it has nothing to do with the quality of the sex. i don’t get bad sex anymore, ever. whatever partner i choose is amazing and hot and stellar in bed.

it’s not you, it’s me.

fucking cliches.

i want to want to fuck, but i just don’t, really.

and then i wonder, why do i want to want it? why not just go with the lack of desire and get other more important things accomplished? clean out the inbox, dammit!

but maybe if i don’t want it there is something dreadfully wrong with me? i did of course get laid the other day but it took a while before my body was really into it. like halfway to an orgasm. which is weird.

and if i really don’t want it, then how come i am reading porn and looking for free movies? and when i get them, why do i watch them and feel like there is no place i would rather be than wherever that kink is taking place, then turn off my machine and go to bed? i mean seriously, i could masturbate, or even just go get laid again, but for some reason i don’t.

why don’t i instead spend the porn time actually getting laid? how is it remotely possible to be intellectually ravenous and yet feel no physical urge at all to do something with it?

am i completely abnormal?
is this just pms?
what the fuck is going on with me?

yesterday at a meeting i found myself wondering what it would be like to be a guy and to be fucking one of my coworkers… how would her face contort? is she a moaner? a screamer? a whimperer? would she arch her back and squirm around? does she like it from behind?

then i wondered what heinous thoughts other people in the room were having. the meeting was kinda boring so i bet they were bad. are they guys thoughts worse than mine? better? what about the other girls?

i seem to do this a lot lately.

and i have been outside talking about sex more and more with another coworker. he told me that he is breaking up with his girlfriend and then asked if i wanted to go out for drinks… could he be more obvious? he’s cute and all but i still dont actually want to just be fucking someone randomly. although maybe a good fucking is exactly what i need.

whatever…

i will not even grace that with a listen.

i think that everyone has a list of things that they want to do just to know that they have done it. particularly sexual things. most men’s lists probably include threesomes, threesomes with identical twins, threesomes with the barbie twins, threesomes with a mom and daughter, a threesome with two hookers (buy one, get one free?) and threesomes with two girls who are roommates.

women are supposedly more intellectual sexually than men, and yet these fantasies are all exactly the same in terms of logistics – it’s really only the relationship between the participants which varies. which has to mean that men are at least a little aroused by the mere thought of the women with whom they are dealing. which isn’t entirely base and animalistic.

which is surprising.

i’ve already delineated my feelings about the idea of group sex in practice.

however. i pretty much constantly fantasize about being owned, particularly by this blue collar hottie i know, and being such a cash whore that effectively he can do whatever he wants with me. which may include forbidding me to fuck anyone except him, making me watch him fuck anyone but me, or forcing me to fuck whomever strikes his fancy – the other women that i know he owns, anyone in our local bar, people passing on the street, his circle of buddies, his boss, etc.

of particular interest is a scenario where he puts me on public display, utterly stripped and crying in shame (but secretly loving it, of course). this could be at the local bar, on the sidewalk in a busy city, in the bed of his pickup at a tailgate party, or tied to a sawhorse on his jobsite. of course every red-blooded male within a quarter mile comes running, at which point my ripped owner makes the announcement i fear yet crave: blowjobs cost $25, $50 if i swallow; whoever coughs up $75 can go down on me for ten minutes; big spenders can fuck me outright for $100. and those in the cheap seats are all welcome to circle jerk all over me for a mere $10.

of course he stands nearby and counts the money, watching me to make sure i remain conscious and perform well. if i am lucky, he may let me suck him off while the rest of the free world has their way with my slut body. it seems to last for days.

later, when he takes me home, he has his slave-girls bathe and primp me while he dines at a table nearby. he feeds me wine, then carries me into the bedroom, where he shows me the money. then he has his way with me, over and over again, while gripping my hair and growling in my ear what a good whore i am.

it occurs to me that there is a certain degree of trust involved in such an arrangement, as evidenced by the concept that i stay because i am paid, and so am obviously free to leave at any time, yet i don’t. and i return to the fantasy of being a kept whore over and over again.

possibly i want to trust someone with my physical well-being, pleasure, and my very life? there is only one person i have ever met who truly deserves that…

i used to know this, uh, guy, who had his — girls — get implants in their legs, because they were kind of scrawny.

his girls?

yeah.

you mean he was a pimp?

i guess, yeah.

you know a pimp?

no, no, this was a long time ago.

before i knew you, right?

uh-huh.

did he ever hook you up with one of them?

um, no.

not even for money?

nope.

not even for drugs?

sadly, no. not even for drugs.

what the hell good is it to have friends in low places, then?

i’m not really sure.

you know the sex is
really great when you wind up
limping afterward.

hell week at work, replete with upgrades that fixed a, b, and c and broke d, e, f, g, h, i, and the rest of the alphabet which used to work just fucking fine.

someone please tell me why it is that the tech people don’t have access to the tech stuff, but that it is instead given to incompetent sales people? dammit i hate work.

people are such motherfuckers. and stupid to boot.

only bright spot in my day besides getting laid was when in the middle of a presentation to bored management trainees one of them perked up when i explained something about the system and gave me the technical term for it. everyone glared at him like how the hell do you know what a firewall is? management trainees aren’t supposed to speak the lowly language of IT. at which point he giggled and confessed to being something of a gearhead. it made me like him better and i offered afterward to show him our newest application’s back end which made him drool in delight. however the schoolmarmish bitch in charge of the training herded them all under her skirt like a fat mother hen and whisked them all away before i could even remember his name. if he keeps hanging with that crowd he will undoubtedly wind up the freakish geek who should’ve been in IT but is instead in charge of budget reports or something. sort of like me.

i did get laid later though. and no, not with anyone from work

i have been trying t think of the most hideous outfit i have ever worn. one that makes me cringe and probably made every one who saw me want to lay down and die.

here it is:
knee high white go-go boots
daisy-duke short jean shorts
horrid 60’s thrift store shirt – long sleeve button down with day-glo colors.
and the crowning glory…. false eyelashes.

thank you! thank you!
please stop the applause, i don’t deserve it….
really.
i don’t.

so here is the thing. i have been watching entirely too much of that show on vh1 “i love the 80s” and it is making me nostalgic. how is it that 20 years later things that looked great, sounded cool, and seemed like a good idea at the time are now fodder for the humor mill? seriously, what’s really that wrong with crispy bangs and breakdancing and fingerless lace gloves?

madonna looked particularly sexy during her young nubile i’m-so-trashy-isn’t-it-shocking period. the video for “borderline” will always be special to me because of her fluorescent yellow and green socks and pumps. and nobody pulled off the my-roots-are-showing look quite like her. slutty and yet somehow dewy! someone should market that as a carbonated drink.

she unfortunately “reinvents” herself far too often for any of us mere mortals to copy her look and get away with it. “ray of light” madonna is soooo five minutes ago!

the 90s and even now seem so void of anything interesting culturally. sure, there’s a lot going on in politics, news, and finance. but the impending stock market crash and big business scandals are hardly the stuff of pop culture images. nobody, but nobody wants to look like hillary clinton or laura bush or osama bin laden (everyone knows turbans make your thighs look fat).

britney, christina, j.lo, et. al. have made it trendy to look slutty again, but it’s a much more polished sluttiness that few of us real people can actually afford to pull off effectively. their most prominent fashion accessory is a hard body, sometimes downright malnourished, in fact. and i don’t know about you people, but my body is normal, and normal doesn’t look good with a thong back hanging out of super low rider jeans.

20 years from now, what will we look back on and say “what were we thinking?” and why do we say that now to stuff that was so groovy 20 years ago?

there are about a dozen haiku inside my head clamoring to get out. probably because there is no air conditioning in there and i am sure it does get hot. but still, they are giving me a headache, which makes me want to punish them by leaving them locked up forever.

I’m so glad wKen is back. I’m liking his current unfinished sex story. The two things I like about it are the “getting your dick sucked in public by a stranger” thing and also the debate about “are men better at blow jobs” thing.

I can not imagine wanting to get eaten out by a stranger in a semi-public place. I wonder if this is just a logistics issue. A man can essentially just whip his dick out wherever with out too much trouble. Hell, they can just unzip their zipper and have their equipment out and ready for public display in no time at all.

A woman would have to be wearing a skirt. And if she were sitting down she would have to skootch (sp?) to the end of her seat and probably put one foot up on the seat in front of her or onto her own seat. Then she would be in a position to present her goods to the eat-er (as it were…) it’s just way more of a compromising position than a man has to get into.

There is also the “touching your own genitals” thing.
As children, men get to, and are encouraged to touch their genitals. They have to in order to pee I guess. A mans genitals are easy to see. A girl is NOT taught to touch herself with her hands.. And she cant really see herself with out a mirror and some serious gymnastics training. We just don’t see or touch ourselves on a regular basis. Our genitals are often a mystery.

And are men better at blow jobs? My opinion has always been a loud resounding NO WAY! I don’t know, why would that be true? It doesn’t make any sense.

Practice makes perfect surely.

Once I had this argument with two male friends. Lets call them guy A and guy B. I had a mad crush on guy A and guy B clearly also had a crush on guy A. both guy A and B were supposedly straight. Guy B and I both claimed that we would be better at blow job. We declared this loudly and authoritatively while secretly eyeing guy A and desperately hoping he would let us prove it. Guy A was clearly torn.
My argument is that I have been giving blow jobs since I was 14. I have like 20 years experience for Christ’s sake. And I know perfectly well that I sucked (no pun intended) at first. So if guy B had never given a blow job how in the hell could he be better at it than me?! No fucking way. And I actually LIKE to give a blow job.
Damn! I wish I had insisted we make the trial! Now maybe I’ll never be able to put myself to the test.

Unless of course wKen is willing to give me try.

there’s this guy that i like. like as in, i think he is nice, and funny and cool and cute. but not like as in.. i want to fuck him or have a relationship with him.
we go out sometimes. i think we have fun. but i feel like there is a lack of connection. is that because we shouldn’t be friends?
is it because there is either one sided sexual tension? or “perceived” one-sided sexual tension?
or is it because i don’t know how to have friends for some reason? i don’t know how to have this particular kind of friendship?

i have some history or some unresolved sexual tension with many of my male friends. i have two favorites. one i have slept with and the other i always wanted to sleep with. And we are all great friends and I never feel uncomfortable with them.

maybe my current problem is just that i think i perceive sexual tension only on his side. it threatens me. and maybe it puts me out of control somehow. i want to control the sexual tension.

i don’t like that feeling tho, unexplainably.

i don’t like that in the grand scheme of relationships it is perceived that girls control the sex. because they don’t. okay, suddenly i am not making sense.

in a relationship men often complain that girls do not initiate sex often enough. (okay, well, they complain about it when they are in a relationship with me anyway…)

my complaint is always that they don’t fucking give me enough time to ever initiate sex. if you wake up every morning and the guy is like “do you want to fuck” or “do you want to fuck (tonight) (this morning) (this afternoon). when am i supposed to do the initiating?
wake them up at 6:00 in the morning and ask the question before they do?
plus i don’t want to have to say “oh hey by the way, let’s fuck when we get home from work tonight” also, i don’t want anyone to say that to me.
and i notice that if ever i am given the chance to initiate sex the guy doesn’t really like it. it worries them that they can’t perform on command (girls have that worry too you know).
Okay so then men feel like the woman is purposely withholding sex or something. Just because you don’t want to fuck on command all the time.

If someone says “hey do you want to fuck” I invariably say no. something about the plain old brass tacks of asking makes it seem unappealing. If they said something more along the lines of “holy shit you are so fucking sexy I want to eat you up” it would be a different matter. Or say, if I was at work, and someone were to write me an email or call me and say something along the lines of , “holy shit I cant stop thinking about how sexy you are. When we get home… watch out , I may pounce!” then that would be exciting. It would make me want to fuck.. I would be anticipating something exciting, something sexy.
Asking the question “do you want to fuck later” calls up depressing images of us taking off our own clothes, getting bed together naked, and then going through the mechanical motions of passionless fucking. Bo-oooooo-ring.

There is a difference between want to have sex initiated like that and some kind of romantic mumbo-jumbo that men seem to perceive that as. I don’t need flowers or dinner or even all THAT much attention paid to me in order to want to have sex.. it just has to be interesting some how.

If I were emmie I would be able to explain myself more coherently…

color changing nail polish is the best thing since twinkies. my new color is this pale sea green, i can’t wait to dunk my feet in ice water and see what happens.

i was buried in a novel until the girl came around to do my nails while i was having my pedicure/foot massage. i always tip them up front, before they paint, so i don’t have to dig in my purse. plus that way they know they are getting a good tip and they work for it.

today the manager told them to give me a free ten minute massage with my pedicure, normally that costs like five bucks extra. it feels sooooo good though. foot massages rule.

the one girl who did my hands i have seen there for over a year now. she speaks english moderately well and always compliments my color choices. today she turned to me after speaking in her language to the girl working on my feet and told me what she said to her. none of them have ever done that before, and it was kind of cool.

i am not ever one of those women who sits in the chair prattling on about crap to someone on the other end of a cell phone. i fucking hate that shit. one day one of those women will drop her cell phone right into the bubbling water at her feet, and i will laugh my ass off.

again, i cannot stress enough that everyone should wax their eyebrows. there is just something so good and right about it.

really.

i want to be wooed right now. right fucking now.

i want to know that some boy is out there working hard to impress me. i want our first fuck to be amazing. and mostly him eating me out. and i would also like some serious throw down sex.
i swear to god if one more guy tries to gently caress me i am going to fucking scream.
throw me down and fuck me. and shut the hell up! no caressing and no gentle talking afterwards.

ugh.

i heard this woman the other day explaining to her grandkid that it’s not right to get tattooed. and the kid said but mommy has a tattoo. and she proceeded to tell the kid that sometimes when you are young you make mistakes that you later regret.

i wondered if she ever asked her daughter if this was something she regretted doing, or if she just assumed it based on her own personal beliefs? i swear to god if i have kids and i catch my mother telling them that crap about my tattoos i will throw down with her.

it’s my fucking job that is killing me. all weekend i was a tattooed, belly hanging out, wind blown sexpot. now i am a dumpy office worker.

what the hell is up with that?

i got drunk this weekend. in a bar. with a friend. we talked about self confidence and bad break ups while i eyed a totally hot guy across the bar and while she yelled at the dude who was trying to rub up against her.

as i drank beer after beer after beer i felt my confidence growing.

“yes!”, i proclaimed, “i will be entering a new era of self confidence and hot sex… … … just as soon as i finish this beer and have 10 more and lose 20 lbs and find any stupid desperate guy who wants to sleep with me!”

“wait wait, no. that’s not right”

“i will now enter the new era of self confidence and hot sex by imagining that everyone wants to sleep with me! or something.”, i mumble.

“um.”, i stand up shakily, “after i go vomit in the bathroom i will enter a new era of sleeping with everyone and get into some serious sluttiness!”

my friend was too busy crying into her beer to notice my new found confidence and the guy at the other end of the bar was probably too gay to notice it.

oh well. next time.

must remember to NOT try to fuck people i work with.

also. if you send me e-mail to tell me how our layout looks wrong on whatever browser you are using, i appreciate the input. but i am frustrated enough with safari and mozilla that i don’t have the energy to go looking for how to fix it anymore. i tried that, remember?

if you want to e-mail me and tell me how to fix it, or send me a link to a page that will do so, please feel free. otherwise, i already know that the layout only looks great at high resolution in IE, old versions of netscape, and the newest version of opera.

i am far too busy in my new day job of writing porn for gay men to bother with the template.

what i meant was, if you linked us recently and your site isn’t linked by us, then let me know.

most of you who responded i already know link us because i read you

if you have linked us on your site, or if you have made reference to one of our posts in one of yours, please let me know (comment or e-mail). i didn’t get that trackback thing working right, and it’s getting tough to keep up with the referral logs.

thanks.

a friend of mine was telling me the story of “my maid and my vibrator”.

apparently every time the maid service came to her house they would make her bed and carefully place her vibrator right exactly in the center of her pillow.

how funny is that?

i usually keep my vibrator under my pillow. once when i was in college my parents came to visit. and lo, my dad sat down on my bed and lay back onto my pillow. and at the time my vibrator was Ms. Heavy Duty Magic Wand.
i.e. huge. and lumpy.

i was in agony the whole time. fortunately he did not jump up and say “my goodness Ellie what is this huge lumpy thing under your pillow?” and then whip the pillow out of the way to expose my beloved.
my dad is a wise man.

then i switched to keeping all my sex toys in a box. i guess i had amassed such a big collection at that point that it just didn’t all fit under my pillow.

but now i am back to the vibrator under the pillow bit. all i need is my nice small hello kitty vibrator. and my hand.

speaking of vibrators. it is AMAZING how many men and women think that you stick a vibrator up inside you. i mean, you CAN. but why? why not put it somewhere good?

one chick i know was like, “i dont like vibrators”.
but then it came out that she had tried one of those slim plastic cheesy ones from a porn shop. and she put it inside herself. only. like how could you have the damn thing and not even bother to put it all over yourself?

those things are great on the nipples. the clit. the asshole.
but the most boring place is to put it all up in there.

sheesh girl. have some fun will you?

2 anxiety dreams.

#1.
in a super crowded cafeteria type pan Asian cuisine restaurant. it looks like a whataburger (if you’re not from the south, don’t ask). i am alone. through the crowd i catch a glimpse of him talking and laughing but i can not see his companions. i have a moment of panic. he’ll see me here, alone and looking like shit. i start inexplicably talking to the non-English speaking Mexican woman behind me in an attempt to look like i am having a good time with friends. then i start crying and bolt.

#2.
i have finally won him over. he has spent the night with me and i am in bed with him congratulating myself on having won the long hard fight to get him back. suddenly my sister appears and jumps on the bed on top of us. he immediately realizes how heinous she is and decides to have nothing to do with me ever again because he can’t stand the thought of marrying into a family that contains her. i am left alone again.

bad things just seem to happen to her. all the damn time. the easy road is to blame her, “well she makes bad choices”. and that may be partly true but certainly doesn’t cover everything.

is it the spiraling vortex?

your car breaks down
you can’t get to your job
you get fired
you have no money to fix your car
so you can’t get another job
you don’t have money to pay rent
you borrow money
you now owe lots of people lots of money
your cat is sick
you don’t have money for the vet
your cat dies
you have to start selling your stuff
you get a shitty low paying job close to home
the shitty low paying job ruins your health
you need days off to go to the doctor
you don’t get paid and then you get fired…

okay you get the point.

last week i met these homeless kids. i say “kids” but really they were in their early 20’s. they were total idiots.
I’m sorry but if you don’t have any money or any family to help you with money… do not take your last 100$ and buy a bus ticket to a town where you don’t know anyone.

COME ON PEOPLE!

and then don’t say really dumb things like “we are SUPPOSED to be here. it just feel right.”
oh it feels right does it? sleeping in the park feels right? selling some drugs for money to buy more drugs feels right? not bathing ever feels right? How in the hell do you expect to get a job when you are dirty and smelly and have no phone number?

(Girl, ditch this guy, go move in with your sister who is willing to help you and only you.)

god. all i could do was sort of stare at them in horror.

and then the guy displayed his complete and utter heinousness by saying things about how he doesn’t understand why people are complaining about the economy. “the economy must be doing okay, people are buying minivans and even the black people have jobs.”

me: um? i am not even going to bother to respond to that. Instead i am going to exit for the bathroom where i will sit on the toilet, put my head in my hands and burst out laughing while simultaneously despairing for the human race.

it was two a.m. and i was on the phone, yapping away about boys and girls and work and sex and blogs. i thought everyone was asleep, once they are all sleeping they sleep hard and are undisturbed by pretty much anything.

the door swung open, startling me. after i let my eyes adjust for a moment, i saw his face, haggard, weary, with marks from the sheets on his cheeks. i felt back in junior high, getting busted by the principal for smoking in the bathroom or something. his eyes bored into me, and i felt a week of detention coming on.

he exited the room unceremoniously and i cut my conversation short. i trudged reluctantly through the rest of the building, seeking him out so i could apologize and he could snap at me. it was his right; he had a five a.m. wake-up call while mine wasn’t until noon.

i found him in the lounge on the sofa, smoking in the dark in his underwear, which glowed in the ultraviolet light of the moon. the cherry of his cigarette brightened when he inhaled, then dimmed again, pulsing orange light suspended in midair.

he wasn’t angry. in fact, he’d had a late cup of coffee, otherwise he could have slept right through my conversation. i wasn’t grounded, suspended, fired, or arrested. i stroked his hair and apologized some more. he let his head fall into my lap, my exhausted insomniac. his cherry was about to fall, it would burn his bare thigh. i took the cigarette, hotboxed it, crushed it into the ashtray on the coffee table. put my mouth to his and exhaled, filling his mouth with my smoke and my tongue. he sighed and patted my leg. let’s try this again he said, and lumbered bedward.

i followed him.

want a blowjob? i asked, and was met with silence. i can’t see if you’re nodding or shaking your head, i said, it’s dark in here.

every time we fool around you get hurt he said.

i didn’t say fool around, i said do you want a blowjob i repeated. blowjob. no strings.

he didn’t answer again, so i lay beside him and put my head on his chest. traced his nipples with my fingernails. ran my tongue up his collarbone to the sweet spot at the base of his throat. he made a little groan of pleasure.

i tugged at his briefs and ran my hands up and down his naked form. i usually saw it during daylight hours, or by the light of the television. feeling his skin and bones and muscles and hair was new, i felt like a horny blind girl.

i lowered my mouth to him, listening all the while to the whispered expressions of pleasure he uttered as he stroked my hair, arched his back, curled his toes. it was a good, long blowjob, one free of distractions and interference. he was grateful, i could tell. we were both all there, for a change.

i curled beside him and we fell asleep that way, the recipient and the giver, the slighted and the apologetic, the beloved and the lover.

the last thing he said to me was thank you. and when he left me at five a.m., i didn’t stir.

have i gone soft over here? i am noticing that as my stress level increases the number of posts purely about sex has dwindled. am i losing touch? has anyone stopped reading because we’re not as dirty as we used to be? has anyone started reading because we’re not as dirty as we used to be?

i worry.

i am simultaneously easy going yet easy to irritate.

but one thing that really fucking pisses me off is when i can feel people looking at me, waiting for me to react to them.
this makes me super passive aggressive. i either just refuse to look at them or i stare at them deadpan until they fucking get on with it.

i am no ones audience unless i have paid to see them on stage.

also: if you are sending me spam about how to get rid of spam, i will go absolutely apeshit on your postmaster and service provider.

you would think that with the advent of caller id, call return, etc. people would have figured out that it is not a good idea to call a hundred times a day and hang up on the answering machine.

i can see your phone number every time you call.
i know who you are.
if i miss the caller id, i can *69 and get your number.
if you have to talk to me so badly why don’t you leave a fucking message?!

argh! this absolutely irritates the hell out of me. there are people who are at home and just prefer to not answer the phone unless it is someone they want to talk to. possibly i am sick or entertaining company, if you know what i mean, or maybe i’m just feeling a little like some alone time. the way to handle this is to call once, leave a message, and i will decide if and when to call you back based on what you tell my machine. get it? no? fine.

then i will have to simply pull the phone off the hook completely. fortunately i have that thing where you get bounced to voice mail if the line is busy, and then my voice mail notifies me by e-mail when i have a message. which i never will, if it is you, because you refuse to leave one.

but at least i can take a bath in peace.

what was really weird is that i ran into this guy on an alumni bulletin board that i used to go to school with. okay, that’s not the weird part, shut up and let me finish. i remember him well, he was rich and a genius but utterly pathetic in the social skills department and he was sort of geeky looking. he had a mad crush on me and tried to impress me by offering to drive me around in his dad’s jag. hello, we are in an honors class together, which means i am smart enough to know that you are only 13 and can do no such thing. thanks.

i remember that he offered me money to go out with him, and he wanted me to come over so he could impress me with his mansion and his hi-tech sound system and his heated indoor pool. i was completely disgusted with him for trying to buy me and stopped talking to him completely. in retrospect i think he was probably just completely insecure and didn’t know how to act around girls at all.

i wanted to know what he did for a living since he was so crazy smart and had all that money, i figured he probably could have gone to any school in the world and probably scored perfect on his SATs. he is, as expected, a high-falutin’ technogeek for some huge software conglomerate and makes a trillion bucks a year. unless his social skills stayed underdeveloped and he is just lying or something.

the first post he wrote, in front of a bunch of ex-classmates, included a vague reference to something that he needed to apologize to me for, and that he suspected i knew what he was talking about. i would have just posted a hi, how are you thing but it intrigued me too much. what the hell did he mean?

it turned out that he apparently told a bunch of people that i was fucking someone who i was not fucking at all, and that i had gotten pregnant and had an abortion. or something. in eighth fucking grade, mind you. i was a virgin until i was a freshman, thank you very much. and i certainly never had any abortions or slept with whoever it was he said i did.

he somehow thought that i knew all about this and yet it was the first i’d heard of it. he seemed puzzled when i said that, and asked if i hadn’t noticed that so-and-so and so-and-so had stopped talking to me completely after they’d heard. i never noticed a fucking thing.

apparently i was completely absorbed in my own angst and did not notice my reputation crumbling around me. perhaps that was a good thing though as it prepared me for tuning out the background noise in later life.

i lost his e-mail address and don’t ever want to talk to him again.

someone please tell me how i can get back the novelty of the internet. because i pay ridiculous amounts of money for my dedicated cable line and yet there are no games i want to play or chat rooms i want to frequent or stupid bulletin boards i want to read.

i have little to no patience with people who forward me urban legend e-mails or jokes or anything which includes the 100% evil phrase forward this.

don’t fucking tell me to forward something! i swear, you are my third cousin twice removed and don’t even send me fucking christmas cards (that’s why i stopped sending them to you, by the way). who the hell are you to tell me to forward something to all the women i think are special or anyone who needs a prayer or everyone i know?

fuck. right. off.

and if you could also please wake up and actually read the fucking e-mail i wrote back to you which explains what that dreaded teddy bear icon is and why it exists on your hard drive and how to fix your computer since you undoubtedly removed it already without doing any research at all on the potential consequences that would just make my fucking day.

dammit i am fucking bored!!

everything seems stupid and pointless and everyone is evil and nothing tastes good and i couldn’t sleep if i wanted to. which i don’t but i don’t know what else i should be doing.

oh sure, there are plenty of things that need doing. mostly bill paying and catching up on work and retouching my portfolio and writing letters to people i have ignored far too long and stuff like that. but give me a break.

i am not even interested in porn right now. i don’t feel like designing anything, or fucking anyone. i want to talk to someone, but i don’t have the energy to speak and i am regrettably not telepathic.

it is usually in one of these fits that i do something stupid like go somewhere and spend money i don’t have on things that i don’t need. fortunately it is already late enough that i don’t have time to do that unless i skip a shower, which i simply can’t. because it’s hot and sticky and i won’t be seen in public this way.

i am cocooning.

i keep returning to that point in time where i used to lie in my second-floor bedroom at my parents’ house, fantasizing about an insanely buff black man scaling the roof and forcibly ravaging me while i was supposed to be sleeping. of course he wore the obligatory ski mask, and had only intended to burglarize the place, and of course he had to stuff something in my mouth to quiet my screams of protest. but upon finding a lily-white tender morsel of teen so vulnerably sprawled, he couldn’t exactly pass up the opportunity, could he? fortunately he was stronger than me and could easily restrain me with one hand while he used my body. and in the end he enjoyed fucking me so much that he completely forgot about any loot he might have found (silver candlesticks, top drawer in the dining room).

trading loot for booty. heh.

that was back in the days of surreptitiously downloading rape stories from usenet when i was supposed to be writing a thesis. my favorites were the ones where the victim was gang-raped and horribly tortured, all the while vigorously protesting outwardly and yet somehow responding sexually. people who wrote such stories used the phrase “her body betrayed her” over and over again, sort of releasing the victim from responsibility, so that she was not the filthy slut and was still innocent, yet the perps somehow knew her body would like it even though her mind was unwilling. it became sort of an act of charity, allowing the victim’s body to indulge in something it craved without her spirit having to acknowledge it.

as i got older, i grew sort of disgusted with myself and banished such thoughts from my conscious mind. but during sex with partners, i could really only get off if there was some element of a threat involved. because i didn’t want to freak them out, i would turn inward and berate myself, fucking with abandon and calling myself a filthy whore while recreating a fictional scenario in which i was utterly violated. it worked every time, and i am sure that those guys thought they were awesome in bed or something. but i was my own best partner, i mindfucked myself better than anyone i knew.

i kept it in the bedroom until one day when i said something out loud that was in my head which apparently perplexed the guy i was doing. he asked about it after the fact, and i told him to get out. i went to a shrink to find out if there was something wrong with me.

the shrink gave me the typical song and dance about rape fantasies and how normal they are, even among normal women but particularly among women who are survivors. please note here that i use that word because it is the least annoying term associated with “sexual abuse”, “sexual assault”, “rape”, “molestation”, etc. and it sounds only marginally better than “victim”. because i think all of those phrases suck ass. anyway.

the shrink reached the brilliant conclusion that if it’s what gets me off, then it is okay to use it to do that. essentially i’d paid someone to validate me.

i spent a lot more time trying to bury it, and when i couldn’t, i turned to bdsm. i figured bdsm was a legit and even sort of mainstream way to indulge myself. nobody questioned the idea of willingly being submissive, and many people even understand that to submit is really to have control. but the roleplaying involved is so fucking tedious that i couldn’t do that for very long. my attention span is never shorter than when i am having sex. a hastily sketched scene in my mind sprinkled with a few choice words is plenty to accomplish what needs doing, and all the other prolonged submission stuff irritates me. and no, i don’t want to be your slave in regular life and wear your collar and be constantly at your disposal, dick. i have shit to do.

and somehow when i’m in a place like now where my life seems a little out of control at work and in my relationships, the masturbation material i return to is all rape-related. and in my mind, i ask for it, beg for it, deserve it. by masturbating with the curtain open a little more than i knew, i unwittingly drove the fedex man insane, and he burst into my apartment to violate me against my will. because i was sleeping naked, the would-be burglar decided to rape me instead.

it’s simultaneously extremely disturbing and completely comforting.