The Big One...Oh, Oh!

It's my 100th post!!! Happy cetur-a...thing. TO ME! I'm patting myself on the back for maintaining this long...and with nearly a post-a-day, no less. Congratulations to me...and to all of you who have stuck with me this long. I think I should bake us a cake. Or at least some special brownies.

I have pondered for a bit what to do with this post. I came up with a number of good ideas, got some good suggestions. But in the end, I'm such a slacker-type...this is all you're getting.

I know; I thought it was shamefully anticlimatic, as well.

I wanna fuck.

No, that was it. Just on my mind. See if I can scrounge up any takers this evening...grin.

UPDATE

It's 8:31 and I think my song seems particularly appropriate right now...

Whatever Lola wants,
Lola gets.
And little man, little Lola wants you!

Except in this case, it wasn't no little man...mmm. Consider my world rocked.

Mindfield

Hee hee...here's a fantasy moment. It amused me. I make me laugh. Some of that self-obsessed, back-patting, dick-stroking Jerkitude must be rubbing off (kidding of course, Jerkie). I know I'll want this later:

(Sir) I had to build an extension…to house the whores.
(lola) Not on MY treehouse.
What you got against whores? They gotta live, baby.
Pestilence. That's what I've got against them.
Pfff.
They can sleep in the Aston…
Take some antibiotics and shut the fuck up. The Aston’s not big enough. Plus they might do unspeakable things with the gear stick.
…fill your fine leather interior with crabs and slime.
Sir holds back the vomit.
No, no...I don't want to be around their pestilence, antibiotics or not.
Jesus.
What?
lola grins.
That was so far past the line…. Slime? SLIME!?!
lola laughsssss.
FUCKING…S L I M E !!!?
Oh, you're such a pussy. Looks like I won.
lola grins.
I'm not going near you. That’s for sure…if you think women have slime.
lola raises her glass...to SLIME!
I think that dirty, skanky whores have slime.
You should get yourself checked out.
Oh, yes...it's all about me.
Like I said, you should get yourself checked out….
Sir grins.
I will. Right now.
lola descends the pole to his Aston...ew...slimey...the whores been using this?
Come back up here, little one. You'll catch something. The whores can't resist a pole; I've had to electrify it…the slime acts as an excellent conductor.
Big Pause.
lola.
What?
Don't what me. Come here.
No.
lola. Here.
lola looks up at the treehouse.
I'm scheduling an appointment.
With who?
Like you requested.
Oh. Do it later. Come on. I want to talk to my girl.
lola grins...with Doc Cochran.
He is a good doctor…very experienced with slimey whores…elbow-deep in snatch, or so they say.
Oh, I think so...brusque, but hasn't been able to be bought off by Swearengen.
Sir laughs.
I think I've walked into a Deadwood conversation…like a minefield.lola flits around, making a telegram out to the doctor.
lola!
Or would Pony Express be faster?
lola contemplates this...
Chyessss?
If I have to fetch you, you won't be laughing…
lola decides on telegram and begins to dictate.
Just a sec-ond! Dear Doc Cochran...stop.
NOW!
Need an appointment...stop.
lola sighs.
Fine, fine. Cooom-ing. SlimecheckdirtywhoresAstonpleasehurry...stop.
Sir smiles…yes, yes.
lola dashes over to the rope ladder and climbs up.
You’re very clever. Now come here.
lola pulls up the ladder and dumps it next to the hole in the floor. lola prances over, and sits down on his lap, wrapping her arms around him. Sir smiles.
Good girl.
Now then, fella...yall gonna go and leave helpless lil ol’ me here by my lonesome?
Sir strokes her hair out of her face. lola bats her eyelashes. Sir grins.
Only for a little while…
That ain't the right gentlemanly thing to do...
Then I'll be back for ages.
lola sighs...petulantly. lola picks up her parasol, opens it and rests it on her shoulder. Sir puts his arms around her waist and pulls her close to him, her ass sliding over his lap.
Nice.
Well, I do declare...I suppose it shall have to work for now then, Suh.
I don't think your going to miss me too much for a couple of hours.
lola grins, batting her eyelashes even more.
I won't...the Doc's on his way...I'm goin' to entertain him like a fine Suh-thun lady.
Well I'm sure that he will be suitably entertained and attended to.
Oh, why surely.
Is it not unlucky for one to open a parasol indoors?
That's an umbrella, you big ol' cocksucker.
lola grins.
You asking for an ass smacking, young lady?
No, Suh. It's just the way of the West.
Sir laughs.
Um hmm. It would be time-consuming to spank all of you, but it might help.
All of me?
All of the west.
Ah, yes...well then, I think it shall have to wait for another day. I don't think Bullock would take kindly to it, in any case.
Oh, I'll deal with Bullock.
lola laughs in that slow but charming way.
He'd shoot you dead as a dog in the streets.
Pfff. I'm a good shot. I'd be fine.
Mm, I'll bet you would, you great big man, you.
lola grins. Sir chuckles.
You and your condescension.
Naw, shug-ah. I think you are quite a nice piece of meat.
lola winks.

New World Order

Sir: "I don't think you're someone who can manage a flexible system.... Any exceptions will have to be asked for and earned..... I think it will be simpler to rewrite [the rules], I know you like to argue semantics.... I will say this once. If you miss it, it's your responsibility."

Goddamn JB has decided that my old rules were too vague; he says that I am someone who takes advantage of leeway and loopholes. So these ones are fucking specific. I have to learn them in order too...he's ridiculous. Okay, here goes, for posterity:

1. I will obey every command without question or complaint.

2. I will always be on time, for every appointment.

3. I will not use foul language.

4. I will always refer to JB as Sir.

5. I won't use any excuses to benefit me.

6. I will exceed the minimum effort needed to complete

tasks in life.

Fuck me, this is going to hurt. Sigh.

Deadwood: The Sound of Thunder

So, I have this bad habit of falling into twisted little crushes on characters from television shows. Especially if these particular characters are at all big, dirty, ruthless, outlaw-type mens (say: me-ins). And Deadwood is crazy-full of these characters. I am positively wet by the end of the opening credits. Drool.


Of course, the self-righteous, yet brusque and often callous Seth Bullock (played by rather pretty-boyish Timothy Olyphant) is first on the list. He's got a heart of gold in that deliciously rigid chest, but it is his eyes that give me chills. I'd have no problem taking orders from this one:



Then of course, Wild Bill Hickok (Keith Carradine), who is dreamy in an established, quick-draw sort of way. He's fallible, yes, but damn, is he fast! There was this one scene where he is advising the Widow Garret about returning to New York after her husband is murdered for his gold claim. Hickok is so stoic and composed, yet still insanely passionate...you know, plus he rocks that sweet 'stache. It is so fucking intense:

Wild Bill: You know the sound of thunder, Mrs. Garret?
Alma: Of course.
Wild Bill: Can you imagine that sound if I asked you to?
Alma: Yes, I can, Mr. Hickok.
Wild Bill: Your husband and me had this talk, and I told him to head home to avoid a dark result. But I didn't say it in thunder. Ma'am, listen to the thunder.

Okay, I would have melted...and then done exactly as instructed. Mm.

Let us not forget these two sketchy characters that, while significantly older than I, pose interesting moments of Domliness. I mean, technically they both run whorehouses and manage a slew of women, so they seem to have found a way to handle it:

Al Swearengen: Sometimes I wish we could just hit 'em over the head, rob 'em, and throw their bodies in the creek.
Cy Tolliver: But that would be wrong.

My favorite scenes with Cy Tolliver (Powers Boothe), though dark, are when he negotiates Joanie, his like, main whore and confidant. He swings so efficiently between manipulative concern and subtle, but unmistakeable threats. Excellent Dominant instincts. Swoon-worthy. Yes, he is rather tyrannical and in the end, doesn't really care about Joanie, but it makes for some mouth-watering day dreams.

Quote: "Sayin' questions in that tone and pointin' your finger at me will get you told to fuck yourself."

And Al Swearengen (Ian McShane)? Jesus, where to start? I think my favorite scene of his was the end of the first season; Al is angry at Trixie for giving Sol Star a free fuck, so he goes off with this other whore. He forces (so to speak, really) her to give him a blowjob while he tells her about how he bought her from this woman who ran her orphanage. The scene gets more and more violent and he's like shoving her head down and critisizing her while he goes on and on about hating his mother. Then he cums and he pulls her off of him saying something like, "Spit it out. You don't have to swallow that. Spit it out." He's just this gnarly, complicated guy...ruthless and fuckall business-oriented.

Quote: "God rest the souls of that poor family... and pussy's half price for the next 15 minutes."

Season Three starts in cocksuckin' 2006!

Something Irritating

I was on my soapbox a while back. I don't do it too often, in my opinion, but as a submissive and a feminist, I have to often reflect on my experience of the kink and make sure I am okay with everything. You see, I view my submission as seperate from my gender, on the whole...but in this particular kink you often come across men and women that categorically link Dominant with male and thus with superiority, and likewise, submissive with female and thus inferiority. So, I was having a bit of a chat with a man and a woman I hardly know, about the subject. I apologize for my tangential mannerisms, but you know...whatever(lola/Domme/Dom):

Porn is made for men.
Not all porn.
Who cares?
It appeals to their sexual desires and fascinations, and features scenes that typically arouse men.
…and some women.
It is rare for a film to appeal to women, in general. I wish I could find some good chick porn...not just chick-on-chick porn.
Um, ok LOL.
It's a sad state of affairs as women are a great target audience, what with our sexuality being accepted more and more readily.

Um, it’s quite been accepted for years now LOL.
No, no it hasn't. It still isn't. In fact, we are just now developing the drugs to heighten women's arousal, yet the male eqivalent drugs have been around for years.
I must be misunderstanding then because I have not seen evidence that is has not been accepted…
Well, climaxing is not necessary for a women during sex to "complete the act" so it was hardly considered until recently.
That I agree with, and I think it is because science understands mens’ bodies more still. But still, all in all, women's sexuality in itself has been accepted for years.....just look at advertising.
Yes, look at advertising! Women's sexuality is EXPLOITED, not celebrated. And, furthermore, look at the art movement...the second-wave Feminists had to shove the pendulum to the other side, virtually alienating any non-fundamentalist feminist in order to get our sexuality recognized.
Yeah, but I have some problems with the whole "feminist" movement.
Yes, the second-wavers dicked that up some, but the newest generation is trying to make repairs.
Well, it’s my own personal opinion, take it or leave it. I enjoy being a woman and I don't want to fight to become a man, to be treated like one.
Yes, but that is the idea we're fighting against, Maam. You aren't fighting to become a man, you are fighting to have your needs, wants, desires, and truths recognized as openly as a man's are.
You are fighting against wanting to remain a woman?
No, I am fighting against what people have decided "woman" is for me. I am who I want to be and no one should tell me that I don't fit a stereotype of "woman" or that I am in any way less important that someone else.
Then don't let them...it is your opinion about you that matters, not everyone else’s. And so many are fighting so hard for those “so-called rights,” but when it comes down to it, and something they deem unfair happens to them, they don't want to suffer the same consequences as a man.
Wow, that's not true at all and it perpetuates the idea that women don't want to accept the same responsibilities.
Frankly, I am tired of women who say they want to be completely equal with men, yet want special treatment and considerations because they are women.
Yes, Maam, but those women are more rare than you think.
Not really, lola....not as rare as you think. I ran into them all the time when I was working....you also hear so many times about them on the news and magazines in general.
And casting us all into that description purely because of your experience with them is as narrow as any person who thinks that all women should be barefoot and pregnant in a kitchen…that's why you have to not feel ashamed of feminism...you have to show people how demanding equality isn't a burden or a hypocrisy. (Oh, here I go.)
I never put all or you in that category. If you notice I said to be yourself and also referred to only certain women. I definitely don't feel ashamed of it; I'm ashamed of the group of women who abuse it.

Why is it a group of women who abuse it? The myth of tyrannical feminism was actually perpetuated more by men who feared a change in the social repression.
Dark Green wonders if Brown will even marry after this conversation. LOL.
I doubt it, Dark Green. LOL. (Color me pissed…"the shrew-bitch has turned another ‘decent’ man gay.")
Answer me this lola, do you think there is a difference between men and women????????
Is there a difference? Absolutely. Is it a hierarchical tier? No. Is one inferior and deserve less attention, preference, and responsibility? No, no, no.
That's just my point, there IS a difference between men and women....women will never be able to be exactly like men in all areas...it is not biologically, physically or mentally possible.
They don't HAVE to be the same, just not INFERIOR.
I have never thought women inferior to me, lola…in any way.
Well good for you, Sir. I am not fighting YOU; I am fighting the idea that women do not deserve recognition, representation, and responsibility.
But there are some limitations on women that does determine that ability...it does not make them inferior by any means...just not built the same.
Yes, but that it negates the qualities that women possess over men.
Ok, I didn't quite understand that.
Like for example then, women have biology that makes them more capable than men in certain areas. Women have a unique ability to process fine motor skills. Didn't you ever stop to think about why men, in all of history, have done (on the average) the hauling, loading, farming, etc? And women do the needlepoint, have better handwriting...hell, women make better surgeons on the average. We are different and that should be recognized, but not limit us. Look, this is silly. You have obviously already made up your mind about feminism and the extent of its power, the role of women and the role of hypocrisy, and I can't change your mind.
Ok, I could go on and on about this all day, giving you plenty of examples but I think we just need to agree to disagree at this point...as you said, you are not going to change my mind and I am not going to change yours. :)

Oh, it hurts when it's one of your own team mates...shame, shame.

PS. More dirty posts as soon as S gets off his ass and gets on it, or mine...if you will! Hee hee.

A Message to Parents

I. Hate. You.

It was Parent's Night and you all can suck my proverbial dick. Suck it! You are LUCKY that I can't find another way to spend my time than with your sweat-pant-wearing, non-sequitor-shouting, animae-obsessed, piss-smelling, cave-troll children.

I don't fucking want to listen to every orchestral overture in Deep Space Nine. I don't fucking want to talk about the plot holes and typos in the Harry Potter books. I don't fucking want to play Magic: The Gathering and I don't give a SHIT about your Sims family!

I don't care what your kid's issues are. For fuck's sake, I don't care about his personal habits: Gordon must always write on the reverse side of the goddamn binder paper. Shelly has to eat four goddamn carrotsticks at three minute intervals from 10:12 to 10:36 every afternoon. Sam has to take off every goddamn stitch of clothing before he sits down on the goddamn toilet.

How do you fucking know?!?!? When did you sit down with fucking logic and assume that nuerotic, obsessive insanity passes as an accomodatable mannerism?!?

I hate you. I hate you. YOU did this to me.

Eat your children. Please.

"Ms. Lane, I can not write with this pen. You see, I prefer a purple-black and this is a blue-black. Unacceptable. This math with have to wait."

They are that gifted and arrogant (and not in the sexy Jerk way, but in that 'my incubator was cast in platinum and studded with diamonds' sort of way); they use words like, 'quandry' and 'bourgeoise'. They eat fucking edamame with EVERYTHING.

I have spent many moments thinking about which objects in my classroom would be most efficient for a good smack-in-the-mouth. I'm between the telephone and the industrial-size hole punch right now. The hole punch has heft, but it's bulky to manuever. Better for use on a larger, slower, yet equally fucking irritating individual. Someone like...YOU.

I hate you.

I will make your children pay tomorrow. Just you wait. Especially the guy that stopped me in the parking lot. You know who you are...I'm planning on fucking up your kid so badly tomorrow that you can just go ahead and up the dosage now.

100 Things Once More

Because Jerkie won't show me up, here's a revisiting of my 100 Things.

Tree House Tree House

I wanted to show another facet of my relationship with JB. I've shown you some of the dirty side and some of the irritable side and the moments of panic and insanity, but I thought I would show you something that I haven't been very open with. When he said he thought all my caring was hidden, I realized that it is because I present it that way. So, here's a bit of a moment for you (Sir/lola):

lola climbs up the rope ladder and into the tree house. Sir looks up, surprised. lola unrolls a rope for him to come join.
We have a tree house? Nice.
We do indeed. It's a sanctuary. It's bug-free too.
Sir clambers up hand over hand.
Nice.
lola grins.
Tough guy.
Who needs younger brothers?
Sir grins.
I don't. You can have mine.
Sir laughs.
Ahhhh. What’s he done?
He's on my ass right now to have me do his resume again. I do that thing all the time.
lola groans unhappily.
Ummm.
lola perches on a bean bag.
He job hunting?
lola takes a Cherry Vanilla Dr Pepper out of the mini-fridge.
I suppose, yes. You want one?
Sir looks around for something manly to sit on.
Um hmm.
lola nods at the recliner.
Yup.
Sir grins at the chair.
That must have been a bitch to haul up here.
lola takes out a second soda, shakes it, and then hands it to him.
I paid a day-laborer to do it. No worries.
lola grins, mischievously.
Sir takes it and smiles sarcastically at her.
It's leather...your faaavorite.
Sir sits down and leans back.
Nice. What color?
Sir taps the top of the can and opens it slowly, letting it hiss and defuse.
Actually, it's made of baby cow hide and rubbed down with um...oils and stuffed with pima cotton fibers.
Sir laughs.
Very luxurious...black.
Nice.
It massages too.
Poor baby cow though. Ooo...massage. Fuck the cow! Where's the control?
lola pouts, disappointed that he wasn't fizzed.
No, no...it died of natural causes. And all it's parts were used.
lola points to the control.
Duh.
Sir puts it on spine-melter setting and touches the sky.
Aaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
lola laughs and wiggles down into the bean bag.
Nice! I have a flat screen TV in here and a sweet sound system.
Um hmm.
Sir grins and switches it off.
Thank you, little one. You wanna ride?
No, no...bean bag for me. AND…there's an escape hatch to your ASTIN. With an I.
Sir bites his fist.
That was nearly so sweet. If I ever start a car company, I'll name it Astin. And what of tunes?
Yeah, lotsa tunes.
lola points to the CD collection which is noticeably missing all Oasis albums...
Ok. Put on Stairway to Heaven. We'll get hippy high.
Nice...the Dolly Parton version though.
Sir laughs.
Damn! Foiled again.
lola presses all the high tech buttons on her electronic gadgets and lowers the dimmer lights. Sir takes Oasis albums—the full catalogue—out of his man bag.
I wouldn't do that.
Sir grins.
Just for later. I'll distract you when I put them on….
This sound system has been trained to categorically destroy crap music...Oasis hasn't got a chance…. Just a friendly warning.
Sir mumbles. lola grinssssss.
Better than BHG with their cock-and-fart jokes.
lola hisses.
Never speak ill of Jimmy in my presence. I will have your Aston made into a Rubix cube.
lola digs her feet into the hella plushie carpet.
I feel like I should be teaching a class at a really alternative school.
You wouldn't know where to start.
lola snuggles under her Teletubbies blanket.
A class about neo-feminism in relation to Hyundais.
lola laughssss.
Mm, neo-feminism. Technically referred to as Third Generation.
Sir grins and sips his drink
Hmm. I like to stick to the common usage.
lola throws cupcakes at his drink, causing it to spill all over his button-up, black shirt.
Common...like you.
lola grins. Sir pauses, statue-like, and looks up slowly.
Now that wasn't nice, little one.
lola laughs...what have you against cupcakes? They are sugary and delicious...like me.
lola smirks.
I have plenty against them when used as an offense missile system.
That was HARDLY a miss-sile.
Missile…if it's thrown…missile.
Miss-sile. You're wrong. Deal with it.
lola grins. Sir grins. lola unwraps a second cupcake and looks him over.
Someone wants a beating.
Do you? I'd be happy to oblige.
Sir smirks. lola pats her lap.
Hop up.
Obvious…and you wouldn't know where to start.
I would!
Sir says nothing. lola nibbles her cupcakes all dainty and queer-British like.
Simply scrumptious.
Sir slowly holds his half empty can out to the side.
If you's wants to play like that…we's can play like that.
I'm playing like nothing.
Sir slowly starts to tip the can.
Just enjoying this fine carpet and cupcakes. Why would you damage the carpet?
Sir grins.
You'll only have to clean it. And no one wants that.
Nope. Why would you damage my shirt?
Well, cause THAT'S hilarious. You're all frosted and sweet now.
Sir stops and grins.
Feeling guilty, little one?
Not the sour-ass grumpy puss like every other day.
lola smiles daintily and crosses her legs at her ankles.
I don't have any idea what you could mean.
lola blinks absently and unwraps another cupcake. Sir makes his most sincere of faces.
Noooooooo…course not.
lola puts this cupcake covertly in his shoe, frosting down. Sir takes a shirt out of his bag and changes.
Come up here.
lola squishes back down farther...no, I like this bean bag...you come here. I'll scoot over. It's a bag made for two.
lola grins.
Here. Now.
lola stops smiling...fine, but you're missing out. Don't say I didn't try to tell you.
Um hmmm.
lola rolls lazily from the bean bag, picks up her soda and walks over, checking out his high-tech chair.
Nice of me to have it brought up for you. Really nice. Of me. Nice. Me. Just remember that.
Um hmm.
lola tries some of the buttons and is delighted to see bubbles pour from the back. lola presses the clown-music button.
I like this...how's it go? Nuh nuh nuh-na nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh-na?
Sir takes her hands in his and switches the music and bubbles off.
More nuh's.
You're really not making use of all the options here. You've not even tried this panel over here.
Maybe.
Sir slaps her hand. lola goes to press—owww!
Don't touch my panels.
No fair! I bought it!
But…it's mine.
Grrr. Fine, I'll come play with it when you've gone.
lola shrugs and eyes all the buttons, eagerly. lola wonders what the big green one does. Sir takes her by the hips and sets her on his lap.
Press the green one. Press the green one. Press the green one.
lola wriggles impatiently and checks out the panel more closely.
And then that gray one with the double X on it.
Sir presses the blue one, bringing a protective screen over all the panels and locking the control down.
You have to earn the green one.
lola scowls and leans back, crossing her arms.
You're no fun. I should have just gotten you a lawn chair.
…and the XX is not for girlies.
Why not? What's the XX do? What's the XX do? What's the XX do? What's the XX do?
lola bounces, chanting.
Maybe one day I'll tell you…
What's the XX do? What's the XX do? What's the XX do?
When your ready…
What's the XX do? What's the XX do? What's the XX do? What's the XX do? What's the XX do? What's the XX do? What's the XX do? What's the XX do? What's the XX do? What's the XX do? What's the XX do?
It's the auto spank feature.
Mm, never mind then.
I fix you in and it just keeps going.
You play with that one yourself. You'll love it.
Sir grins.

Part of the relationship exists at this comfortable level. In and out of everyday, a sense of pervasive familiarity has really helped me to trust him, his motives. I question his motives often, occasionally out loud: Why are you here? Why are you doing this for me? What's in it for you?

His answer: I'm here. That's all you need to know.

It hasn't always been enough and I have pushed for more. I have been persistently wary and guarded, demanding specific explanations and revisiting the topic endlessly. But I suppose, in the end, it really is all I need to know.

On Things That Are Dying

She told me once.

I hear her cry sometimes at night; I know what she’s thinking about. About her life, about her dead father. She cries for what she lost. She is afraid to stop crying; she is afraid of forgetting, of what she has already forgotten, of what she can’t forget.

She feels guilty. She remembers two days before he died. Twelve, it was nearly her birthday. She sat on her bed, looked out the window and wondered what it would be like to have her father die. She wondered if people would pity her, would be kind, would expect her to cry. She wasn’t sure that she could. She was wrapped up in stupid, childish thoughts.

I think that this why she makes herself remember.

She remembers someone with a camera. As she sat next to her father and waited for him to die, as she begged her brother to make it okay for him to let go, someone had a camera.

She thought that she would like to have her father’s medallion. The one he wore around his neck to protect him. She feels guilty for thinking this before he died. She was afraid that her brother would want it. She wanted him to have the little paper prayers that he had kept on a string. She wanted to wear the necklace all the time. The paper would not do. She needed to know this before he was gone. That it was hers. Her father wasn’t dead and she was already sorting his belongings.

She hadn’t sorted well enough because too much was given away. There are no ties, or shoes, or shirts, or furniture. The bed that he died on is gone. The bed she would go to in the middle of the night when she was scared or lonely.

The pictures are put away. Even the picture that someone had tried to take of his spirit leaving his body.

She remembers him being sick. She can’t remember him ever being well. She can’t remember him not looking sad in his eyes, deep in them. She can’t remember not thinking that he was going to die and leave her.

She remembers trying to cry at the funeral. She remembers trying never to cry in front of her mother.

She remembers 2:08, not the 2:10 that the coroner wrote down.

She remembers her mother sending her out of the room so she could dress his body more appropriately for transportation, but not before she saw the diaper. She remembers him as strong and weak. She cries when she thinks about what he had wanted life to be, when she remembers what it really was.

She remembers being angry that he was going to die on her birthday. She is angry that he didn’t last until then. She wishes that she could have had that last day.

She wishes she knew someone who she could talk to about him, who he was, what he wanted; she wishes she knew someone like that, someone who wouldn’t cry. Someone who would tell her it’s okay, who would tiptoe around her instead.

But there is no one like that.

You'll Find Me Here

Before you wonder, I'm not suicidal.

Shit's going on, but I don't want to talk about it.
Things that feel as bleak as death.

A Note from Anonymous

Just a break for all of you.

I have this ridiculous neighbor who keeps harassing me about leaving my trash in the hallway for a few hours before taking it down to the dumpster. I have my reasons for doing this, and more importantly, everyone in the building does it as well. For some reason though, he has anonymously targeted me and a couple others for his campaign of insanity. The most recent note, which B ripped up in a blind rage, said something like:

Dear Trash in the Hall Lover...why do you insist on leaving your trash in the hall? Do you really get off on this? What is your desire in this? Just to be defiant? Trash leads to roaches and I don't want to live in the ghetto. We don't appreciate this at all, so you need to throw it in the dumpster. Trash belongs in your house or the dumpster...blah blah blah. Your response is appreciated.

Side note: This summary is actually written much better than the grubby chicken-scratches and seriously typo-ed monstrosity that was taped to my door. Also, he never puts down his name or apartment number. We have our speculations though. Glare.

This was one note in a long line of notes and I was sick of having to tape threatening messages to my trash since he had taken to hacking it open and spreading it across the hallway. The following was my response:

1. You seem to be the only one to get off on this as only you are consistently writing anonymous notes proving that:
1. No one else complains.
2. You are too cowardly to approach ALL the individuals who leave their trash in the hall for a few hours.
2. You are now vandalizing our trash which creates a larger roach problem than a CLOSED trash bag; ripping our bags open is childish and petty.
3. How long do you stand in the hall looking at my trash? What is your "desire in this"?
4. We don’t have a roach problem, at least my apartment doesn’t. Maybe you’re projecting—maybe you have a roach problem. If you insist on analyzing my reasons for leaving my trash in the hall until I go out to my car, then I will analyze your reasons for compulsively amplifying this issue:
1. You are a control freak, nitpicking strangers’ habits and leaving threats when your requests are not met promptly.
2. You remain anonymous yet expect a response: This must indicate you fear confrontation, are passive-aggressive, and would probably poison my pets if given an opportunity.
3. Your grammar and spelling indicate that you react impulsively (or that you are ignorant): There lies a whole list of Freudian conclusions.
4. You keep referring to some "we" as if there were a collective that thinks as you do: You are not royalty, and unless there are a bunch of people in your head, I think you should start identifying yourself singularly.
5. In conclusion, go file a formal complaint like a man or mind your own business; I pay good money to live here, and not in the "ghetto," so that I won’t have to deal with idiot neighbors like yourself. I hope that you are feeling like you’ve gotten the attention you were so desperately seeking, because I’m now done with this whole thing.

PS. By the way, none of your neighbors agree with you. They find your simpering messages inane. Go ask them, I have.

It's all I can do to keep B from heading over there and smashing this guy in the face and then throwing him from the patio (he is particularly miffed since he has most often had to clean up the trash messes...plus, he hates the long, jaunty braid and the infernally tie-dyed everything that this clown wears). I see his fists curl every time we pass the idiot, and have talked him down to doing something passive-aggressive (like breaking off a toothpick in this guy's lock) the next time it happens.

I do not want to spend tattoo-money on covering bail for an assault warrant. Fingers crossed. Hee hee.

How to pay?

I want to pay; I am craving punishment. I am not sure I deserve it. In fact, that's not true. I do deserve it; I am less sure that I deserve the forgiveness that comes with punishment.

I have considered asking B to punish me. Not in a physical way, but to think about how I can do penance for what I have done to him. But that would be awkward. He doesn't think that way. He would prefer to deal on his own, secretly stew, and let things pass.


But I am on the edge right now. I need a beating; something long and intentional, wickedly painful, lasting. I want to see my skin pay for my actions. And I can only think of one way. I am afraid to ask Sir for this. I worry that B will not see it as punishment, but a reward...spending more time with JB to make up for hurting B? So, with no other options, I am considering taking this upon myself.

But I have promised to speak with JB about this particular recourse before ever pursuing it. So, I am going to try him soon. I am so tired. It's refreshing. Keeps me focused. I am focused.

I am focused.

Cheshire Conversation

I had a conversation with MrH a while back; he isn't mine so it only happened that one time. We chatted while I consciously reinforced walls. He wanted to 'peel me like an onion'. Innocuous enough? Mm. Wide smiles from the darkened branches. Mystery, mystery. We discussed how I treat people. I explained to him how I push and push, sometimes going too far in the interest of defining my place.

MrH: It's a mean streak.
lola: It's not that bad.
MrH: Yes, it is.
lola: Is it?
MrH: Yup.
lola: Why do I do it?

The theory is that it's power play. I am looking for a worthy opponent who will put me in my place...when they can't, two things happen:

1. A little bratty part of me gets pissed that the person isn't worthy and goes for the throat.
2. Another part guilts out after I do.

MrH: Actually, it is a big deal.

I did the wrong thing last night. I came home late from work, wanting to spend time with B. I wanted to give him the energy he deserves. So, I went for drinks after work and then drove home, sending him suggestive text messages. His response: Huh?

Dejected, and I am not even home yet. So, I parked and came upstairs. He was on the computer when I entered; I got barely a nod. I sat on the couch and lay down. I asked him if he wanted to have dinner. He said he had just finished food. I asked him if he wanted to get a movie and watch together. It did not happen. I closed my eyes and thought about sleep as he continued to play.

I understand wanting time to play on the computer...believe me, I do. But he had had the day off, woken up at 11:30 and had been playing since. I was nearly asleep.

My phone rang. It was JB.

I talked to him for about an hour and then chatted longer on IRC. Eventually, B wanted the computer back so I let him have it, realizing...and here's the fucked up part...that B was antsy. Lately, he's been less and less okay with the situation. I know this. I wish there were a good third alternative. I finished watching a movie and JB calls again.

I pick up. I shouldn't; it's late. But I want something...connection maybe? I want someone to mm, want me? And not because...

I remember to pay the bills or
Of a sense of commitment based on common history or
I am the best thing so far or
I have always been every woman who's loved him and hurt him or
Of obligation.

I want to be seen as something thrilling, fascinating, worthy, irreplaceable, undeniable. Have I set myself up for a hard crash into reality? Am I truly not worth that, as I have always feared? Am I dreaming too big? Will I ever believe nice things said about me as easily as I believe the criticisms? Will I be able to listen to the words You're beautiful without having my body shake impatiently, twitch, instantly deny the words access to my brain?

I don’t blame B. How could I ever? I have done this to myself. I spent the entire night on the phone with JB, allowing myself to believe for one second that someone found me thrilling, fascinating, worthy, irreplaceable, undeniable. At 11:30 this morning, when B walked out into the room, he found me there, still on the phone with JB.

Without a word, he went to the sauna.

I followed him shortly after, knowing how much he was hurting, knowing it was my fault. I have a mean streak. I push and push, wanting someone to push back, to think I am valuable enough to change their life for me. Instead, I have pushed B away. He isn’t talking to me; he doesn’t want to talk about our relationship. He’s gone out to think. He says he will be back.

But for how long? And in what way? I am hurting him but I can’t stop. I want to stop, but I want to feel these…I want to feel these…I want to feel. And I only know one way now.

Everything's Okay

Perhaps I am overanalyzing everthing. I think there is something here, so I am going to post a bit of this conversation so I can revist it later. I am in the middle of making many descisions. B and I are coming to some choices, some definitive lines in the sand. I am on edge a lot lately, but it's in a secret place...a place I am keeping everyone else out of, but at the same time sucking them into, inadvertantly. I need to reorganize a bit. Figure out where I trust and why, how and who. Am I babbling?

You seeing anyone currently?
I am seeing someone. Why do you ask if I'm seeing someone? I doubt you want to know.
Why don't I want to know?
I just don't think you do.
Mm, I don't want details, just was curious about your social affairs.
Wow. Is that the time? It's far past your bedtime, young lady.
I haven't got a bed time tonight…and very smooth. I'm not going to pry.
I don't mind you prying.
I don't want any more information.
Just when you've asked before, I got the sense you wished you hadn’t.
Mm. Whatever you think, Sir.
lola smiles.
You are beautiful, little one.
Sure sure.
Sir smiles.
You should sleep.
You are. Don't push me away.
I'm not.
I'll go when I need to….
You said yourself it's late.
For you.
You're tired.
What are you going to do now?
Don't worry about me.
Hmm. I do though.
Mm, no need...I'm fine. I'll watch television and fuck around.
You shouldn't go too late.
No worries. I'm fine and you don't have to worry.
Your little “everything’s okay” phrases…um hmm. Don't believe you.
You won't have to deal with any grumpiness tomorrow.
I'm not worried about that.
Whatever you think, Sir.
Anything on your mind?
Nope.
Sir looks at lola.
Really?
Really.
Um hmm.

I was surprised to learn that someone would think of me as having 'hidden caring'. I thought that my emotions were pretty superficial, in terms of depth. Mm, well at least where affection is concerned. Isn't it funny how differently we perceive ourselves? I am beginning to watch the layers that MrHand once said I have, build. Isn't this a step backward? I really thought I was simple. How did I become this girl? This girl that can't share and can't demand for herself? The reality is clear but so unfamiliar.

What it Sounds Like: Part IV

Continued from What It Sounds Like: Part III

She looks down at him, digging into his skin and whimpering pathetically. She swallows hard, attempting to compose herself, “Y-yesss Sir.”

His hands slip onto her hips and move her back and forth, forcing her to fuck him quicker. She groans and slides, lowering herself onto him again, slowly, gasping.

“Come on, slut! Ride it!” he growls. She is trembling, praying she won’t orgasm.

“Oh, no no no…noooo, I…ohhhh,” she whimpers as she jerks violently on his lap, squirming and rocking onto him furiously. He seethes, slaps her ass; it is hard and unexpected. The blow stings as she rides him, chewing her lip, heat racing down her spine and into her used pussy.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she howls, delirious.

“Do I have to spank you!” he snarls.

“Fuck!” she shakes her head, gnawing harder on her lip and moaning, “Oh, no noooooo.”

He swats her ass again; she squeals, “No, Sir.”

SMACK!!

“Come on, slut! Do it right!” he glares at her, her cunt soaking his lap. Her legs are jelly, ass is stinging, burning.

He hisses, “For fuck’s sake.”

Desperate, she bows forward, slipping her swollen pussy up and down his cock quickly. His head shakes slowly from side to side, and with a grunt, suddenly leans, his cock still in her, lifting her legs and wrapping them around him, shifting her onto her back. Her mouth stops connecting with her thoughts.

“Oh, I want...fuuuuuckkkk-ohhhhh,” she babbles, as he tilts forward, sliding his legs back. Her head hits the mattress and she slams her pussy against him, deliriously wanton.

“Ohhhhhh ohhhhh. Please, please pleeeeaaaase,” she begs with the only word she can remember, clinging to him, wanting fucked more than she wants to breath.

His hips jerk forward and he pounds her quickly, each time burying his cock then nearly pulling out, moving quickly and forcefully. Her ass smashes into the mattress, her whole body bouncing with each thrust. He fucks her hard, his ass thumping up and down, arms straining.

He leans over her, noticing beads of sweat running down her chest and between her breasts. She grabs the sheets in one hand and his shoulder with the other, pussy shuddering and visions of brightly colored explosions. She moansss.

He pounds her pussy, leaning down and kissing her forcefully, pushing his tongue into her mouth. She loses all ability to think coherent thoughts, body washed with shuddering waves.

“Are you close, little one?” he whispers in her ear as he bangs against her cunt, his cock hard and stiff. She looks at him, mouth opening and closing stupidly, shaking her head.

“Mm mmm mmmmm mm,” she nods; he is stony-faced as he fucks her, his cock throbbing and close, “Cum for me, little one.”

She can feel wet heat sliding through her belly and down to her pussy. He lowers his weight onto her, pushing her into the mattress, not caring if it's too much, only wanting to cum in her. She succumbs, riding the heat through her body, flushed and damp as the room spins.

“Squeeze your legs around me, woman. Hold on tight,” he hisses. She moans and trembles, shaking from head to toe, legs weak but clinging to him.

He continues fucking her, never slowing. He is sweating when he leans forward, face on her shoulder, feeling her around him, smelling her as he fucks. She presses her thighs into his hips.

“Mmm, I'm going to come, little one,” he groans, “Are you close?”

She arches up against him, breasts brushing his chest, begging, “I…want…to…cum…so much, please pleeeasssse.”

She struggles with words, brain useless, whimpers, “Please Sir? Oh, please??”

His thrusts speed up, cock moving in and out, faster and faster, hammering into her, his hips bruising as they smack mercilessly against hers.

“Cum for me, little one,” he commands, feeling her wetter, his cock swelling, ready to explode. She is wound so tight that with those words, her body shakes violently, jerking hard and moaning, cumming. She gushes, soaking him, drenching him.

“Mmmmmmm,” she gasps, grinds against him, slippery and throbbing. He groans and jerks forward, cock erupting.

“Ohhhhh FFFFFUUUUUCCCKKKKKK!!!” he growls, forcing himself to grind into her as he feels her tight around him, his meat gripped by her slick glove.

“Ohh ohh mmmm,” she murmurs, as he spurts again and again inside of her, his cum hot in her pussy. She pulls him close, wanting to feel his weight pressing against her naked skin. She can feel her heart beating, fast and loud, blood rushing through her veins, hot. She pants softly near his ear, pressing her lips against it.

“Oh, thank you, Sir, thankyou thankyou.”

Pet My Pet

For S and his unfolding delicious wickedness.... I've thought about you alot this weekend. This is what you do to me. Giggle.

She removed her clothing minutes before he arrived—six o’clock on the dot, as he had instructed. Her blouse was slipped from her back, the skirt neatly folded on top of it, lacy bra and delicate panties peeled from her flushed skin. She sat on the edge of the couch, stripped and obedient, waiting.

When he whistled from the door, she cringed. He’s got to be kidding. But then she heard it a second time, more insistently. With a low growl, she peered around the edge of the hallway and glared at him.

He set his keys and briefcase down on the hall table and looked at her, amused. From the mahogany colored satchel, he pulled a long, leather leash and a thin, yet severe-looking crop. Her eyes were saucers and she swallowed hard. He held the leash up and let it drop to the floor; it was a choke chain of sorts, with a small loop on each end.

She disappeared behind the wall, pale and trembling.

“Don’t make me angry, my pet,” he warned, his voice still light but resolute. He could see her fingers creep around the wall and her head soon followed. He couldn’t read her eyes; their pale blue swam with alarm.

He snapped loudly and pointed to the tile in front of him. She came slowly, eyes flashing between the leash, the crop and his unyielding face.

“Down,” he commanded, when she was within feet. She paused, but barely, before slipping to her hands and knees. He looped the leather thong over her head and pulled her long brown hair free. Without a word, he led her across the tile floor, her hair swinging around her face and her knees scraping along the ground. He pulled snugly on the leash, the soft leather digging into her neck.

Her hand snuck up to the collar and tugged it away from her skin. He leaned down, snarling, and grabbed the loop at her neck, hauling her to her feet with it, yanking it tight around her throat. She gasped as he pulled it higher, lifting her onto her toes. The leash was a deadly wreath, ending her breath, a finite noose. He stared at her as she choked, fingers at the leather, digging as she purpled.

“Don’t make me angry, my pet,” he repeated, lashing her thigh cruelly with the crop. She nodded, wheezing, her fingers curling desperately. He released her and she fell back to her knees, coughing. Her jaw ached as blood flooded back into it and she blinked away the clouds in her vision. He continued toward the bedroom, pace slowing to accommodate her fear. She knew who controlled her; she would not be stupid again.

At the foot of the bed, he stopped, yanking her forward in front of him. He loved how she looked naked, so far beneath him, her back long and sculpted, tapering into her narrow hips and round, firm ass. Her hair covered her face, but he knew if she were to look up, he would find a familiar pout on her plump lips and ice in her eyes. He loved to break her over and over again.

He stepped forward, around her, his calves locking her waist between his open legs. He stared down at her ass, could feel her body shaking. She was afraid, but he was aware too that she was soaked, the slut. Heat was pouring off her body and he knew her wet-fist cunt was dripping greedily. He smiled to himself; so fucking predictable.

“That’s my pussy, my pet,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. She purred, her ass rolling eagerly as he snapped the crop down on the inside of her left cheek. He could feel her body jump between his legs, and slapped the thin tool on the inside of her right cheek, catching a bit of her swollen cunt lips with the end. She gasped, whining softly.

“Pet my pretty pussy,” he instructed, pulling up gently on the leash. She groaned as her breath became more labored, her thoughts less clear, but reached between her legs and flicked her fingers over her throbbing clit. Her moans were raspy and short as she weaved her fingers into her folds and rubbed herself shamelessly. He watched her, carefully monitoring her climax, examining the subtle twitch in her hips and grind of her hand. If she came too close, he brought the crop viciously down on her fleshy backside. She would cry out in pain and he would release the collar, letting the blood rush back to her face and away from her gluttonous cunt.

She got cleverer though, and he almost allowed her to cum. She was whipped furiously for that and tears trickled down her face before he let her continue to stroke her frenzied pussy. A groan built deep in his throat as he watched her tremble; he moved to her side and lowered himself to his knees, examining her like a prize breeder. He placed a hand on the back of her neck and pushed her down, her face pressing against the floor and her ass high in the air, gratuitously exposed. She continued though to slip her nimble fingers through her drenched slit.

“That’s a good girl,” he whispered, wrapping the leash around his wrist and making it taut. Her vision was an old photograph, gray and blurring around the edges, but her pussy had swelled in a way she hadn’t known it could, so painfully close to climax, juicy and hot. She hissed when his fingers sunk into it, twisting and flexing her.

“Good girl, my pet,” he whispered, fucking her expertly as she twitched, “I will feel it if you cum, so you had better not.”

He continued to pet her, pleased with her response. She whined, but he could feel her relax, trying not to stimulate herself. He smiled, knowing that his intentions were more devious than she could imagine.

She felt the sharp, meaty slap throughout her whole body; yelping loudly, she flinched, her muscles cringing away from the burn. He could feel her automatically clench his fingers in her liquid hot cunt. He smirked.

He began to spank her harder, erratically, her pussy tightening with each slap. He tickled her aching clit with his thumb. She moaned, clawing through her hair; she could not pull away with the leash wrapped securely around her throat and she could not stop fucking his hand as he slapped her. She was fucked and she knew it.

“Please, please. I’m going to cum,” she pleaded, grinding her teeth against the building waves of desire.

“No, my pet,” his voice was solid and harsh. She whimpered hysterically, yanking on her hair. Her resolve was a broken dam and she could not get it back; she was not clear-headed, she had held out so long.

“I-I…mmm…I c-can’t stop,” she mumbled incoherently.

He ripped his fingers from her pussy and growled low in her ear, “You will not cum, my pet.”

She struck the ground hard with her palm, delirious with wet, throbbing appetite. He grinned to himself. Bad girls will have to be punished.

He slapped the crop down on her tender cunt, the end licking evilly across her clit. She gasped, cumming instantly, a slippery gush of euphoria soaking her thighs and wrenching her hips. She groaned, her body shuddering for long moments; he watched her, shaking his head, amusedly.

“You filthy slut,” he admonished, pulling tight on the leash and yanking her head back. She didn’t yet comprehend words, but his tone was all she needed, “No fucking self-control. I’m disappointed, my pet. You know what happens to girls that cum without permission.”

She groaned, hissing through wet lips. She was fucked and she knew it. The wicked glint in his eye was unmistakable.