Inner Monologue

Oh, so good. Oh, so bad.

And so JB's come up with new and intriguing punishments for what he is lovingly refering to as my "arsy behavior" (stupid British extra letters in words that ain't got um!)...and guess what? I'm not doing them. Nope, nope. Refused. They are just silly and weird.

Nope.

Stay strong, lola. He'll make you. You think you can get away with not doing what you're told?

Nope, not this. Too weird. Mental damage.

He'll take away things you don't want taken away...

Men-tal damaaaggge...

From a text, and I quote: "Soooo soooooooooo unnecessary. Say bye bye to the diddles, lola. Bye bye diddles, bye bye."

GRR! You make an excellent point, me.

Thank you. I try.

Damnit, but it's so lame and bizarre and I want no. part. of. it.

Do you need to see more texts? How about: "Nope. Belligerence is a bitch, ain't it, little one?"

Damn my excellent points! This will require more thought...and skillful manipulation, and most sadly, a period of good behavior. Le sigh!

Let's get analytical!

Spanking, spanking, spanking. For many years that word could not pass my lips. It didn’t sound right; it was harsh and my tongue refused to wrap around it properly. I could whisper it into the night, but it sounded choppy, scared, there was a lisp to it. Spanking was my secret word.

I think a lot of kinkos (not the copy center, but those non-vanilla folks who like their coffee with cream and sugar and some light bondage, or what have you) go through this amazing period of their sexuality where several things happen:

• You think that you are both perverted and crazy.
• You wonder whether you’ll ever be satisfied with straight, vanilla sex.
• You over-analyze how you got to this place.
• Supress, surpress, surpress.
  
• You feel insanely alone.
• You go looking for others like you.
  

Jesus, I could blog for a straight year on everything I have discovered about my kink, related kinks, and kinkos, but really, this is just about me, right? Right, right. So, let’s just stick with my analysis.

Since I was a child, literally three or four years old, I have had spanking on the brain. I know; sounds young, right? But, as a result, I would become a voracious reader of Victorian era books, tearing through the Anne of Green Gables series, only to be disappointed that in seven books, there were like, two or three scenes. But I can tell you exactly where they are and my copies were dog-eared and broken-spined in those few places. Little House was a treasure trove. And, for those of you secret kinksters, pretty much anything set in the South, pre-1960. Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, n?!? Eh? Eh? Hee hee. (That one has a belt in it. Nice.)

I watched any television show that I thought might have something to do with spanking. You see, as JB Sir has taken to reminding me (often at inopportune moments), I am a clever girl. I went for The Little Rascals straight away, followed shortly by Father Knows Best (so-so), oddly, The Munsters (I managed to catch the one episode that had spanking in it and watched the whole series, only to be dreadfully frustrated it wasn’t a recurrent theme), and Leave it to Beaver, which, interestingly enough for a patriarchal television show from the 1950’s, remained rather opposed to the concept (though Ward talked about it all the time, in reference to his own upbringing). I’m still watching it and holding out for the one episode when someone gets a lickin’…as of yet, I’ve only heard it over the phone ala A Christmas Story. Oh, don’t get me started on all the accoutrements of the spanko scene—washing mouths out with soap, timeouts in the corner, slapping palms with rulers. Anything that could potentially lead to a spanking got me hot.

Okay, and art! See, I am an artist, so of course I have looked into anything that might have spanking in it. Norman Rockwell was gold for me (even the image just before the little boy got a shot gave me a tingle in my belly). Oh, and as I got older, Max Ernst with his The Virgin Spanking the Christ Child before Three Witnesses: Andre Breton, Paul Eluard, and the Painter. Surreal, uh huh, but did it for me, too. Pin-up girls and 1940’s prints, mm.

Somehow, I didn’t go looking for spanking music, though n did!

I just liked spanking. A lot. Too much for me to ignore the fact that it was weird. I was very, very careful with it. You mention spanking around me during my (and I don’t take this phrase lightly, but it seems appropriate, so bear with me) “in-the-closet” phase and you would have seen the blankest, stillest face humanly possible. Oh, yes, underneath? Every single nerve was on end, every single drop of blood in my body was surging toward the surface, up my neck and flashing toward my face, but I was a machine! A machine, I tell you. No one knew. Not one. Well, one, but that’s another story.

But, I’m out now. Well, sort of. In that, very few people in my life know about it. But I can say the word: Spanking. Out loud. I can ask for what I want. And right now I want to ask.

I want a spanking. The kind that leaves me feeling good, comforted, content and satisfied. Some spankings come in the middle of sex, with punishment, are furious, angry, unmerciful and devastating…and I want those, too. But right now, I want something else.

I want an appetizer; I want to be told I will be given a spanking and how. I want to know that it is because I need it. I did nothing in particular, just that I need a spanking and am going to get one.

I want ceremony. I want a stool in the middle of the room, to be told to bend over and place my hands flat on the seat. I want to feel my hair falling around my face, I want to be nervous.

I want it to start over my panties, with his hand on my bottom, caressing the lines of the fabric, smoothing over my skin, dipping between my legs briefly, making my heart race. I want it slow. I want no rushes—methodical slaps warming up my backside and making me coo. I want patience, determination, self-control.

I want him to rub my back and to pause, to circle me, to notice the bounce in my knees, the happy pout on my lips. I want to have my panties pulled down. I want to be clothed, except for my naked bottom, pink and rosy and waiting. I want him to spank me harder, to make me squirm, to wonder why I asked for this.

I want it to be over. I want to have controlled it this far, and now for it to be over. But I want also, for him to decide when it is over. I want him to evaluate whether or not I need more. I want him to surprise me with another implement—a hairbrush, a ruler, a belt, something. I want subtle threats and I want his patronizing encouragements: Good girl, good girl. Be still, behave.

I want to feel it the next day and the next day. I want to sit and remember that very moment, feel my face flush like it did when I was a girl. I want to speak the word with that magical awe and fear again.

Spanking. I am getting a spanking.

Update While I Wait

I'm sitting here, eating Pocky (see illustration...and why Men's Pocky? I ain't no mens, in any case...though I do appreciate them) by the handful, and trying to figure out how to jam a week's worth of information into a paragraph or two. Especially since poiesia is so resistant to my vague introspection. A perplexing situation, which is leading to the over-consumption of these delicious chocolate treats. So, facts then:

• When I returned, it was as if the whole fiasco hadn't even occured.
• I ignored this for two days, just happy that while work was falling apart, things were okay at home.
• We were more than pleasent and continue to be since then.
• I have tried to cut down on the amount of time I spend on the phone.
• I think that I realized that the biggest problem occured when I was on both the phone and the computer simultaneously...um, which leads me to wonder whether I am just getting in the way of some elicit affair between B and a half-orc in the World of Warcraft. Nerdo.
• My work environment has degenerated to an unmanageable situation and I will be collecting the testicles of the one I hold responsible on Monday. Grr.

That'll do for now, piggies. I'll be back, but I am preparing to be ravaged this very evening. Squeak. Enjoy your respective Saturday nights. And S, my fucking story, if you will...goddamn degenerate scum. Oh, what a happy mood I find myself in! Grin.

Time Out

FUUUCK!

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ! You know when your life is supremely complicated...like so complicated you know you won't see complicated like this for another ten years!? And really, the only thing you want is no. more. bullshit. And then...then fate drops it's drawers and pisses on your shoes? Yeah. That's me. In piss shoes.

FUCK FUCK!

And you've got nothing...you can't hide; you can't stop or breathe? I'm big fat sorry to everyone for falling apart. And I am still falling apart. I'm sorry as it happens, but I can't stop it. Not even for a second. And now they need me. And now I can't be there, but I am there; I can't not be there.

muuutherFUCKerrrrrr

My feet are wet.

105 Hours Later

I'm about to start my trip home. Like my drive here, I am expecting that it will be dark, tense, and filled with uncertainty.

I can't do anything but think now. Everything reminds me of this moment. My body is tight and hot, itchy. I have no idea where we are and I'm scared.

I ran away, but I have to return now, late and shrouded in weariness. The hours are achingly slow when I am without a dam for my thoughts.

See you.
L

41 Hours Later

I'm thinking. I'm trying not to think. Thinking makes me cry. I don't want to cry. I don't want to think. I want time to stand still.

Please know this.

I am going to be very honest. Honesty is not my friend. Honesty is my mortal enemy because honesty means conflict. I wish with all my heart that I lived in a fucking perfect world, a world where love was one man stamped with my name, right on his forehead so that I couldn't miss it. But I don't live in that world.

I don't live in any world of black and white, love and hate, clear and unclear. All I know is that I have a very intangible choice to make, and only fucking little bubbles to fill in.

I'm going away this weekend. I am going to be gone and B is going to be alone, with his thoughts. He always thinks: if I can't have her solely, then I can't have her at all. But all that other stuff, the grays in between, he doesn't see them. At all. I know him so well, which is why he hates me right now--forever, in his estimation. He thinks that I know him, I know him and and still choose to hurt him; because if I do that, I must hate him, I must love someone else more. And maybe I do. Maybe for once in my life, I do love someone else more. But not who he thinks.

Maybe this time, I love me.

It's fucking selfish and I know it. So I am choosing to hurt him. But how fucking often in my life have I chosen me? I've always chosen someone else. Always. And now, I will lose everything because of it. B will go because its what he knows how to do, its how he knows how to think, and my heart will break. And everytime I think of me first in the future, I will know how much it hurt him. He thinks that I don't care that I am hurting him. He doesn't want to know how hard it has been to do this. I needed this. I craved it from when I can remember. And I had a chance to try it. Trying it meant hurting someone I love more than life itself. Like in life, there were no grays for me.

And JB will go back to his own life, because he is a practical man. He knows the limitations of this relationship and he will, in the end that is very close, choose to be reasonable. He has already chosen to be reasonable. I spent the evening on the phone with him, destroying the last thread of my relationship with B, because I wanted one more night of choosing me.

I knew it was a mistake. I knew forever that it would be a mistake. They tell you that you live for yourself, but when you do, well. This. All this. I watched him walk away this morning, hating me. It's easier for him that way. I chose him this morning. I let him walk, let it be easier.

It's not true, you know. You don't always see it coming. But I should have.

I love you, B. I know it makes no difference to you. It has always been true from the depths of my heart, with all of my soul. I have known you; I have been you. My heart is yours, my breath is yours. I know you will hate me more for saying this, but if its the only chance I get, I am sorry. I am sorry that I wasn't always what you wanted and needed. I am so very sorry that this will be something that you look back on with sadness, with anger, after all those moments that you made me laugh, made my heart light. You were my first. You changed the way my world moved. I love you and my heart is broken. Crumpled.

Please know that whatever has happened, I love you, B. You are etched on my soul. I don't want this end.

The Return

Sooo...I've been avoiding updating about my situation, because I sort of moved into an insanely private place for the last couple of weeks. But, let's see.

Okay, here's where I am with JB--I want things to stay the same. I want him to be able to be with me whenever I want; I'm selfish like that. I admit it. Cake and eatin' girl. But it's just not possible. He's having a serious talk with his girlfriend this weekend, a talk we are both tapdancing around like the bloated, ticking elephant in the room. Wait, did that metaphor even make sense? Whatever. He will have to commit more to her, and in effect, less to me. I understand; we've been ignoring reality for too long. Lost in our kink, in its possibilities. But it's time to wake the fuck up. Here, see for yourself (Sir/lola):

lola smiles.
And I'm sorry, but I don’t regret it.
I regret nothing...not with this.
Sir sighs.
I can’t talk about this now.
It's real...and no matter how we end up, this will always have been real.
Good girl. Don’t make this sad. Because it never can be. Yes. You trying to get me to cry, little one?
Sir smiles slightly.
It's not sad...it's not because it was the best thing, the most real thing. And then if we have to go back to what life makes real, we'll be some of those lucky people who felt something real for a while. And that's better than not feeling it at all, you think...? I can't think that's true, but you do, so it must be so.

When I decided to 'come out' as a spanko, so to speak, I was really afraid of what I'd find. But it was just truth. And a lot of time, we fear truth because it's so intensely real. Why though? Why wouldn't I want to feel this real...all the time?

So are we destined for this?
For what?
To live separate lives and talk occasionally, but not really be together, and if so, not until the end? Is that our destiny?
I really can’t talk about this now.
I know. I'm sorry. I'll stop. I can't talk about this regularly. So, we won't.
Why are you bringing it up? I know it’s on our minds, but I don’t want to make our time together about this.
You're right. I'm sorry.

Why do I keep pushing it? Because I don't want it to change. I am a better person with him; I am a good girl. I try. I feel accountable. I want to hear him say anything but what he will say; and if he has to say it, I can't wait. But I don't have a choice. I'm not in charge.

But lets talk about his another time.
Yes.
I can't take it now.
Or not. It's not to talk about.
Maybe.

It's me to say this, to remain conflicted, aloof, unwanting. If I want it, and I don't get it, and I put my desires over someone else's, and I have to fight, work, beg for it, then it was better to have never wanted. Can I fool myself? I hope so. Fuck, I hope so.

Real love is for books, Sir, not for real people.

I tell myself this is truth, but I secretly pray that, this one time, I am wrong. The worst part of love is that it isn't constant. You can always love, but I didn't really understand how much love shifts and evolves, waxes and wanes, breaks your heart and breaks your jaw...but I come back and back. Back and back.

"I love you, baby."

Okay, mm. Let's see. I was reading Jerk's blog the other day where he was prattling on (yeah, I'm still miffed that I am one of 'the few ladies') about the newest Bond. They have announced it will be Layer Cake's Daniel Craig, this guy:

For awhile, they were talking about casting one of my favorite actors, Clive Owen. I bet you can guess why he's my choice. Mm...yeah, he's one big hunk of Domliness in a gorgeously tough exterior (except in this picture he seems a tad overly fond of the self-tanner, I admit). Not to mention the swoony British accent. Accents make the toadiest of people considerable, and what it does to the already peentastic--Yeeowzah! (I thought that that noise was particularly efficient at conveying his drool-worthiness.) Allow me to demonstrate with the following visuals:


Dwight: I'm Shellie's new boyfriend and I'm out of my mind. If you so much as talk to her or even think her name, I'll cut you in ways that'll make you useless to a woman.


Dwight: You'll always be mine, always and never. Never. The fire, baby. It'll burn us both. It'll kill us both. There's no place in this world for our kind of fire. Always and never. If I have to die for you tonight, I will.


Larry: Do you enjoy sucking him off?
Anna: Yes!
Larry: You like his cock?
Anna: I love it!
Larry: You like him coming in your face?
Anna: Yes!
Larry: What does it taste like?
Anna: It tastes like you but sweeter!
Larry: That's the spirit. Thank you. Thank you for your honesty. Now fuck off and die, you fucked-up slag.

So that this does not become a thirteen year old girl's blog of lust, I will try to refrain from doing too much of this: Mrs. Lola Owen...Mr. and Mrs. Clive Owen...Clive and Lola Owen (squeeeeak!). But he was such a savage as Larry in Closer (hyperventilating right now). And as Dwight in Sin City?!? Jesus. Okay, um...in closing, Clive Owen is straight manalicious and he can spank me anytime...mm. SQUEAK! In conclusion, from Closer:

Anna: Why is the sex so important?
Larry: Because I'm a fucking caveman!

And...

Larry: [speaking to Anna] You'd be my whore. And in return I will pay you with your liberty.

God, I love that movie. Insipid giggles and blushing.

Egon and MEgon.

What do I do when my priviledges have been revoked? It's not fair, really. Did I deserve it? I don't think so. But he was good enough to me...I get one. Only one for today and then nothing for six more days. Why can't I just shut the fuck up?

But, that is not relevant right now. I'm trying not to think about it, so let me show you something that I love. His name was Egon Schiele (1890-1918) and he was an Austrian painter. Now, most artists have a few favorites. I have just Egon. He had a short life, but was able to produce some amazing things in that time. For example:

Here is probably why I am thinking about this, God damn it. Sigh. Only one? What does he think I am? Some sort of machine? I'm not! You hear me, Sir? I'm not!!! Pout.

Oh, to be young and free and able to play with yourself to your heart's content. I think I'll go cry. But before I do, here's a couple more:


Sometimes art is so easy to talk about. You have to say what you see, you have to capture this intangible visual with words. Something this angular, something that could be grotesque somehow still becomes an object of desire, of lust. I find his work to have this comfortable weight despite its ethereal quality. The line is so naked, but not delicate--thick and intense, insanely expressive. Not debated...but captured, and quickly. Overtaking, securing, controlling...and then nurturing it, enhancing, glorifying. The paint has such texture, the faces so emotive. The tone is intimate and seductive, yet somehow mournful.

And this, this is how I like to think of myself now. A place of dejected waiting, clothed but for where I want access, teasing and tormenting. My thoughts some place far away from here, yet also very here, very awake. And I still only have the one. And for only a few more hours:


When the clock strikes midnight, my pumpkin will become a jack o'lantern with a big, evil grin. I'd laugh at me, too. But that's why I am in this predicament. I can't shut my big, fat mouth. Grr.

I'm going to hell, right?

So, I know yall wonder what I do with my Jewish holidays off of work. Oh, yes. My school totally lets us off for these, which is more awesome since I'm not Jewish. So, here it is. A little excerpt of how I waste my days:

lola: Hi Rich!
Rich: Hi lola.
lola comes down off her snobby-ass, high-horse to say hello to her favorite student!
Rich: Did you get a nose bleed while up that high?
lola hops back up again and prepares for a ride ala Lady Godiva.
lola: Psssht, naw...I'm used to the altitude up here. You couldn't handle it though. Or I'd take you for a spin.
lola grins.
Rich: No, I don’t snob way up there.
lola: I know...I'm way outta your league up here, baby. Too bad, cause I am butt-ass naked.
Rich: That’s what it was, you’re so high you didn’t see me down here…
lola: Yeah, I am indeed very high.
Rich: Butt ass naked, huh?
lola: Uh huh.
Rich: Come down so I can see.
earthangel: Hi everyone.
Rich: Hi earthangel.
earthangel: Hi Rich. Hi lola huggggggggggggggggs!
lola throws her leg over the horse and gives Rich a little shimmie.
earthangel: Hi Psy.
lola: Hiya ea...avert your eyes if you don't wanna see my nudity! But then, who doesn't?
earthangel: Ok lola...lol.
lola: I mean, really.
earthangel peeks..lol. lola gives ea a bit of a shimmie and a wink.
JB: lola!
lola: Whaaaat? It was only a little peek.
earthangel winks back at ya, lola.
lola: You can come up here though, JB...if you want.
JB: Put your Satan love muffins away!
earthangel: Never a dull moment when you are here, lola.
JB: Hide your shame, girl!
lola: I have NO SHAME!!!!
earthangel laughsssssssssssssssssss.
Rich: She don’t even know the meaning of that word.
earthangel: You go girlllllllllllllllllllllllll!
lola shakes her hair away from her naked breasts and grinsssssssssss.
Rich: Nice, lola.
lola: Chanks Rich...that's why you're my favorite student.
Rich: I miss your classes though.
lola: I know, I know...I'm a lousy teacher. I suppose I could letcha spank me for it.
Rich: I should, huh?
lola: But, for now I must disrobe and have lunch...wait. Other way around.
Psy: Hi earthangel.
lola: And then, the games begin! I'm having a Get-Naked-For-God Day!!! It's Yom Kippur, you know. Jesus wants to see my boobies. Wow. Yep, no shame. Back in a bit, yall.
lola is now known as lola{JB}nakedforJesus

Yes, I am indeed writing this naked. Hee hee.

The Twelfth of October

Today's been hard, when I let it be. I don't like to mention family on my blog, as it's just rather icky. But, today is a special day. Here's something from a few years ago.

The Man in the Box

My father lies in a neat little row.
It seems contrary to who he was
But nonetheless it is how I find him
Three times a year.
I wonder if heaven is so neatly filed.

I haven't sat in your lap in so long.
You spent those last three years so weak
And I was too big.
And now here I am nine years later,
Through six feet of earth
Sitting on your lap again.

I Won't Be Back, One Day.

Here's where I want to run away to...not alone.

More of Jacek Yerka's artwork here.

Closure

Fuck it. Now everyone can be happy.

What a difference one little word makes. Else. Everyone else.

Sometimes you think that happiness isn't for you. But you made it that way. I made it that way. And it will be okay. Because I made it that way.

Care Bears were innocent once.

Of fucking course I am! I did this with JB. This has been, by far, the most accurate of all quizzes I have ever taken. Here's his Dysfunctional Care Bear:

Which Dysfunctional Care Bear Are You?
Brought to you by Quizilla

You like Mitch. Mitch like you.

I have at various points mentioned my comic fan-boyishness. Here's another funny man I loved: Mitch Hedberg. He passed away in last March and I was devastated. Somehow, despite my heavily (heavily...you should see some of the email propaganda I get) Catholic family, I managed to be more heartbroken by the deaths of Mitch and Jerry Orbach than The Pope, himself. Mitch had one of those smart-ass, stoner-clever views that made you laugh your ass off over the most ridiculously mundane topics. Thought yall might like these bits...

"I opened up a container of yogurt, and under the lid it said: Please Try Again. Apparently I was in a contest I was unaware of. But I thought I might have opened the yogurt wrong or maybe Yoplait was trying to inspire me. "C'mon, Mitchell, don't give up. Please try again. A message of inspiration from your friends at Yoplait. Fruit on the bottom, hope on top. ""

"I like the FedEx guy, 'cause he's a drug dealer and he don't even know it! And he's always on time."

"They say that the recipe for Sprite is lemon and lime, but I tried to make it at home, there's more to it than that: "Hey, you want some more homemade Sprite, man?" "Not until you figure out what the fuck else is in it!""

"I like baked potatoes, man. I don't have a microwave oven; it takes forever to cook a baked potato in a conventional oven. Sometimes I'll just throw one in there, even if I don't want one, because by the time it's done...who knows?"

"I have long hair, and see, people associate long hair with drug use. I wish long hair was associated with something other than drug use, like 'an extreme longing for cake'. People would see a guy with long hair and say "Damn, that fucker eats cake; he's on bundt cake." Mothers telling their daughters, "Don't bring the cake-eater over here anymore, he smells like flour. Did you notice how his eyes widened when he found out your birthday was fast approaching?""

"I wrote a letter to my dad—I wanted to write, "I really enjoy being here," but I accidentally wrote rarely instead of really. But I still wanted to use it, I didn't want to cross it out, so I wrote, "I rarely...drive steamboats, Dad—there's a lot of shit you don't know about me. Quit trying to act like I'm a steamboat operator. This letter took a harsh turn right away. Hello, Dad.""

"My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them."

"This product that was on TV was available for four easy payments of $19.95. I would like a product that was available for three easy payments and one fucking complicated payment. We can't tell you which payment it is, but one of these payments is going to be a bitch. The mailman will get shot to death, the envelope will not seal, and the stamp will be in the wrong denomination. Good luck, fucker. The last payment must be made in wampum!"

"I got an ant farm. Them fellas don't grow shit. I said, "How about some celery? You fuckers don't farm, besides, if I ripped your legs off, you would look like snowmen.""

"I bought a doughnut and they gave me a receipt for the doughnut. I don't need a receipt for the doughnut—I’ll just give you money and you give me the doughnut. End of transaction. We don't need to bring ink and paper into this. I can't imagine a scenario in which I would need to prove that I bought a doughnut. Some skeptical friend? "Don’t even act like I didn't buy a doughnut, I've got the documentation right here. Oh wait, it's back home in the file...under 'D'…for doughnut.""

"Koala bears. They're so fuckin' cute, why do they gotta live so fuckin' far away from me. We should ship some of them over. And I will apprehend one. And hold him. And pet him on the back of his head."

"I had an apartment and I had a neighbor, and whenever he would knock on my wall I knew he wanted me to turn my music down and that made me angry 'cause I like loud music...so when he knocked on the wall, I'd mess with his head. I'd say "Go around! I cannot open the wall! I dunno if you have a door on your side but over here there's nothin'. It's just flat.""

Shh.

Everything's fine.

That means something different for me.

I am torn between two people's needs and I know that I am losing. I can't say what I want to say; I can't do what I want to do. I can't think for me right now and before, before when I was asleep, that was okay. But I am aware of needing to be awake. I was trying to be awake. And so, it's no longer okay.

It just makes things harder, makes me more conflicted. And I have always hated conflict. To live trapped in what you hate is so exhausting. I am exhausted. I am hiding.

Everything's fine.

Need, not want.

I know. I'm a bad, bad girl and I have taken far too long to finish this. But, it's done. Hope it satisfies, S. I like to please. Too much. Grin.

“Fuck me.”

There is a pause while he turns, his face is too absent.

“Now?” he asks, yanking on his jacket and grabbing his bag for work.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘now’?” I demand, smacking his bag out of his hand; I can see his eyes flash across my insistent face. He is considering. He is doing it wrong, but I can use this to my advantage.

“Soon, my pet,” he soothes, reaching down to the strap and slinging it back over his shoulder, “As soon as I get home.”

I stomp my bare feet on the cold tile floor and scowl at him, “No. Now.”

I can see the frown pulling at the corners of his mouth, but I want him too much to stop now. He let me have this moment. He built it; he sabotaged himself. You can’t give this sort of power without serious repercussions. I can see all this in his thoughts, his fingers twitching across the shoulder strap and his keys clenched tight in his fist.

“There isn’t time,” he insists, chewing his lip as he reaches for the door. I slip around him before he can pull it open and block his exit. His body is close now and I can smell him, fresh, warm, too inviting, too appealing. I grab his bag and pull it out of his hand before he can object a second time.

I know he is weak; I haven’t gotten dressed yet, a silk envelope licking up around my breasts, my hair wet from my shower and saturating the thin robe. I unwrap my thigh and tuck my ankle behind his leg, pulling him closer. I hope that he can read in my eyes what he has ignored from my lips.

His breath is shorter; I can feel his chest quick and shallow against my breasts. I want him to slide his hands inside the silk and cover my damp skin, sweep his palms over my aching nipples, drag me back to the bedroom and lickme, touchme, poundme, fuckme until I am saved.

Jesus, Jesus. He won’t help me now. Only one thing will and I want it. I will happily pay any price to tastehim, suckhim, ridehim, soakhim. Soon I will be lost to whimpering pleas. I have to convince him while I can. I pull his hand between my thighs and press him against my lap; I can feel cold metal against my cunt. With a shiver, he drops his keys between my legs and presses forward, driving two fingers into my shamelessly slick pussy.

Breath comes fast, groaning down my throat and filling my lungs. I can’t open or close my mouth and I know that he is laughing at my pucker of surprise. I don’t care though so long as he keeps his hand on my pussy, his thumb lolling around my pouty clit. My legs are weak, but I manage to find his keys with my toes and kick them under the heavy oak bureau on my right. Subtle? No, but effective. He grunts, snatching his hand away. My whine is pathetic. I know that.

He presses me against the door; I can feel every inch of him through the sheer fabric and I can’t stop my hips from digging against his thigh. His kiss is slow, his tongue parts my lips and I can smell him. He tastes like strength and I suck it off his lips eagerly. I can feel his fingers knotting through my hair and the whimpers in my throat. He will not let me have this long, so I memorize the scent, the flavor, the twisting between my legs. He pulls back, but I am not surprised. With a casual flick, he tugs my long, wet hair back and speaks directly into my ear.

“I would’ve fucked you so deliciously when I got home. I would have given you what you wanted. I would have watched your breasts sway as you rode my lap, my cock buried deep in beautiful pussy. I would have spanked your ass until it glowed. I would have made you squeal; I would have made you moan.”

It is painfully hot above my pussy and I can feel my thighs damper, my nipples tight. I want to touch him, I want to swallow him into my greedy throat. His eyes are on mine, the surface cool and reserved but underneath churning, scorching dark. I flinch, though I don’t want to. I am losing ground too quickly. His voice is in my ear, in my head, is my thoughts, is my sentence.

“But now…you say to fuck you now? So I will. But I will remind you of your place. You will not get what you want, you will get what you need. I will watch your breasts bounce as I ride you, my cock buried deep in your ass. I will thrash you until you’re bruised and broken. I will make you scream; I will make you cry. I will fuck you now, my pet.”

My mouth is a plain, is a dry, dry match. My tongue scrapes across my lips and I can feel tears beginning in my eyes. I don’t want this. Jesus, Jesus. He won’t help me now. Only one thing will but I don’t want it. He lets go of my hair and pushes me forward, toward the bedroom. My footsteps are short, anxious, backtracking; I can feel his body, solid behind mine, there is nowhere to move but down the long corridor. I swallow hard into my fate.

“Please,” I turn, grabbing his jacket and pulling on the fabric, frantically. His eyes sparkle maliciously and I whine as his fingers crush my arm, heaving me bodily toward the bedroom.

“Of course, my pet,” he grins, nodding toward the dark room, “You asked for this, and you shall have it.”

I am terrified; I am intrigued. I am losing my robe to his insistent fingers….

Big Dog's 100

Here's JB's 100 List. He only agreed to do this with me if I was his secretary and typed everything up for him. But the good part is that I have the list. Now, you too, can know what I know (basically that he's quite a smart ass):

1. No part of me has ever been pierced.
2. Wham, bam, I am a man.
3. I say Emm a lot.
4. I am extremely paranoid…no, I didn’t say that, carry on.
5. On faith, I hate being one of those numbnuts who says they’re undecided.
6. My left ear is known throughout the greater Los Angeles area.
7. My toes, while enjoying notoriety as well, have always been jealous of my ear.
8. My family is strangely controlled for people who drink so much.
9. I used to be fond of air humping.
10. I wear a lot of black, but I am not a depressed teenager.
11. My favorite place in the world is my living room at 2:30AM.
12. I normally play forward or number eight in rugby.
13. The most disgusting thing I have ever seen was the saw-dust covered stubs on my friend’s hand after his band saw accident.
14. I generally have no objections to my face, but my nose could be a bit smaller.
15. When I was a toddler, I was known to rock out to Deep Purple in my tighty-whiteys.
16. If I could meet one famous person, dead or alive, it would be John Peal because I kind of always meant to get into him, but I never did…enough.
17. Although I invented the ‘Deadwood shower,’ I don’t brag about it much (lola gets honorable mention though).
18. My favorite food is Chinese…not that real Chinese mind you, but the bastardized British offspring.
19. Freckles.
20. There are two fellas in my head called Bob and John who regularly commentate on the circumstances of my life.
21. I’ve been told that I sigh an inordinate amount.
22. My three favorite things to do are as follows, in no particular order: Listening to music while driving.
23. Playing rugby, but only dicking around.
24. Watching films…no, that’s not true…drinking. No, I shouldn’t say that. I’ll say…(long, long pause)…watching films, yeah.
25. My first pet was a rabbit called Smokey.
26. I think I used to be funnier than I am now.
27. When the boy band Blue came out, I defended them to my friends.
28. I now hate myself for that…very, very much.
29. I find it hard to relax and do nothing before 6PM.
30. I didn’t mind having a tattoo until every fucker and his dog got one.
31. I have deplorable spelling.
32. In school, a good deal of one term was spent making a Stick-Man Kama Sutra handbook.
33. The second term was spent making a Stick-Man Ninja Manual.
34. I have no birthmarks, which I understand makes me an heir to no throne.
35. My special skills include smoking in a stylish manner (which is really useless since I keep quitting anyhow) and that I normally get on well with animals (insert your own sheep-shagger jokes here).
36. I never wear shorts; I never wear sandals to go with them.
37. I’ve never been electrocuted...seriously.
38. I tell people that my favorite breakfast cereal is Corn Flakes.
39. In actuality, my favorite breakfast cereal is Coco-Pops.
40. Apparently, to American ears, I sound like Dick Van Dyke.
41. Apparently, to Irish ears, I sound like Dick Van Dyke.
42. Apparently, to Italian ears, I sound like Dick Van Dyke.
43. Apparently, to my mother, I sound like Dick Van Dyke.
44. I luuuv my robe…especially putting my feet in the sleeves. Classy.
45. I have a perfectionist streak that borders on OCD. (lola: Borders?!?) This can be a problem when playing guitar, since tuning takes four days.
46. Oh! I can play the guitar.
47. I can’t be arsed to think up #47.
48. I like stationary.
49. I’m quite handy with a nail gun.
50. My favorite book is 1984.
51. An Aston Martin DB9 is the only luxury car I have lusted after.
52. My favorite movie is…I’m crap at answering favorite questions.
53. I take my coffee black with two sugars. My secretary sometimes fails to meet my coffee needs.
54. My secretary thinks I am gay…really, really gay.
55. The easiest subject for me in school was History or something.
56. I like to win a lot more than I’d like to admit.
57. I like the seventies in what I try to think of as an “alternative way,” though I know that’s totally lame.
58. So far, I don’t mind wearing suits…but I’ve been told to give it ten years by some reliable people (they were wearing suits).
59. I sung along to acoustic guitars in churches more than I would have ever liked.
60. Why does the word bungalow sound so gay?
61. Why do I reference homosexuality so much?
62. I dress to the left (that was my attempt at a sweet comment).
63. As hypocrites are often given a hard time, I am one, but I hate those bastards.
64. That last one was more than likely genius, although I’d never say it.
65. Pseudo-psych language has had far too much impact on society.
66. My girlfriend walked in on me tonight dining alone…with a lit candle.
67. It wasn’t my idea.
68. Seriously.
69. My politics lie somewhere between tofu-eating, sandal-wearing, beard-growing, hemp-admiring goddamn hippies and skin-headed, knuckle-dragging, sexually-repressed, gun-toting, card-carrying members of the Alabama Woodland Brotherhood Against Government Oppression.
70. I swear too much. I know. Sorry Jesus.
71. I nearly went into law and nearly joined the military.
72. I’m not really into baths, unless someone else involved. This might have something to do with the time I burned my ass on a candle. (I don’t think that this is really my fault since everyone knows open flames and nudity don’t mix.)
73. I do stupid things, but thankfully it always seems to happen in private.
74. No, really, #66 wasn’t my idea.
75. Why do people poke the bear?
76. Diddle.
77. I don’t really have heroes, but intellectually, I admire Peter Ustinov. I’m sure there are others but I can’t think of who they are.
78. My favorite alcoholic beverages are Guinness, Foster’s, and Scotch.
79. All coffee should be Irish coffee.
80. I obsessively fixate on subjects, but manage to space it out over an entire conversation.
81. I know of a toilet with overhead mirrors. It wasn’t a gay bar (I checked…can anyone else tell me why?!?)
82. I hung around with quite a few high-camp homosexuals in my formative years. This is what I attribute all my gay references to.
83. In a strange kind of way, I admire white people with cornrows.
84. Christmas is my favorite holiday.
85. My first stab at employment was farm work.
86. I am right-handed.
87. I don’t sleep at night ever, despite loved ones’ intentions.
88. I worry about the lack of intellectual things on this list…but then, it ain’t that kind of list.
89. I’ve been taught meditation and self-hypnosis, but I very rarely use it.
90. I like Dave Grohl, but then, who doesn’t?
91. I feel strongly that more people should wear hats.
92. My hair and nails grow ridiculously fast; I’m hoping the hair isn’t doing a suicidal dash to baldness by forty.
93. I touch wood.
94. My favorite feature on myself is my shoulders (read: enormous donkey dick).
95. I can’t think of a way to make this list less self-obsessed; I’m justifying it by considering it the nature of the me-list.
96. Apparently, the woman from The Black Eyed Peas pissed herself on stage…on purpose. Upon further debate, it was concluded that her presence wasn’t integral enough to the performance to validate this behavior.
97. I don’t like Dance music…you know, the low-production value, midlands club, dodgy DJ, 2AM-type Dance crap.
98. California definitely has its good points.
99. I like beans on toast…which is apparently a culinary travesty, but that I feel has sustained many a student facing long, lean years of repaying student-loans.
100. I once tried to get my friend, Dave, to parasail using my peddle bike, an old rope, and a bed sheet. After Dave rebounded wildly off the curb, I nearly took out a pensioner with a small, furry dog. Dave was thankfully stopped by the low-rise wall of a bungalow. As I looked over my shoulder, watching Dave with his recently-acquired head wound, wandering around the street like something out of Apocalypse Now!, my beloved bike, a delightful shade of jet black (surprisingly), plowed into the side of Dave’s dad’s brand new company car. I went over the handle bars and flew across the top of the car (like Starsky or Hutch with an inner-ear deficiency), scraping through a particularly thorny bush. I felt mistaken relief as I saw the lawn approaching alarmingly fast, only to end up slamming head-first into one of the concrete stepping stones.

The State of the Economy

Where have I been indeed? I've been sick, bitches...and it's killin' me. I got Tuesday off for Roshashana (sweet, cause I'm not Jewish, but I spent the whole day moping about the house in jammies...diddling, if you will). It's one of those sinus things that will undoubtedly become much worse before it gets better. And now I am hacking like a fiend. A fiend, I tell you.

See, I realize this isn't interesting to you all (and actually rather gross), but I am telling you because I am not at liberty to disclose all of the other things I am up to. I will say that I am being a VERY good girl--doing what I'm told, diligently scrubbing my house clean, and completing tasks that are long overdue--except for S's story, which is shamefully only half-done. I may have been a wee bit intimidated by the juiciness and sheer zowie-factor of the last one. But, I see it as a personal challenge to constantly one-up him, so I have been picking away at it between naps.

I have spent a large portion of the last few days on the phone. That's been fun. B gets to play video games while I get to chit-chat. We seem to be getting along better for it. I hestitate to discuss the current state of our bizarre circumstances since things are going well. I will just say that it seems that things are finally at a mildly tense, but otherwise detached, stand-still. Let me illustrate this with an example:

I was looking at my phone the other day while having dinner with B; I was thinking about texting JB to tell him that I would be home later than I originally thought (especially considering that tardiness seems to be one of his personal peeves and additionally, I would be breaking Rule 2). B took my phone and closed it, saying, "Don't do that on my time."

He was smiling, but I've seen that look before. It seems that that is where we are. He doesn't love the idea...hell, it's pretty obvious that he doesn't like it, but for now, he is tolerating it. I always think, in this circumstance, about sacrifice. Do I ask him to sacrifice his opinions of masculinity, ownership, and loyalty? Do I sacrifice my own sexual, mental, and emotional well-being? It seems like for one to win, the other must lose. I wish I were clever enough to devise a third alternative, but for now, I just put the phone away.

State of Economy: "I had a stick of Carefree gum, but it didn't work. I felt pretty good while I was blowing that bubble, but as soon as the gum lost its flavor, I was back to pondering my mortality."

--Mitch Hedberg (1968-2005)

Come For Me

Can see the constellations in your eyes,
Dark and light together, everything and nothing,
Body high tide and quick.
Eyes locked on yours, feeling the waves down her legs,
Coldcold and white hot,
Her pussy used so tangled, so tight.
Gasps,
The knot in her belly uncoiling
and veins more open than she can remember.
Cumming hard, slip-slick heat all over and then flushed skin,
Wet and warm.