Self-exploration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.