my first real boyfriend and i tried oral sex together. neither of us liked giving or receiving it, probably because we had no clue what we were doing. later on, i dated a guy who wanted me to go down on him so badly that he eventually begged. he would go down on me only so he could use it as leverage to get me to do the same for him. i tried it once and found it unpleasant, and he was insulted and sulked away. a guy that i tripped on acid with did that despicable head-pushing thing while we were wasted. the big problem there (aside from the obvious) is that we were in a swimming pool and he nearly drowned me.

a few years later i dated a guy who was so talented with his tongue that i decided to return the favor and surprise him while he was driving. he was surprised indeed and nearly wrecked the car before explaining to me that i couldn’t do that unless we were not in a moving vehicle being operated by him. so i tried again later when we were at my apartment. he went with it for a while but eventually made me stop because it was “too good”. at the time i thought he was a freak; i later came to believe that i was so bad at it he couldn’t bring himself to say anything, and gave me an excuse which is the bastard cousin of “it’s not you, it’s me” that i sometimes use when breaking up with someone i can’t stand.

then there was my fourth virgin, who was less than impressed with sex. so i thought i’d wow him with my oral skills. that flopped, too – he said it was too intense. isn’t that the point? looking back, and with further evidence which i won’t disclose, i think he’s either terrified of women or outright gay.

my favorite guy is the one who i warned ahead of time that blowjobs were off limits. he said okay and didn’t ask me once, even in jest, although he wanted to go down on me almost all the time. after a few months, i boggled at his self-restraint and sprung one on him, much to his delight. i confessed that i hadn’t had much practice, and he encouraged me with helpful pointers. i got much more practice, and found it much more palatable, even enjoyable.

and that’s the story of a fellation convert.

i just realized that it sounds like i can’t get laid. but i really can, and do, often.

number of men i’ve had sex with: 15+
number of women i’ve had sex with: 4
number of virgins deflowered: 4

and numerous other boys and girls where sexual activity was involved without going all the way.

this is sort of like when you call someone and leave a message on their machine where you are trying to be casual about your interest in them. then the machine cuts you off so you call back to finish the message. then you call back to make it clear that you’re not actually stalking them, you just wanted to finish the message. then you call back to make it clear that you are however interested in them. then you call back to apologize for calling back so much. the end result is that you look like a deranged fucking lunatic, and they don’t know if they want to see you again, ever.

you guys saw that movie swingers, right?

i forgot about this other boy who was passionately in love with me and insanely jealous that i was dating someone else. so when i broke up with that guy, i came knocking and invited him to sleep with me. at which point he readily watched me undress and worshiped my body in various ways for several hours before revealing that he was a virgin and wanted to stay that way. there was also a guy with whom i had instant chemistry who i had to share a sofa bed with due to lack of available sleeping arrangements. he groped me and whispered sweet nothings and kissed me a lot. when i tried to take it to the next level, he stopped me and confessed that he had a fiancee back home, and i had to (try to) sleep next to him for the next seven hours although i was mightily pissed off.

is it fear of a woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it? or is it perhaps an ego thing? by that i mean that it is enough for them to know that although they could have slept with me?

next installment: what is up with men who refuse blowjobs?

it is my experience that men pay a lot of lip service to girls who put out. however, many of them are completely and utterly freaked out by a woman who initiates sex with them.

for example:

the slightly geeky guitarist who i was dating casually really enjoyed making out on the sofa with me. the light seemed totally green until i reached for his belt buckle, at which point he made an excuse and left. he broke up with me without really breaking up with me after that by simply holding me at arm’s length all the fucking time.

the completely hot male friend with ripped abs and a fearsomely gorgeous tan who cracked sexual jokes at me all the time. one night after shooting pool with a bunch of friends, he gave me a ride. we stopped in sort of a deserted off-the-road area at his suggestion, and talked for a while. he kept cracking the jokes, so i grabbed him and kissed him, which i’d been wanting to do and assumed he would enjoy. he froze up like a butterball turkey and pushed me away, then drove me straight home without talking any more at all.

the male friend who wanted me so bad he would have married me if i’d have said yes. on his birthday, i decided to fuck him, and took him to my place. he proceeded to go down on me for a very long, lovely time, and when i’d had my fill and wanted the sex, he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it. (he is the only one who vocally regretted it to me for years after and i told him he’d blown his one and only chance as vengeance.)

come on, people. what the fuck is up with this? if you want it, you just might get it, so be careful what you wish for.

could someone also please explain to me exactly why it is fair that chocolate and other delicious things not only lack nutrition but actually make you fat or have high cholesterol or give you acne? that just seems utterly wrong. clearly the supreme being is neither a man who loves a good t-bone or a woman, who inherently craves salty and sweet at pms time. the divine unknown is apparently a rabbit, which puts a whole new spin on the food chain thing. either that, or darwin was right and those of us with uncontrollable junk food obsessions are destined to be expelled from the gene pool.

which ultimately is okay, because i can’t swim anyway.

i think that i come too close to just releasing the brake and cruising leisurely into the middle of a long stream of fast-moving traffic altogether too often. the funny part is, i don’t think that i want to die. i mean, i know i don’t really. but i do wish that i could die and then somehow hang around to observe afterwards. like how many people would come to my funeral and how would they talk about me as i lay there cold in the box?

ideally i would have some sort of powers to know the outcome of the world as a whole with my presence as well as without. did anyone read that ray bradbury story where the guy goes back in time on a dinosaur tour? at some point he steps off the specified path and crushes a butterfly, and when he gets back to his own time, the political system is total anarchy and everyone is illiterate. not to say that my presence has such an impact on anything, of course. but i think it would be neat to know the varying degrees and permutations such as

our world with the internet vs. our world without
our country having lost in vietnam vs. our country having saved the day

i mean, who would be the military superpower today if a bunch of rebellious brits didn’t crouch in gulleys and ambush british soldiers? what if john lennon had lived out his life and died of natural causes? if the ayatollah had actually carried out that fatwa against salmon rushdie? if broadway-going patrons didn’t stand for naked boys singing or hair?
if freddie mercury and rock hudson hadn’t contracted HIV, would we know as much and work as hard to find a cure?

and so on. can someone please just invent a fucking machine that will make this knowledge available to me? sometime soon?

thanks.

mark your calendars.

i like strippers and all. the skanky ones can find their own way to the door, but the really hot ones can totally stay. they all like to dance for a girl. it’s such a thrill for them when a chick buys a lapdance. when i go, the men all stare at me because they can’t figure me out.

she’s too clothed to be a stripper herself. or maybe she is and it’s her day off. is she a lesbian? wait, she’s not butch enough for that, and there are some men with her. maybe they brought her here to show her how it’s done before they whisk her off to a deserted cabin and force her to perform unspeakable acts? i wonder if they’ll let me in on it if i pay them? or she could just be bisexual or something.

which is always amusing. meanwhile, on the stage, the girls pay special attention to me. at first i thought it was just for the enjoyment of their male customers, kind of a girl-girl show that could be.

i’m a sex-crazed hot slut, and i’ll attack this unsuspecting girl in the audience. i’ll do it, don’t think i won’t! and the crowd goes wild.

while talking to one of them during a routine lapdance, whom i learned graduated from my high school, she pointed out that strippers get so much crap from women in general who are not in the sex industry.

wives, girlfriends: you sluts are a threat to me and my insecure marriage/monogamous relationship! how dare you! i hate you!

so when a chick walks in who is actually stripper-friendly, they feel that someone of their own sex is supporting their lifestyle, which makes them feel accepted and okay. which totally makes sense, if you think about it.

this one time, a stripper named rose gave me a lapdance, purchased by a guy friend for my birthday. although i’m all for seeing a naked chick two centimeters from my face, it does get kind of embarrassing because everyone around you watches, and even more so when you’re a girl. plus, it’s not like you can get naked and join in, so it’s sort of like having a team of waiters sing to you in a restaurant. it would be better if you could just take her to the champagne room and get it on in private.

so rose takes a real liking to me, and even kissed me, but nobody could prove that because she made her hair cover our faces like a curtain. everything was cool, and we were talking a little while i eyed her supple ass and everyone else eyed me. it was a full-nude joint by the airport, and so she was wearing not a stitch. she also gave me another dance for free, so i tipped her some more. (make sense out of that one.)

she had this long string of pearls that she would wrap around her body while gyrating. she wound them through her crotch and up around her tits, so it looked like they were bound tightly. then she put them around my neck. then she took my glasses off and ran them through her crotch, too. then she licked them and put them back on my face.

i sat there, stunned, for the rest of the dance. my friend tipped her, and i slunk away in the corner to finish my beer.

thanks to you all.

does it bother you to see people who are one person when they are with their
friends and a completely different person around their signifigant other?

on one hand i find that concept and practice very disturbing.
but on the other hand maybe it is perfectly natural.
like having ones lower deck persona and a quarterdeck persona.

we’d spent weeks fooling around, working up to but not ever actually doing the deed. or discussing it, for that matter. there was enough innuendo, double-entendre, and raunchy cliche to sustain ten prom-king-and-queen couples for a whole semester. i let him catch me sucking on lollipops at least once a week. i took every opportunity to brush the top of his ear with my lips. it totally fucking worked, too. because when he would press against me, he’d nearly bruise my leg with his hard-on.

the anticipation of doing it was almost too much for both of us, but it made us breathless and frenzied. i’d think of him when i showered, closing my eyes and exhaling slowly as his imaginary hands wandered my terrain, over and over until i was gripping the wall and arching my back. sometimes i would call him when i couldn’t sleep and whisper dirty things to him, then hang up without waiting for a response. he always insisted i’d woken him, though he never sounded sleepy when he answered. he also never called me back.

the massages were over the top. i’d take off my shirt and lie face down on the bed. he’d take off his shirt, too, and rub his hands together, hard, to warm them, like mr. miyagi in the karate kid. he would unhook my bra deftly, with one hand, like it was a born talent, and slide it from under me. i’d close my eyes as his hands stroked my naked back and neck. his bare chest would press against me when he stretched to reach my arms and fingers, which he also massaged. sometimes i lifted my ass slightly to reach his pelvis, and when he gave a chuckle of recognition, i’d grind against him.

one night we drank a little too much wine and fell asleep together on the living room floor. i woke up after a few hours, disoriented. the moonlight spilled across his angelic face in just the right way, and i decided then and there it was time to fuck him. the button of his jeans was already undone, and we were both shirtless from the earlier massage session. i tugged at his pants, shushing him when he stirred. he was still asleep, or pretended to be. i stared at his cock for a while, because it was new and interesting. then i crept into my bedroom.

it took some time to find what i was looking for, but it was in my top drawer, with the other kinky little things i kept for nights like this. i slipped out of my jeans and into the little black leather thong. it had small silver studs all over the front. my lips curled with power and adrenaline as i gazed at myself in the mirror.

when i returned, he had shifted a little and was lying on his side, his breathing deep and even. his cock rested on his lower thigh, and i could see his round ass, which was also new.

he let out a yelp of surprise when i parted his cheeks with my strap-on, but i quickly began stroking his cock with my free hand. he gave me a very surprised look, over his shoulder. i shushed him again and nibbled his ear. my tits rubbed against his back as i rode him, and soon he was moaning. after several minutes, he erupted in my hand. his body twitched and he sucked in air through his teeth as i pulled out of him, and he turned himself onto his back and stared at me.

he still seemed shaken, which pleased me.

it took every ounce of self-control to prevent myself from carving your eyes out of your head with my exacto-knife. perhaps i should have.

then i could hang your eyeless head in my apartment, somewhere that i could see it every single day of my life. i would take it down if i got a new girlfriend though, so as not to give the wrong idea. at least until she really loved me and i could be completely myself. i swear to god i don’t want to see your fucking face again.

do you hear me?

there is this certain type of guy who comes into my work. they were the jocks in high school. now that they have grown up they range from sales guy to … sales guy to …business guy types.

they come in and are a little out of place and when they talk to me i see the inner war that is happening.

” i want to fuck her”
“no! i want to make fun of her! she’s a freak!”
“no! i want to fuck her!”
“no! make fun!”
“no! fuck!”
“no!”
“no!”
“aarrrrrggggggg!”

veeerrrrryyyyyy ammusing. and yet irritating also.

there is nothing better than ‘no school today lets drive where ever we want to go and waste some time and hold hands and enjoy nature and beauty together’ sort of days.
she was wearing the scungiest pair of jeans possible and some old ripped band t-shirt. we went to good will and the junk shop. I bought a dress and an old piece of frame respectively. she bought some red boots.
we went to the park.
we feed the ducks our lunch left overs. we tried to lure them closer and closer. she lay back in the damp grass and lifted up her shirt and put a piece of bread on her belly button. “come and get it ducks!”
her belly was soft and thin. she was a dark bronzed color from the summer days.
the boldest of ducks did take the bread and I kept putting more there.
I lay my hand flat on her belly and leaned over her. I had long hair then and it fell like a curtain around her.
with my hand on her warm belly, the smell of damp grass and filtered sunlight I couldn’t look into her eyes enough. I wanted to jump into her skin and become one with her and never leave her again. our life passed before my eyes. how we would grow old together and our days would be endless autumn days.
but I didn’t kiss her. I never did. all I did was love her.

i stalked him around campus for a couple of months. not like in a sicko way, okay? more of an oh-my-gosh-how-do-i-talk-to-such-a-beautiful-creature way. we had one class together, and it was the most boring one on my schedule, which gave me lots of time to stare at the back of his lovely head. he had this thick silky black hair that made me want to wrap my fingers up in it and push his head around, if you know what i mean. he had a couple of buddies in class too, which made it difficult not to get caught looking. but i managed it somehow.

one day he asked me for help with an assignment we had. i was so overcome that i could barely speak, but somehow agreed on a time to meet at his place later that week. the day before our date, i skipped all my classes except psych. i got a manicure and a pedicure, and i waxed every unsightly hair on my body. then i went to the tanning salon and paid entirely too much money to obtain a healthy, natural glow all over. i also trimmed my hair.

it seemed like i blinked and we were at his apartment, on his leather sofa, making small talk while i sipped wine from a mason jar. he didn’t have any real dishes, he explained, because he was on such a tight budget. he’d just gotten a new job working nights at the power plant and hoped it would help fund a better social life. i told him about where i moved here from, and we talked a little about the differences between small towns and big cities.

when i mentioned the assignment that had brought us together, he kind of shrugged and smiled. then he kissed me, a little too hesitantly for my taste, so i kissed him back harder. before i realized it, we were entwined in each other’s nakedness on his bed. we must have been there for hours. i went down on him first, then he went down on me. then we smoked and had some more wine, and then we kissed our way through missionary and female superior, and then we fucked against the wall.

back on the bed again, he flipped me over with ease and entered me from behind. i came again, for the fourth time, and shortly afterward he shuddered and collapsed, pressing my body against the bed with his. after some time, we disengaged. i got up to go to the bathroom and he told me to hurry back. i was pleasantly exhausted. then it happened, the worst thing that could ever possibly happen after such a fantastic few hours.

i queefed, really, really loudly.

he looked a little dumbstruck, and i didn’t know at all what to say. what the fuck? that never happened before! i don’t think he knew what to say, either. so i grabbed my clothes and left.

i bought some medical scrubs to wear for fun. they are purple and look real, like if i were a medical student or a doctor or even a veterinarian. it’s all very professional.

i wore them when i went out for pizza the other night, and while i was on the bus, this guy was watching me. i said hello, and he just nodded to me and smiled. he was really cute, a little older than i usually like, but he had this chiseled jaw which reminded me of george clooney. so i stared back at him and blinked and looked away like i was all shy. he ate that shit up, let me tell you.

he let his newspaper fall on the floor. actually he threw it, because it landed near my feet. i picked it up and when i looked up to give it to him, he was right in front of me. i almost bumped my nose on his belt buckle. i blushed, in a very contrived way, and he sat next to me. he murmured something i couldn’t understand because his accent was russian or slavic. i nodded my head and smiled.

then he scootched really close and put his cheek on my chest, where the v-neck exposed my skin. i stopped breathing for a minute, then i put my arm around him and stroked his hair all the way to his stop, which was much further west than mine. i had to get out at the next stop and change bus lines to get back home.

please don’t look at me like that anymore. i really truly can’t handle it.

things happen in my family that completely freak me out sometimes. at least three people to whom i am very close have gone off the fucking deep end. and i just can’t imagine what the hell they’re thinking, or where their minds are. which is weird, because they’re all pretty fucking smart.

or so you’d think.

i started crying last night and i cried for like an hour. but now i can’t remember why.

discussing the cheerfulness has made me feel even more inadequate than I did originally.
am I jealous? or do I disdain them? or am I just not that way so shut up?

I don’t know how to be cheerful. I am more like cynically amused. blasé even. I always liked blasé better then cheerful and enthusiastic.

I think that is why I fucking hate it when my sister gets all excited about something.

we do it similarly… we get excited about something, make grandiose plans, and then nothing comes to fruition.
the excitedness part is handled differently however.

she assumes everyone else gives a shit.
I know they don’t

she talks to everyone about it.
I keep to myself.

she tries to involve everyone and everything.
I like to do things alone.

eventually she gets bored and leaves all the other people she has involved out in the wind.
when I get bored I only disappoint myself.

she would argue that I am missing out on some fundamental life experience. community and collaboration etc.
I would tell her to go fuck herself and mind her own business.

there are so many people that i know that i have to be nice to even if i don’t want to be. like all those people at my job that are acquaintances but without whom i would really not die or anything. and people that i encounter from other departments who like to make small talk. does anyone like small talk with strangers, or is it just sort of an unwritten obligation somehow? and why?

and then there are my friends. ironically, they are the people that i butt heads with constantly. but we do it because we really like each other. we give each other a hard time because it’s fun. how fucked up is that? this is like when my grandfather used to trick me as a kid. i asked him why he did it and said that if he loved me he wouldn’t do it, he would be nice to me instead. he laughed and explained that he picked on me because he loved me, which seemed completely fucked up to me. i thought he was going senile already and he wasn’t even that old. how the hell did that make any sense to him, anyway? this is also like the boy in fifth grade who was madly in love with me and didn’t know how to express it. so he would abuse me and call me names and punch me in the arm really really hard. like ten times a day. and make me cry. can you imagine the sudden clarity of his stupidness when we were in high school and he confessed his crush to me and we had crazy monkey sex for a few weeks? of course! it all falls into place now.

i think it was billy the kid who said he never stole a horse from someone he didn’t like; if he didn’t like them he wouldn’t bother. so, yeah.

there’s something so right about a good eyebrow waxing.

is it better on a white background?

i do so love the irony between the girly colors and our filthy, dirty mouths.

this amuses me. which is the point, right?

i just had to look at something new.

this is probably temporary, because i just had to tweak the stylesheet, so it was a quick fix. the more permanent one is coming soon, but requires new code, which i don’t have the patience for right now.

new poll, too. vote over there on the design.

i actually find that works very, very well in most situations. there are some people i know who are fully capable of being reliable and dependable members of society but they simply choose not to. if nobody thinks they can rely on you, it’s okay when you fuck up or just don’t want to do anything and everyone kind of glosses over it like it’s no big deal. because it’s not like you could have done it even if you wanted to.

i am one of those people who does all or nothing. if i’m going to do something, it’s fucking kick ass. if i know it won’t be kick ass, i don’t do it. because i hate half-ass. half-ass really pisses me off, particularly if my name is on it.

know what i mean?

you can fail on purpose so you will be able to give up.
if you haven’t failed then you have no excuse and can’t justify giving up.

smokey, crowded, dim
didn’t know i was so old.
where are my earplugs?

i keep starting posts and then not finishing them. inspiration has left with the arrival of cold.

i did it again the other night. i attacked someone who happened to be within arm’s reach while i was completely asleep. when i woke up, we were in the middle of hot, nasty sex.

how the fuck does this happen? you started it, he said. that’s what they all say. is it true? who the hell knows? perhaps i should set up a camera in my room so the truth can be known once and for all. i am not one of those people with a “sleepy” sex fetish, i promise you. something much more complex is going on in my subconscious here. seriously.

look what i found on dictionary.com:
somnambulism

\Som*nam”bu*lism\, n. [Cf. F. somnambulisme. See Somnambulation.] A condition of the nervous system in which an individual during sleep performs actions appropriate to the waking state; a state of sleep in which some of the senses and voluntary powers are partially awake; noctambulism.
Source: Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary, © 1996, 1998 MICRA, Inc.

based on that, i’d say that sleep-fucking falls under somnambulism. having sex is definitely “appropriate to the waking state”. and the “senses and voluntary powers” which “are partially awake” could possibly be the erogenous ones and the libido. this could theoretically be a medical thing.

perhaps i should go to one of those sleep-study places and see if i try to fuck the researcher in the middle of the night. they could record my brain waves or something. this could be one of those things that has been around for centuries but was too taboo to talk about. i could go on 20/20 or something.

the ironic thing is that there are many times when i want to fuck but end up sleeping. and obviously there are many times i try to sleep but end up fucking. perhaps there is a misfiring synapse or a crossed wire somewhere inside my brain. to me this is a stupid thing, like that freeway by my house that merges. everyone coming from the left needs to be on the right, and vice versa. and you have to risk a fucking accident to “merge”, which actually means that you permit someone to cut you off. why wouldn’t they build it in such a way that nobody needs to actually be anywhere except exactly where they are? i mean come on. it’s not fucking rocket science.

or is it?

so we’re not that inspired. so what?

hey, did you get laid this weekend?

i think that nail salons should offer a standard thing called “the porn star”. this would of course be nearly dragon lady nails, nails that you know no real person can possibly function with in daily life. but then i guess they’re really just giving blow jobs and moaning a lot, and that doesn’t really wreck your nails. not nearly like if you are always doing dishes or typing, or if you have to sew tiny sequins or beads onto some type of fabric.

in fact, there should be a whole nail polish line of a cosmetic company devoted to the favorite outlandish colors of porn stars when appearing on camera. there are many options for shade names here. such as

• golden shower

• pearl necklace
• brown sugar
• fuck me red
• slut pink (heh
• aroused (which would be some type of reddish shade that is the color of lips after a lot of kissing)
• vixen violet

of course there would be a nail hardener called “rock hard”. and a clear shiny topcoat which goes by simply “wet”.

i’ll call the patent office tomorrow.

i think it’s okay
if you want to put it deep
inside my bum-bum.

what’s really that wrong with anal sex?