a lyric to a song I heard the other day, something about living a life out loud. Part of me thinks, "what does that even mean?" while part of me resonates with it.

I dislike my way of leaving seemingly disconnected strands of thought as a blog. The strands to belong to a greater whole, I promise. I just have no way of braiding them for you.

Random

2010-04-12T12:06:00.001-05:00

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.

Self-exploration

2010-04-01T14:30:00.002-05:00

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.

Blur

2010-03-23T13:47:00.002-05:00

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.

Story

2010-03-13T20:17:00.002-06:00

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...

Silence

2010-03-08T12:34:00.000-06:00

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.

Longer

2010-03-01T14:07:00.004-06:00

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.

Witch

2010-02-25T17:53:00.004-06:00

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.

Epiphany

2010-02-23T15:13:00.005-06:00

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.

Reiteration

2010-02-19T20:57:00.000-06:00

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.

Use

2010-02-09T14:11:00.002-06:00

"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."

Conquer

2010-02-03T17:48:00.002-06:00

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?

Self-indulgence

2010-01-31T22:17:00.003-06:00

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.

Unsated

2010-01-29T19:13:00.007-06:00

I hate him.

I was livid, but still ablaze. I wanted him as far away as a person can be from another, but yearned for the toe-curling indulgence of cock creating friction against the ridged little place inside of me. I had been denying myself for just such a night. No orgasms, no sex with the others, all to come to completion with him inside of me; to come to completion in a way I have never been able with another. That was before the argument.

How dare he? He knew I wanted him tonight. He knew I have wanted it for days. Tonight, he disgusts me. Tonight I hate his scent, I hate his pleasure noises, I hate his hand kneading my breast. I don't want him. I want sex, and he will do. The other option is forcing sleep. Forcing sleep is not acceptable.

I mull over the possibilities. Wait until I am no longer angry? He will fall asleep. Go masturbate while bedded on the couch? Masturbation is so unsatisfying. Have sex with him while furious? Hmmm...

He accepted my embrace. I hated him more for it. Each kiss fell on cold lips, each grasp and pinch and stroke unwelcome. "Just do it!" I mentally cursed. Finally he is ready, finally inside, finally intense. I rode him with my hate still boiling, with my disgust just under the surface. Chasing the white light. Kindling, sparks, fire, blaze. I forgot how to breathe.

I left him hard, still waiting. I have no desire to please him. I felt disgust. Not for using him, but for whoring myself out for this beast on my back; this endlessly unsated beast.

Genderplay

2010-01-25T13:46:00.008-06:00

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.

JFC

2010-01-20T21:55:00.003-06:00

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

2010-01-20T14:10:00.004-06:00

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.

Bookslut

2010-01-19T16:37:00.003-06:00

"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.

Dare

2010-01-18T19:55:00.004-06:00

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.

Abhor

2010-01-17T00:09:00.003-06:00

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.

Exhibitionism

2010-01-16T20:16:00.000-06:00

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.

Muse

2010-01-06T16:20:00.000-06:00

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.

Music

2009-12-30T14:20:00.001-06:00

The music was a piece of her, not just a remnant, but a part of the whole. All great artists are mad in some small way, perhaps the kind of madness that comes only from giving away the pieces.

Maybe it was the alcohol that caused such sensations, the alcohol that so lowered inhibitions that my body felt the music as a lover’s hand. Her hair was draped across her face, that face which was so serious. The song she sang was an extension of her, a portion of her soul, flesh and blood reaching, the way she played it, out to caress the other girl. She tore a piece of herself off and gifted it to the other girl, and to all of those watching.
I wrote before about fire, about zest. I wrote about passion and intensity and burning. I said before, she burns. The way she burned last night won’t be quickly forgotten.

She dropped to her knees, guitar in hand. She played as if the song would burst from her if she did not use her mouth to give it form. The words she sang pressed lips to our lips, tangled fingers in our hair, pinned us against the wall and left us there. The song pushed at us, enveloped us, wrapped us in rapture, but left us with no relief. Each ringing tone grasped at us, embraced us, took us.

The other girl knelt in a little puddle of herself on the floor. She felt it the way I felt it, her back arched, her eyes blurred. She felt each syllable push its way into her like the fingers of an unruly lover. The voice rolled her under, like it did me. When it ended, we all lay there, shattered.

It was exquisite and intense, excruciating and euphoric. Well done.

Hedonism

2009-12-23T01:10:00.000-06:00

Does music ever induce that mood in you? Must move. Must write. Must let it devour you.

I had a strange dream. In it I was doing commonplace things, but was drunk, dizzy, incapable of directing my own movements. I was not paralyzed, just tilted. Swimmy. I woke with a feeling of drowning in dizziness. I was stuck, and so tired of fighting it. Is that what death feels like?

I never understood why people are so driven to meet career goals. I realized it is truly another form of running. It was for me. Currently I'm existing in life's gratifying little pleasures. Hedonism, they call it. There is no higher goal than pleasure. Hot tea, warm robe, gorgeous perfume, stack of freshly purchased books, floaty music, fragrant lavender.

I'm swimming in serotonin, drowning in my own dopamine.
"Self-improvement is masturbation."
Everything is masturbation, really.

The very word carries negative connotations. Society caters to a different crowd. Here we are looked down upon for seeking pleasure. It is a shame, really.

Jealousy

2009-12-18T10:40:00.003-06:00

She tells me, "What? You don't want to date me anyway." I watched her kiss her ex, thoroughly. It isn't the kiss that gets to me. It was the look of puppy-dog love on her face. I could have watched her kiss any other girl without complaint. I tried, standing there, not to feel anything about it. I tried to observe, to enjoy the sight of two pretty girls kissing. I tried not to get girly about it.

I do not want to date her, but I very much do. We are so opposite, and she has already remarked to others that we are not compatible. We would be a destructive match, and I am not strong enough to withstand her leaving me for the ex when the ex wants her back. I wanted to take her last night. I was angry and wanted to take her. I felt like being forceful, making her forget the ex for just a moment. I do not love her, but I do like her a good deal. I want her time and attention, but how much of this desire for her is just desire?

She toyed with me all night. She grabbed my hands, my hips, my pants. She responded to my kiss in a most appealing way. I loved it. I want more of her. I feel like I missed an opportunity last night. I'm still kicking myself for it.
I still have a difficult time reading her signals. I am terrified I'll make a move and it won't be well received. For someone so "dominant," I am rather passive.

I was a tool for her at the end of the night. I was something for her to flaunt to test the waters with her ex. I hate not being wanted for who and what I am. A number of my good friends hate that I spend time with her. This is why. We can hang out and have a great time, but in the end I am losing something of myself to her.

F/G/T

2009-12-17T11:35:00.003-06:00

Her writing does something explosive to me. Her words create an awareness, a divine feeling of being larger than oneself. Her descriptions have a way of flowing within, leaving me changed in some small way.

"I suppose I’m drawn to the rules of language for the same reasons that I’m drawn to sex that has ropes, blindfolds, the sting of floggers and the sweet smell of submission. I like rules because I like to break them. I like structure because I enjoy subverting it. I like structure, and structure is narrative, and just as I pretty much abhor free-form poetry, I pretty much abhor lyrical fucking, that rose-petal-strewn-bed, Sarah McLaughlin saccharine flavor lovemaking—that kind of sex that abides by conventional Hallmark syntax and doesn't allow for nips, bites, wicked attenuations, or short declarative sentences of pneumatic fucking.

I like some DeLillo fucking. Self-referential, meta-sex expressed in tidy syntax like a parade of carefully shorn terriers. I see the beauty of Woolf foreplay, a long and languid descriptive frottage where the infinitesimal movement of one saltshaker can be laded with meaning. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good libido should be in want of Austen necking. I like discursive sex, narrative sex, argumentative sex, and expositive sex. I like my fucking to be bigger than a greeting card and a lot more memorable."

Chelsea G. Summers at FilthyGorgeousThings

Ask Less

2009-12-10T22:11:00.004-06:00

It's a common problem, I've heard. Couples find themselves perched on therapists' couches to discuss sex: not enough sex, too much sex, sex with the wrong people, sex addiction.

A friend asked, "Why don't you just get him to go to Priscilla's with you? Maybe you need to spice things up a bit." Can I offer you my other cheek too? Let's make the blush even.

It is not a problem stemming from the quality of relationship. I'm not a nagging "wife." He swears his lack of desire has nothing to do with me. We are just different people. His version of desire is desire for my thoughts, company, and mind. I value this. He is one of very few people that desires me thus. Maybe it would be enough if I were any other person. Turns out I cannot change this aspect of myself, and would not if I had the opportunity. I hate that I wish for any change in him.

I have requested his company in bed while I resolve my "problem." "No," he tells me. I have begged him. I have presented myself naked for the taking, in lingerie for the taking, every way but hanging from a freaking chandelier. Still "no," or "I'm tired," or "I'm stressed."

He told me once that he would want me more if I asked less. I stopped asking. I stopped pushing. I left him alone. Nothing changed.

I cannot ask him to meet me halfway on this. I cannot bear the idea of coercing participation, of him obliging but not really wanting me.

Occasionally, our moods match. We are a vanilla couple. He is the only man that has ever caused such intense orgasms for me. He's shaped perfectly for it. Our positions are missionary and girl-on-top. I love missionary with him. He prefers girl-on-top.

We do not spoon, he does not do me from behind. No 69ing, no rough stuff, no standing sex. His hands caress my body, but never uses his mouth. He does not enjoy cunnilingus. He does not enjoy me kissing or nibbling at his body. He is not interested in anal play. He does not want to try fisting. I does not want to tie me up, or be tied up. He doesn't want to watch porn with me. We talk about it. He knows.

I cannot help but to take it personally. I cannot masturbate while he is home. When I do, I have lonely, tear-inducing orgasms. They break something in me.

I am a woman of many tastes. I love all kinds of love. I love the soft kind, the forbidden kind, the rough kind, the kinky kind. What I desire though, more than anything, is his love.

My friend theorizes that my interest is fueled by the chase. She believes I want him because he does not want me. Would I want him less if he wanted me more? I don't know.

Yes, Virginia

2009-12-07T18:02:00.004-06:00

"Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus!"

This year, Santa us bringing beauty and joy in the form of some excellent gear and toys from FetLife. Fancy a harness? How about the Njoy Eleven? Or maybe a pretty corset?

Go sit on Santa's lap, tell him whether you've been naughty or nice, and spread the love!

Contest ends Jan. 4, 2010

Pleasing

2009-12-04T16:37:00.008-06:00

I watched them fuck. She held me close, laying on my chest with my nipple in her mouth, while he moved inside of her. It was immensely satisfying. I hope to eventually earn the privilege of seeing him penetrate her. I want to see everything. I yearn for their exposure.

I have never tread this ground before. Things are going swimmingly. I let her set the boundaries. He plays with her boundaries, but never topples them. They created a vision before me last night, and that vision bred an exquisite lust in me.

With my head between her legs, with his lips on her lips, I experienced no jealousy. With his cock buried inside of her, with me laying and watching, my only desire was to provide pleasure for both of them. We are still treading softly. His participation is entirely contingent upon her wishes. This was our second encounter. I was her first. She receives my ministrations willingly, but had not reciprocated the first time. I understand this, and would be content to please her forever without so much as a single caress in return. Last night, she exposed me for his eyes to see. Last night, she explored me as well.

I am confident in pleasing her, in pleasing him. My confidence slips when she turns her eyes to me. I have become used to pleasing others.

Crash

2009-12-02T11:06:00.003-06:00

She said, "You know, you're kinda dark." " You aren't like anyone I've ever met." " You're mature." All of this because I expressed liking for a quote by a passionate photographer. All of this because I badly want a tattoo. It bothers me that she knows that part of the immense desire for the tattoo is the immense desire for the pain. I hate how transparent I am to her, but I also delight in it.

I am a passionate person. Everything I love incites a fire in me, a burning. I am easily swept up. I look for that quality in others.

Art will do it for me, photography and sculpture will too. Music, good writing, dance. Above all, seeing that fire burning in other people does it for me. I love the passion with which some people live. These fiery people are nearly always problematic. There is always something not quite right about them. All the fervency leaves them a little unbalanced. We all crash. This I love too.

Can anyone tell me that they do not love that ardor in others? There is nothing like seeing someone in their element. Nothing like seeing someone living for what they are doing. S was very much this way. She was a beauty, my ideal woman really. She loved to dance, she loved to play. We were very good friends. She moved to Arizona and we lost touch. This does not bother me as it would others. We are that type of people. We understand that friendships come and go. Ours would still be a friendship if she appeared unannounced on my doorstep, only to be gone in the morning. It is the passion. Those who have it are the only ones that understand it in others.

Maybe the passion is why I am so enamored with B. C does not understand it, because he is a rational being. He is a being seemingly without this passion. B has the fire. C hates it when I tell him I want to be near her because we are so alike. He does not see the likeness. B and I are very different people. Very different, but B burns, and B crashes.

He mocks me because I am so naive. He mocks me because I trust in people so easily. I feel the whole of the human race should support each other. A very naive view, apparently.

I understand flaws in others when they should not be understood. I am flawed. I know how wonderful it is for someone to tell me it is okay to be this imperfect person. It is such a cliché to say I want to help.

I will leave you with this quote, because it touches me. It always has.

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes, 'Awww!'" --Kerouac

Emotions

2009-12-01T13:04:00.009-06:00

Love:

via fuckyeahbutches

Lust:

via obsessionart

Desire:

via Mike Crawley

Sensuality:

via Igor Amelkovich

Because the only people for me are the mad ones

2009-11-27T22:17:00.006-06:00

Sometimes it feels like a disease, some horrible affliction. It is a constant source of stress in my life. Never is it as simple as people make it out to be. Never is it as complex as people make it out to be.

It's a fire. A need. An all consuming desire. Not just for orgasms, but for contact, for the rush. Sex does not satisfy it. Sex sometimes makes it worse. I hate it and revel in it.

It needs no trigger. The question I receive most is, "what turned you on?" Does it need a catalyst?

I ache now. Nothing precipitated it. I ate dinner, I went to a movie, I listened to music, and now I want to consecrate the kitchen counter and the couch. Visions of threesomes dance in my head. I itch to take a tight little nipple into my mouth. I ache to feel a caress in return. Today, I hate it. My skin burns a living, breathing, crawling fire and, oh, how good it would feel to have someone's mouth quenching that flame.

It is not enough to have just someone "fix" me either. A cold orgasm is akin to starvation. This ardor needs to meet its match, needs a mate. Give me someone who burns the way I burn. Give me someone that drowns in it as I do. I need that intensity. Anything less is just far too paltry. I am starving.

#itsuckswhen

2009-11-26T13:43:00.000-06:00

via aag

Doing it wrong

2009-11-25T12:55:00.002-06:00

I have to say, I have never given much thought to other peoples' interpretation of the taste of semen and vaginal fluids. Really, I have mostly had my own opinions to consider. I am actually surprised that taste of fluids was never a topic of conversation with some of my friends. We talk about everything else. So, this post had that conversation for me.

I was not at all surprised by womens' descriptions of semen. "Semen tastes like bleach smells," struck a cord with me. Things like, "Salty, it's a lot like swallowing snot," turned my stomach. Many of the women's descriptions seemed to include the viscosity component. Really, for me taste isn't a problem. The smell and the viscosity often make me gag though.

Don't get me wrong. I love sucking cock. Pleasing a man like that is incomparable to anything else. However, because of my intolerance for the smell of love juice, and my disgust at the viscosity, I only blow the men I love. Like, really love, because I have to reallllyyyy care about you to swallow that shit. For the record, spitting is out. Why on earth would I hold it in my mouth longer than I had to ?!

I was, however, very surprised at mens' descriptions of the taste of vaginal fluids. "Like the ocean," "Cheerios," "Whipped bananas and ginger ale." WTF? I have never tasted a woman that tastes like whipped bananas, cheerios, or "like glass." What does glass taste like, exactly? I find all of these descriptions very amusing.

I have to say, I am intolerant of any description of vaginal fluids tasting like fish, soy sauce, or meat of any kind. If your girl tastes like fish...maybe it's time for a check-up. Maybe I'm wrong, I do not know. I always assume the performer of the cunnilingus must really dislike it to give a description like that.

I find it very difficult to describe how a woman tastes as well. Taste changes based on diet and cycle, of course. All I know is, I love how women taste. I love how they smell. I hate when a woman admits she's insecure about her taste. I love love love it.
It is an intoxicating scent, one that calls you to rub your face in it. I feel compelled to place my mouth there. The only thing that ever sucks about performing oral on a woman is that it is incredibly frustrating to both breathe and encourage the oh-my-god-don't-ever-stop gyrations. Sometimes I wish I didn't need to breathe, just so we could get her there.

Which brings me to my next topic...how on earth are there men out there that do not love being neck-deep in pussy?! I'm attracted to everything about a woman, so it is inconceivable to me that anyone could not love it too.
I guess I get it. After all, I'm not crazy about semen, and there are women out there that fucking love that stuff.

Then the women. I do not understand how any woman-loving woman could be so dainty with licking cunt. This is mostly based on personal preference, I guess. My belief is, if you can breathe, you're doing it wrong.

Want suggestions on improving taste? Visit Carnal Nation.

Dream

2009-11-25T00:21:00.005-06:00

A quandary...blog about the dream home, or the glorious list of turn ons? Dream home wins out tonight, as tonight I'm making a friend's house my home. Turn ons will come later, look for it.

I love houses that are open and airy. I want open ceilings dotted with skylights. The house I am currently occupying is filled with rooms adorn with wooden and glass doors (kinda like these cabinet doors).

There are so many windows, most without drapery of any kind. The floors are hardwood. Internal doors all have skeleton key style keyholes. Beautiful.

In my bedroom, you'd find framed photographs by Igor Amelkovich. Specifically this one, and this. I would need a third though. Really though, I would probably have several 3 photograph sets.

No house is complete without built in bookshelves, just like these. They make my heart flutter.

In my backyard garden, you'd find lavender and roses. Also, Lilies, dahlias and hyacinth planted outside of my sunroom. Yes, the sunroom. This house has one, but it does not appear to be in use. I would use mine constantly, lounging, reading, playing with the cats, whatever.

Also, off of my front porch you'd find birds. You'd find bushes specifically planted to attract the birds and butterflies, plus feeders scattered throughout.

I have so many images for the home I hope to one day build. Maybe time will see it come to fruition.

Meld

2009-11-23T22:43:00.002-06:00

This picture embodies so much of what I find sexy. These people are uninhibited. These people are caught up in lust in a way that removes higher level reasoning. I adore Gasp for the same reasons. The poem speaks of an all consuming desire to explore another person. Both the photo and the poem tug at my yearning for that kind of meld. Nothing is more satisfying.

image via erotiterrorist

Compilation

2009-11-22T23:23:00.020-06:00

As I am new to blogging, I struggle (it's a love struggle!) daily with trying to come up with something original. Many days, I photoblog, or post vids. The photos and videos are always something that brought me happiness for the day. Some days I write really angsty blogs that I never post because, really, no one should ever read them. Some days, I actually write a blog.

I try to avoid endlessly re-posting cool things other people find, mostly because the people I read all read each other.
However, I haven't been online is several days, and there's a lot of porn piling up on the internet...

This is a collection of things that titillated my senses this evening. Enjoy, loves:

The first, a scathingly brilliant review of New Moon. I'm not hating on the Twilight series. I'm actually rather apathetic about the whole mess. I love the beautiful mix of intellect and coarseness present in this writing though. Amazing.

Next, a glorious play on gender coupled with a dance-inducing song...
(Note: I did have a video embedded here, but it was recently made unavailable. The video was Prodigy's uncensored Smack My Bitch Up. I will work on finding it elsewhere for you).

Then, an interesting tidbit via erotiterrorist. Oh, powerplay.

Surprise! A very interesting composition by a good friend of mine. I delight in his oddity.

Followed by some amazing tweets by some amazing people:

sroxy:Actually, godless heathen is a misnomer. If anything I have way more gods than most of the Christians... I think this makes me a godlier heathen, hmmm?

aagblog: I love men. That is all.
Followed by: Facebook, stop being cunty.

chelseagsummers: A week of non-stop illness will make a girl feel steeped in patheticism. It's my pity-party, and I'll cry in my sorbet if I want to.

Also, a status from facebook: Finally got my books out of "storage" (the garage). Etiquette dictates that you should place Palahniuk next to Frost, right?

Finally, Judy Garland doing George Gershwin...

This honesty could be my demise

2009-11-20T13:29:00.002-06:00

Zooey Deschanel

via canihelpyousir

The song is so catchy, and Zooey's voice is lovely. I understand why Zooey made canihelpyousir's Swoon List.

Hate/Love

2009-11-19T21:54:00.006-06:00

She asked me, "You aren't going to write another blog about this, are you?" I don't remember my reply.

She is so small. I loved the curve of her back when she reached to adjust the thermostat. I loved the pressure she put on my hand while it was around her throat. I love that she wanted to be fucked. I love the scratches she left on me. I hate that she seemed repulsed by my sweat. I hate that she seemed impatient with me. I hate that she was so pissy when she woke.

She was so incredibly bitchy when she woke up around 6:30. "Are you awake?" she asks. When I say yes, she says, "of course you are."

I try to be bitchy right back, but end up running to get her water, get her some Tylenol, find her clothes. Anything to make her happy.

The bitchiness abates when she realizes Waffle House exists. I find this endearing.

Tell me, why do I do it?

Ghosts of contests past

2009-11-19T18:41:00.005-06:00

I won! Back in the day (October!), but I still won, nonetheless.

I entered a contest featured through aag, sponsored by Original Sin Hard Cider.

I strongly recommend checking out their posters. They are sexy, gorgeous, delicious little bits of life.

I won a comfy tee shirt, and got to pick two pretty posters as well.

See?

Now, no more contest talk.

Contest with an Njoy prize

2009-11-19T18:11:00.003-06:00

So....Edenfantasys is running a contest through EdenCafe. Check out the rules here.

The contest runs until Nov. 21st luvvies, so get crackin'.

Not only will an entry for this contest potentially win you one of these, (or one of these, or one of these...) it will also automatically get you one of these gorgeous little things:

Cool huh?

Remote

2009-11-18T15:04:00.002-06:00

You know that feeling? Yes, you do.

That feeling when you are comfortably curled up on the couch, warm, wrapped in a blanket, laptop firmly on lap, piles of papers stacked around you...

The feeling when you realize that the music coming out of your laptop is annoying the piss out of you, and that you must, just must, change it from computer output to TV output...but to do that you need the remote.

The remote, by the way, is on the coffee table, very much out of reach.

You attempt, very carefully, to become stretch armstrong, while all those precariously balanced stacks of papers, the laptop, even the blanket, all slowly inch toward the floor...

Yeah, you know what happened right?

Mostly, I just fell off the couch. I got the remote though, damn it.

Sock Dreams

2009-11-18T11:14:00.005-06:00

Le sigh...

via Sock Dreams

This war I fight, I can no more

2009-11-17T11:43:00.006-06:00

My skin is on fire. My heart is pounding, my breath short. She caused this.

She yielded softly to my kisses. She yielded and it seemed as if she had no interest. She does not raise her hands to my sides, does not pull my head to her. She passively accepts my lips. I keep kissing, desperate for a response, desperate to drive some desire into her. I ask, "What must I do for you to engage?" She breathes, "Engage?"

I brush her nipples through both layers of her cotton t-shirt. She arches, almost imperceptibly. Engaged.
I let my hand graze her side, push up her shirt, finally, finally brush her skin. Her heat amazes me. It's a dream.

I push her shirts up over her head, almost roughly. She grumbles a bit. I push up her bra. I can barely see her in the dark, though I know she prefers it that way. I can see she's soft. Her breasts are beautifully round, her nipples erect. I can't not have them in my mouth. I touch a nipple with my tongue, and she arches deeply. She writhes. She pushes her breasts at me, wanting more contact. I take as much of her into my mouth as my mouth will hold, more even. Heaven.

I want more of her. I brush kisses down her stomach, grazing her tattoos. Those tattoos....oh. I no longer just want her, I need her. Must taste her, must please her. Please?

"No," she says. "No," crushes me. I push kisses past the line of her pants...just a little. Crossing no boundaries. I kiss those gorgeous hips, I breathe in her heady scent. "No," she tells me.

I bite, just a soft bite, at her through her pants. I pray for the cloth to just dissolve, melt away. It will not. She said no.

I surface to kiss her. Again, she yields. I place my hand where my mouth was, pushing, rubbing, trying to please her. Still no permission.

I lay between her legs, kissing that yielding mouth. She and I have the same thought. She rolls me under as I roll her over me to straddle. Seamless. I cannot keep my hands off of her skin. So hot.

She's kissing me back. I grab her hips, push them against me. I am desperate to please her. I want to hear her orgasm. She rocks with my motions. She devours my mouth, her hands pulling at my hair, caressing my face. I feel her hand slide to my neck. She gently squeezes. She tests me, tightening a little. My head is thrown back, awaiting her administrations. Those kisses, the rocking, the caresses. I swoon. She is practically holding me up, against her.

We kiss, and it is over. I cannot please her tonight. My skin is on fire. I ache for her. We go to lay down. I fear that she will move away if I reach for her. She moves close, allows contact. She feels guilty, as do I for putting her in this position.

The guilt does not stop me from wanting more though.

Please?

Oh, Betty.

2009-11-17T11:15:00.003-06:00

Oh, Betty. *Breathy sigh...*

Look, The vid is a little dark, and the speaking parts are in French...but it still rocks my world. Oh, and ya'll know it's from The L Word, riiight?

Amélie

2009-11-16T15:05:00.003-06:00

She appears to impish. She has a look that makes me want to place a kiss on her nose...

via heroines

So soon

2009-11-13T14:04:00.005-06:00

I don't know what causes it, the deep welling of emotion from seemingly nowhere. This time, this blog provoked it.
Maybe the sadness in the words, "I don't know why we came together like this only to part so soon," provoked it.

The moments are strange. I break into deep sobs, but shed few tears, and they pass in just moments. They are melancholy epiphanies.

I sent her a text a moment ago, asking when I could see her. It was a bad move. Reaching out to her is bad idea.
She isn't available in any way, and grasping for her and receiving nothing just causes more pain.

Texts are our only form of communication, although communication is not an accurate word for what occurs. Lately, she does not answer my texts. She answers when she needs to talk, needs a ride, needs someone to ease her loneliness. I enjoy giving her whatever she wants to take, but she is taking the wrong things.

Heels

2009-11-13T12:34:00.001-06:00

via erotiterrorist

Fell in love with a girl

2009-11-13T12:13:00.001-06:00

but sometimes these feelings can be so misleading

Charleston

2009-11-11T14:14:00.003-06:00

One goal of this blog is to share my loves, the little tidbits of happy that make my day. Here is one.

via Muffy Crosswire

Hitler

2009-11-11T14:03:00.002-06:00

via Najy

Purpose

2009-11-10T22:03:00.002-06:00

People are supposed to fuck. It is our main purpose in life, and all those other activities—playing the trumpet, vacuuming carpets, reading mystery novels, eating chocolate mousse—are just ways of passing the time until you can fuck again.

— Cynthia Heimel

via aag

(see also:hates)

2009-11-10T17:58:00.003-06:00

New loves:

Butches

Syd Blakovich and Jiz Lee

Lady Gaga (see also: hates)

B (see also: hates)

Twitter

Amanda Blank

Peaches

Tina (see also: old loves)

First times

Chelsea G Summers

Kristi

Pop music (see also: hates)

Eyeliner

Syd

2009-11-10T17:40:00.001-06:00

Ladies and gents, the incomparable Syd Blakovich...

Goats

2009-11-08T14:36:00.001-06:00

Goats

How very Lestat of you

2009-11-05T20:22:00.001-06:00

OMG Please tell me this isn't real.

2009-11-04T17:59:00.000-06:00

Mark Shaw

Pin-up love

2009-11-02T17:10:00.001-06:00

One of my favorite pin-ups by Gil Elvgren

Experimental

2009-10-30T12:44:00.003-05:00

On Wednesday, I was doing what college students do, namely, walking in to take an exam I had barely studied for. Surprise!

I chose a desk covered in student graffiti; my favorite kind. The surface was crawling with silly things like "sigma's are sluts." Because it's a college, dontcha know.

Someone had also written, in shiny blue ink, "I love anal beads." Some other industrious pen crossed out "beads." A third student wrote a response to the anal-loving person, "You are a disgusting individual."

My favorite comment, and the reason for this post, was the reply to this last bit. One fellow sex-positive commenter kindly crossed out "disgusting" leaving "experimental" in it's place. Love!

I'm pleased as punch that this desk now reads "I love anal" and "You are an experimental individual."

If course, in the group I run in anal beads are not nearly so much experimental as a matter of course...

2009-10-30T12:41:00.001-05:00

Oh Margaret Cho, I love you so.

Objectivism

2009-10-29T09:59:00.005-05:00

Now, I know that Ayn Rand draws some criticism.

But is an exclamation that "Both male and female versions of Ayn-Rand fans exemplify failed human beings with zip imagination and zero creativity" really necessary?

I have to say, I love both Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead. They are amazing books, and provide a world-view different from what I am used to hearing. Admittedly, I am not an Ayn Rand scholar. I know very little about the Objectivism philosophy. I understand that some of what Rand believes runs counter to my beliefs. However, I do believe there is a fair amount of virtue in selfishness. I believe people should strive for independence and self-reliance. However, a person who is unable to be self-reliant should not be frowned on. I do believe a little friendly assistance is necessary (I know, so not Ayn Randian!)

I'm a feminist, an academic, a liberal, and I read and love me some Ayn Rand. Eeek!
The first step is admitting you have a problem.

$5 footlong

2009-10-28T17:46:00.002-05:00

The Colbert Report

Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

The Word - Don't Ask Don't Tell

www.colbertnation.com

Colbert Report Full Episodes

Political Humor

Religion

Stephen Colbert, ladies and gents.

Lost semi-telepathic cat

2009-10-28T17:26:00.001-05:00

via foundmagazine.com

Thoroughly bad hat

2009-10-28T17:11:00.000-05:00

fuckyeahbutches.tumblr.com

This is so not studying

2009-10-28T13:15:00.004-05:00

Angsty melodramatic blog #1:

I'm tired.
Eating and sleeping have fallen by the wayside, as have homework, studying, attending my internship, and going to classes. I had intended this blog to be light-hearted and fun. I wanted to share the things I love (Marlene Dietrich!)

Instead, at least for today, it is an outlet, thoughtfully provided to a non-existent readership.

Patience. Apparently I need more. I'm sorry for not being so patient, for pushing.

I'm not sure that all of this is what I want to do anymore.
Yes, I will finish by bachelor's. Who comes all this way and doesn't?

Yes, it is probably in my best interest to apply to grad schools anyway. If I decide I don't want to go, I can always turn down acceptance letters (ha!).

In reality (that is, reality according to Chris) I will not feel this way when I have a break.

In my reality, I should not have to waste the next 4 or so years of my life on waiting for breaks.

2009-10-27T18:13:00.001-05:00

Marlene, Have I told you lately that I love you?

Gasp

2009-10-26T22:44:00.003-05:00

Gasp
I want to fuck
the living breath
right out of your lungs
so that just to survive
you have to suck
oxygen
from me
when we kiss.

Posted by CityDifferent (see blogroll)

Shocking, and oh-so-expressive.

2009-10-26T22:04:00.005-05:00

Lovely photograph by Igor Kraguljac

Loves

2009-04-11T20:47:00.002-05:00

Loves

listening to Chris play guitar
leaving the windows open in rain storms
receiving pictures of my soon-to-be kitty
art photography involving nudes
sleeping in with Chris
sleeping in, in general
memories of London, of the first time I heard Chris play the guitar in Scotland, of how transparently in love with him I was when I thought I was keeping it secret.
making my sisters and brother laugh
softly fuzzy body hair-men or women
women in fabulous high heels
books
books with subject matter involving decadence and taboos
anything involving decadence and taboos
public libraries
positive sex education
clever repartee
kitties
orchids
other people's babies
people's silly "gangsta" walks
youtube.com/TheMeanKitty
sweatpants and hoodie days
breasts, preferably the more malleable type
yes, I said that
take-out chinese
starbucks coffee
origami cranes
yoga
and so very much more.

Hates

2009-04-09T16:45:00.002-05:00

Hates

honking at people
people who try to back into my car
long orders at the drive thru
the syrupy sediment at the bottom of coffee drinks
seeing thongs hanging out of pants-even more so when the thong is holey
when people call flip flops "thongs"
feet that should not be displayed in flip flops
the smell of wet shoes
the squeaky sound feet make when coming out of wet shoes
the squeaky sound my mouse's wheel makes
the ink that transfers from my spanish dictionary to my laptop
anti-Obama sentiments
chauvinists
when people's lives revolve around skinny
women who use flirting as a means of prostitution
men who think they rock in bed, and actually suck
men who believe sex ends when they've had an orgasm
straight men who don't love pussy-seriously?!!
other things too...

Subversive?

2009-03-13T23:41:00.002-05:00

No, I am indeed not perfect. I often think irrationally. I often get upset over nothing. I procrastinate in a way I am sure will injure me for graduate school. I am occasionally paranoid. I tend to dump my socks by the side of the bed instead of in the hamper. I forget most everything. My lies are more transparent than cellophane. I do occasionally lie.

These are the things I want to fix: Irrationality, mood swings, procrastination, memory lapses (it would be more accurate to tell you my memory is a lapse.)
I don't care all that much about my lack of organization, or occasional sink full of dirty dishes. I don't care about sleeping in too late and putting off washing the laundry. I don't care to fix my sexuality, or my incredible interest in raunchy comedy. I don't care to fix my obsession with cult films.
These things come up in conversation with religious people. No one was judging, this particular group is awesome. However, these lovely people remind me how much others condemn.
Since when does a clean house and non-interest in sex=good person?
I'm happier my way.

Facets

2009-03-04T17:42:00.003-06:00

I found an awesome blog recently. The writer is a wildly libidinous woman with a number of beautiful entries concerning her sex life. The writer is a mother with a number of young children, some adopted from a friend, some biological. The writer is a skilled gardener and an amateur photographer. She includes a lovely picture of bits of her garden with each blog. She sometimes blogs about the idiosyncrasies of motherhood. She sometimes blogs about sex toys, masturbation, or recent "dates." She edits her own flower photos, as well as an occasional photo from one of her paramours. She's my hero.

I hate the way the title "mother" equals "caretaker", but never equals "woman with desires of her own." Why are these titles always so exclusionary? A person is a faceted creature. One person can contain an endless number of personas. I could, on any given day, rattle out a list a mile long of categories I fit into. Even some descriptors are also categories, merely because of the stereotypes associated with them. This is why the woman who writes this blog is my hero. She shows everyone the facets...especially the two people deem the most contradictory.

LOVE

http://aagblog.com/

L-O-V-E

2009-02-16T23:55:00.001-06:00

Is it presumptuous of me to post blogs so frequently? Posting blogs kind of implies that people should read them, doesn't it? I want it stated (so I'm going to state it) that I don't expect anyone to read these, and while making this statement, I prove the presumptuousness of posting blogs.
And here I go telling you that I really only write them for me. It is true. Except for when it isn't. And then it is up to you to decide when which is the case. Goodnight then.

Orgasm Gap

2009-02-15T22:39:00.000-06:00

I just finished reading an article on feministing.com about what they refer to as the "orgasm gap." This gap deals with whatever creative statistics researchers discovered concerning women's less frequent rate of orgasm with sex. The blog post on feministing garnered a ridiculous number of angry comments, especially from the male posters. The article that the blog references, is a reference to the actual research...so reference twice removed, or something.
The article suggests a variety of reasons that women tend to have a lower rate of orgasm. Several of the male members of the community suggest that perhaps it is just easier for men to have orgasms due to size. I say, regardless of the reason for the number, perhaps that gap should shrink. Any man that complains that women are too difficult to please should perhaps become a little better acquainted with his hand.
One other interesting thing:
The article claims that “Women and men are more ambivalent about the importance of women’s sexual pleasure [outside] of relationships." This strikes me as hilarious. Why do women hook up with random partners? If it were me, I would probably be doing it for orgasms. So why do so many women have so few orgasms when hooking up? Do we really just need to be more vocal about what we want? Why are so many women so passive about their needs? I'm not entirely innocent of this myself. It is just easier sometimes to not say anything. But it isn't very satisfying, is it?

25

2009-01-28T20:52:00.001-06:00

Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

1. I have a list 43 items long of goals that are semi-unobtainable, on the 43things website.

2. I have a desire to learn to play piano as well as Norah Jones or Michelle Branch, but lack the desire to spend the time learning.

3. I freaking love Louis XIV (the band). They're so dirty. I also love Hot Hot Heat. Oh, and the Dresden Dolls (and of course Amanda Palmer!).

4. One of the most beautiful things I have ever seen is a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps in patent black.

5. I have an intense yearning for all things red. RED, red.

6. I occasionally have a twitch in my right eyelid.

7. I adore anyone that can randomly quote Eddie Izzard.

8. I often read the missed connections on Craigslist. They are rather sweet in a desperate way.

9. My favorite website of all time is postsecret.com. Every secret is a reminder of how similar we all are.

10. Memories of London often provoke such a divine poignancy in me. It was a wonderful feeling watching Last Chance Harvey, and knowing I stood exactly where Dustin Hoffman stood on the bank of the Thames.

11. I want a Great Dane. Chris doesn't.

12. Chris wants a Jack Russell. I don't.

13. I just bought something fairly cool from Sephora, but I'm much more excited about the free sample of Agent Provocateur perfume that will arrive with it.

14. I finally found a field of psychology that interests me enough that I could strive for a career in it. Whaoo!

15. After a rocky start (of almost 20 years!) I am finally friends with my mom.

16. I'm getting a British Shorthair kitten in the spring or summer, and his name is going to be Sir Sebastian.

17. I feel so peaceful in cathedrals, but I'm not even slightly religious.

18. I'm truly loving the song New Soul, by Yael Naim.

19. I'm proud of my kid sisters and brother. They help me see the world through new eyes.

20. I never ever want children. I think they are wonderful, but just not for me. (Please don't tell me I'll change my mind when I get older. That is rather patronizing.)

21. I think it's hilarious that so many of the people Chris are in grad school with are people I work with in lab, and many of them have no idea that we are dating.

22. I am so in love with Alfred Hitchcock movies, and all the old bests (Cary Grant, Marlon Brando, Grace Kelly, Marilyn Monroe, Audrey and Katherine Hepburn, etc.)

23. I wish I could help my sister raise more money to go to Japan. What I have to give is only a drop in the bucket.

24. I have grand plans for so much more than I feel is possible for one person to accomplish in a lifetime. I worry about looking back at my life and having regrets.

25. I am determined to have no regrets.

Manhunt

2008-08-22T14:52:00.000-05:00

We let ourselves be too readily defined by the objects in our lives. Those major purchases. Your house defines you, as well as your car. What kind of TV you have makes a statement. Your TV's statement about your personality tells more than your clothes do. People tend to dress to give an impression about themselves. They clothes we wear may be telling, but not as telling as what we are not wearing.

I still have a difficult time wrapping my mind around "THE EXPECTED." Only capital letters will do. We are expected to go to college to get a good job. We are expected to buy a nice car with our new pay from the good job, right along with the nice garage attached to the nice house. We are expected to get married (because sex without marriage is illegal!) and have multiple children to fill up the nice house, followed all too quickly by funding our children's education so they too may buy a nice car, a nice house, a nice marriage. It just isn't worth it if you don't love your job. I won't say that I don't want that too. I do want a good job, but what makes a good job for me has very little to do with money.

What I want in life can't be made from money. I can't stand the idea of spending my life working toward financial stability, and finding out in the end that I wasted my time. There better be a lot more to life than all of that "EXPECTED" nonsense, and I am not going to wait around to let it find me.

While watching "Be Kind, Rewind"

2008-07-06T01:48:00.000-05:00

Chris thinks it's funny when I go all explosively happy. You know, with the uncontrollable laughter and tears, and unbreathingness. There have been a few lately.

One: a comic in the Cyanide and Happiness series. http://www.explosm.net/comics/1270/ You may have to copy and paste, sorry.

Two: a Dane Cook segment. I don't remember which one. I wish I did. Check youtube for your own personal favorite.

Three: Today, on listsofbests.com, a list entitled "Quirkiest goals on 43things"

rig my car so windshield wiper fluid will hit the cars behind me
hack someone's computer and surprise them by remotely opening
their CD tray.
find out why crying makes you produce enormous amounts of snot
find out if the Hokey-Pokey really IS what it's all about

or, my personal favorite
play duck, duck, goose with a biker gang

In retrospect, these things really aren't that amusing. But they are. Especially that last bit. Really. Imagine it.

I've received a complaint or "I did not have sexual relations with that woman."

2008-04-06T14:47:00.001-05:00

To whom it may concern:

I have received a complaint. A certain friend of mine believes that my answer to the question below, on a recently completed survey, is inappropriate and gives the reader "the wrong idea."

"18: Who was the last person you saw with their shirt off?
Jenny. Nice tata’s love"

I would like to clarify. Jenny and I used to date, yes. Jenny and I are still roommates, yes. However, we do not sleep together or even have the desire to do so. We are close friends. We are comfortable being close to each other, although in a purely platonic way. Some people find this odd. We do not.

I feel that the necessary parties (Me, Jenny, my boyfriend, and Jenny’s girlfriend) are aware of the platonic relationship we share. That is good enough for me. Also, The instance when I saw Jenny without her shirt was merely when I happened to glimpse Jenny in her sleeping attire...a sports bra and pajama pants. This is no cause for alarm, as most bathing suits cover far less skin. Also, I did not actually look at her breasts.

To cover myself more completely, I am not entirely sure why the maker of the complaint was offended. It may be because I refered to Jenny’s breasts as "tatas." The next time I refer to her breasts, I will make sure to employ a different word, such as "knockers," "melons," "dirty pillows," "tig old bitties," "gedoinkers," and/or "bahama mammas."

Thank you,
S

Love it!

2008-01-27T15:43:00.000-06:00

Try Ludo, Love Me Dead. The song rocks, and the video is freaking great.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EsRChKP5MQ

Sarah McLaughlin's Silence is amazing:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_D_Aeqcidc
Pretty please: Don't watch that video, it sucks.

Also, Sarah McLaughlin's Dear God
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4xgjgJkacU
Ignore the crappy video part.

For Lasagna?
http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Worlds-Best-Lasagna/Detail.aspx
It rocks.

For dessert?
http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Molten-Chocolate-Cakes-With-Sugar-Coated-Raspberries/Detail.aspx
Really very good, and rather simple to make

For Lingerie:
http://www.agentprovocateur.com/
This is not Victoria's Secret...the website is rather racy. Also, although the lingerie is to die for, it is extremely expensive. I will buy some when I'm rich.
I might buy the perfume when I have a little extra floating around.

For a good show: Les Miserables in London featuring this guy:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r9LPdyooE9k
Watch until 3:25. It makes me cry

For comedy:
Eddie Izzard: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNjcuZ-LiSY
A Bit of Fry and Laurie: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wwo8qxUit00
The Big Gay Sketch Show (TBGSS): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tc3hykV5hmU --Very funny, but a little naughty.

More later....but I love this stuff!

And it ruins it for me

2007-09-14T21:15:00.000-05:00

Yes, I am procrastinating. But really, writing a blog is an adaptive way to get the creative juices flowing...preparation to "bs" the last two pages of my crazy long research paper. Several peoples' crazy long paper...not that I cheat, just that several people have to write one. Ohh, completely off topic...did you know that several college students I know feel that their success is merely the product of luck and easy professors? I didn't realize what a pervasive view that was. Similar train of thought: I also didn't know that the whole "feministic view" versus "settling down" conundrum is so pervasive. Why do people assume their thoughts have never been thought before? Originality doesn't really exist, we just put a new face on the same old thing. Which does indeed lead into the purpose of this blog...

I was reading earlier (like I do), and Penny came over. She asked me about the book, which was Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. She promptly informed me that The Fountainhead was the new emo girl's bible....they all read Ayn Rand now to feel intellectual. Shock and dismay. Emo girl's bible? What?!? To my defense, I've loved Ayn Rand for quite a while, and do not relate to any of those emo frames of mind. I certainly don't read to feel intellectual. That's silliness. At least it encourages the younger ones to read stuff like that....Next, I expect, it will be emo to love film noir. What?!? It is emo to love film noir?! High school is dumb.

Soundin kinda drugged-but not

2007-03-18T21:09:00.000-05:00

*Warning*...this blog serves no actual purpose, beyond random expression.

Jenny and I went to a frat party the other night...maybe it was the fact that we didn't know anyone there that made it so...yeah.

Maybe because I always just "happen" to be the DD. Or maybe because I stick out like a sore thumb. I'm not screwing around, possibly pregnant, throwing up, or involved in some very gossip-worthy scandal. How lame of me.

Maybe that "fun-loving" gene skipped a generation. Or just me.

I have noticed a very steep downward trend in my blog writing. I used to be so fucking cheery. Now I blog to vent. Sorry.

I read, clean house, do homework, sleep, work, worry about bills or the car breaking down, or worry about the extremely Christian girl in my stats class finding out that I'm gay. (She's scary!)

There are those who are glamourous "in" my life. Those who manage to do mundane things, like work, with a little extra pizzaz. Who don't care that the scary christian girl found out that they sleep with girls. Those who you love to hate. Or hate to love. Those constantly better than you....but stupidly worse as well. the arrogant ones-who have nothing to be so conceited about, but manage to make it appear otherwise.

Shocking

2006-03-18T22:25:00.000-06:00

" We think differently at night"
she told me once

lying back languidly
And she would quote Cocteau

"I feel there is an angel in me" she'd say
"whom I am constantly shocking"

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Description

2005-08-06T17:52:00.000-05:00

The weather today is intrigue with small amounts of confusion. Read Chuck Palahniuk, he's awesome. What is the picture today? Loose mens Levi jeans, lacy blue panties, sleeveless Joe Boxer shirt. Dyke, Femme, Androgynous. Eyeliner and tossled hair. Are lesbians as grungy as Jessica Lucas thought? Grace says "Seriously, what do they have against hair care products?"

This is a call to boredom

2005-07-30T15:59:00.000-05:00

Who the fuck actually reads these things? I do.

Purple...vibrant, ecstatic, lurid

Kitten...playful, mean, deceptive

Niagara Falls...precarious, boundless, emotional

My White Room...curious, distressed, abandoned

FairNine

Lyrics

Abandon

Agony

Fearless

Memoirs of A Single Girl: Lesson #1

Steps

My, me, mine

War

Plan for the winnings

Dangerous Lilly's 2 year Blogiversary!

Solution

Waking

Beauty

Random

Self-exploration

Blur

Story

Silence

Longer

Witch

Epiphany

Reiteration

Use

Conquer

Self-indulgence

Unsated

Genderplay

JFC

Three Seed

Bookslut

Dare

Abhor

Exhibitionism

Muse

Music

Hedonism

Jealousy

F/G/T

Ask Less

Blogroll

Yes, Virginia

Pleasing

Crash

Emotions

Because the only people for me are the mad ones

#itsuckswhen

Doing it wrong

Dream

Meld

Compilation

This honesty could be my demise

Hate/Love

Ghosts of contests past

Contest with an Njoy prize

Remote

Sock Dreams

This war I fight, I can no more

Oh, Betty.

Amélie

So soon

Heels

Fell in love with a girl

Charleston

Hitler

Purpose

(see also:hates)

Syd

Goats

How very Lestat of you

Pin-up love

Experimental

Objectivism

$5 footlong

Lost semi-telepathic cat

Thoroughly bad hat

This is so not studying

Gasp

Loves

Hates