Silence is Golden

I apologize for the superficial quality of my blog lately. The shit I am going through right now has become something I have to secret away. I can't talk about it and so long as I don't, nothing happens; I'm frozen and safe. But it's a lie.

And it's changing everything for good, for bad. Making me a different person. Making me deceitful in my numbness. There is always time, until there isn't time anymore. I am trying to forget about the death, as I do. It's like nothing I have felt of death before. It's breaking my heart and I want to hide from it for as long as I can.

The hardest thing to hear. Worse than Him. Worse than Him. It was hardest to hear from HIM, "It's really going to happen, isn't it?"

I am doing this. To HIM. Everything that I feel, I am doing to HIM. Who do I think I am? Fucking heartless and selfish and hateful and disgusting. Abandoning him. Who does that?

These things have always been mine, and it's only fair to keep them that way. I don't wish to be alone, but in all reality, I am alone. I am alone because no one can do it for me. And I would be stupid to expect that they could. And because I don't deserve anything good. And so all I can say is, "I don't know."

I don't know and I don't want to talk about it.

But I want something. Real bad. Give it to me.

Agnes the Shrew

Have you ever been insulted by someone so wholly unqualified to insult you that you are literally speechless? Ever have that happen repeatedly?

So, I have this one student who looks like a cross between the following. Try and do this in your head, kay?:

Jolly from Candyland

Theodore

An Ancient Nun

A Weeble

A Chicken McNugget

Okay, so you got it? You have to remember the shape and the sour, sour face most (not like the crispy, tender pleasantness of a hot nugget...mm). Anyway, so this wretched girl is one of my students who we will call (her real name is such a gem, but I'll pick a name along the same lines) Agnes. Agnes is barely 13 years old. She is a fat sausage of a girl who tops out at about the four foot mark. She draws teeny comics and loves her pudding.

I know what you're thinking, "lola, don't be cruel. She is probably just insecure. After all, she is going through puberty." (And I should know. Those snazzy, solid-colored culotte sets would leave nothing to the imagination on a girl half her size.) But you have to understand. This girl is 100% unadulterated pure BITCH. Savagely BITCH. Nauseatingly BITCH.

I'm nice to her. You have to understand. And I can't go into too much detail as this is job-related, but case in point? This very day, I go into work, having just seen my hair dresser over the weekend. I look good, if I do say so myself. And I do. As does the rest of the office. BITCH Agnes parades her roly-poly self on up to my desk, flashes me the smugest of smiles, looks up at my hair and goes, "Bad hair day, lola?" (Yeah, they call me by my first name.) BITCH!

And I'm like, "Fuck you, you smelly plumpling! My hair is a thousand times better than the flakey fuzz wire popping out all over your dome." But I smile and narrow my eyes and say, "Accctually, Agnes, I just got it done. Thanks though." I'm so fucking controlled at times.

All last week she has stood outside my classroom, promptly waiting for the bell to ring, waving her hand in front of her face as soon as she sees me and saying, "Pee-ew, lola! You stink." And I balk. Straight balk like I've never balked before as this is coming from a mouth that smells like rats died on burning hair and it was put out with raw sewage and fish oil. But I recover, bristle slightly and say, "What do I smell like, Agnes?" And she says, "Waaaay too much perfume."

Here is where the profanity begins under my breath, though one of my other students says, "Shut up, Agnes. I have horrible allergies to perfume and I can't even smell her." E, who hangs out with me in the morning during her prep, seconds this, and I stick my tongue out at Agnes and give her a "HAH-ha" look. Smug THAT, you sloppy simp!

And the one that kills me. Kiiiills. Perhaps you didn't catch that culottes thing. The girl wears shirt and skort, or shirt and leggings sets all in the same color. With a matching baseball hat. Did I mention that they aren't normal colors either, but dull sky blue, neon green, and fuscia? And there are matching caps for every. one. of. them. She's a fucking crayon. A hideous, boorish, lump of crayon. You seeing this?

And here it is: SHE critiques MY outfits!!! She once told me that I "must have gone to a special school to have worn a shirt like that to work." What the fuck, BITCH!?!

And then one day, I wore a black, knee-length skirt with a ruffle at the bottom, kind of fitted, slinky, you know, and a black blouse with capped sleeves and a Madarin-style neckline. I had on casual black shoes and turquoise jewelry. You getting this? The stupid little cow walks up to me with retina-searing red leggings hugging her square, granny-pantied ass and hip rolls, a long-sleeved matching red tee shirt, and a signaturely coordinating hat, and says to me, "What are you, goth? Who wears all black? Are you going to a funeral or something?" Face. Blank. Jaw. Drops.

BITCH!

FUCKING BITCH!

I'm going to fail her. Oh, yes. Wicked, wicked laughter.

The Cast

For all of you following this:

B is my boyfriend.

S is one of my two best friends (the hippy artist). Gorgeous and the most loving person I have ever met.

SJ is my best friend since highschool (the hockey artist). Adorably beautiful and quirky as fuck.

L is a friend from college and a former member of my former band.

31 (formerly A) is my sluttiest best-work-friend.

E will heretofore be recognized as she will come up (and has come up, though anonymously). She's my married best-work-friend. I love them both.

G is my dumbass, always-absent colleague who I still adore, though there are many instances I want him dead.

TBJ (The Baby Jesus) is my boss.

JB is my Dom.

p is my kinko travel buddy and favorite mental masturbater.

n is the third member of our kinko team.

J was once someone I talked to and had a bizarre, if not wholly unhealthy, relationship within the kink realm.

If I have left anyone out, I am sorry and I will update. Hopefully this will help you to better navigate my stupid, stupid stories. Cheers!

Guru to Gaga

She's right about everything. But it still sucks.

We ended the conversation with this interesting thought; she said, "I look for guys that are my intellectual superior and then I become this doting little girl." I thought, I want to be that doting little girl, but when I pick guys, they seem to move me up to this pedestal where I can never be wrong, I can never be human, and I can never not have all the answers.

I don't have all the answers. I want someone not to let me win. I want someone to say, "Shut up, lola. You're wrong." No one tells me I'm wrong. Not at home. Not at work. I'm a fucking smart girl and I am damn clever at reading people. How easy it is for me to win. How boring. How terribly exhausting. Don't expect me to be able to fix everything. I don't want that privilege; I don't want that responsibility. Respect me, but don't forget that I am fucking 24 and I am doing this all for the first time, too.

"No. Shut up. You don't know everything." It feels good.

Bullshit Post

Fuck. Why isn't this week over?

I had a meeting with The Baby Jesus (aka. my boss) yesterday and threw myself under the lunatic bus with a more 'daring' suggestion. I would have premised it better, but fucking G, my coworker, told me he had all ready told TBJ about it. Turns out...no. He's gonna hear from me today. I promise.

Speaking of which, there are a couple of people on my shit list today and I think I will try and enjoy kicking some ass, taking some names. Well, the names have already been taken, but you know what I mean.

Anyway. Then more sleep. I feel like, a million years old. I can't sleep enough these days. And then I didn't sleep enough. So, I am a mean girl today.

Cuddles, bunnies.

Tell Me

What I want to hear:

You are a cunt. A slut. A whore. If you feel pain, it is because I inflict it. If you feel pleasure, it is because I allow it. Do you understand?

Smoking and The Rebellion

So, I smoke now. I didn't used to, and technically, I'm not a smoker yet. You see, I can go for as long as I want without a cigarette. But then, the fact is, that I don't want to go for long without one. Anyway, B hates this. He's from a legacy of chainsmokers and his father is currently trying to quit. (My favorite method? Hypnosis. He blew it three weeks later cause he wanted a smoke at the bar. Heh heh.)

When I smoked occasionally as a kid, my mother did the whole, "Your father died of cancer, lola. (sob, sob) How could you smoke?" I was like, "It wasn't lung cancer, Mom." Needless to say, if that guilt didn't work on me, no guilt would.

So instead, B goes on about how he hates the smell. He says when he was a kid, everything in his house smelled like cigarettes because his father "smoked on everything he loved." This made me laugh my ass off!!

So, since he continues to give me a hard time about my, as he lovingly refers to them, "poop sticks," I have taken to trying to smoke on everything he loves. So far, I've nailed his favorite shoes and hoodie, his PS2, his Warcraft computer game, and me. Next up, the cats, his Beef Stroganof, and his left-over birthday cake. That'll learn him!

Regression (Like, OH MY GOD!)

I've been getting some shit for my taste in meathead men. Most certainly, I do not consider myself to be someone who is easily pigeon-holed. Clearly, I need a second post. And so in response, I would like to enclose some of the men that I lust after that would not fall into this oh-so-predictable category:

Brad Nowell of Sublime. An awesome musician, yesssss. My favorite band. But in addition, he was the honest-to-God most hottest guy ever. Big, meaty body, dense and thick, but a level of definition. Tattoos, gorgeous face. Really, fucking beautiful. It's a shame. A damn shame.

Gary Oldman of pretty much anything he's been in (mostly though Immortal Beloved, True Romance, The Scarlett Letter and Sid and Nancy) except Hannibal. This guy is much smaller than I usually go for, but he is fucking present. He has great bone structure and a tremendous energy.

Mike Patton of Faith No More and Mr. Bungle. Le sigh. I was just having a conversation with B about how Mike and Peter Steele (also way hot and sincerely endowed) of Type O Negative have the most haunting voices we have ever heard. Mike is damn edible, especially with the long hair from his Faith No More days. He's a musical genius and I think I dig him the same way I dig Gary.

John Malkovich. Who doesn't know John Malkovich? Okay, this one way a surprise to me, too. But it happened during Con Air and now I have to see him in everything. He's just incredibly intense. I can't wait to see Klimt. A favorite actor and a favorite artist?!? Squeak!


Paul Newman. Swoon. Really. Damn him! Even his picture on the salad dressing does it for me. But The Long Hot Summer and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (!!) got me started. He just has that untouchable, classy, boyish thing down, while also remaining a perfectly charming asshole. Cool Hand Luke. Fuck, I want this.

Clint Eastwood. Again. And I still want him. The way he can stare through you. Mm.

Chris Meloni from Law&Order: SVU and Oz. (More predictable, yeah.) I know I have posted about Chris in the past, but fuck if he doesn't deserve to be revisited. I am in the most disgusting lust with him...aw, to be his cellmate -- fantastic dream sequence ensues -- what fun we'd have. Grin.

Leland Chapman of Dog: The Bounty Hunter. Speaking of cellmates. If I could be arrested by this guy, I would seriously consider a career in crime. Leland's the go-to guy for both arresting the hard-core degenerates and the post-arrest nurturing. He is fucking gorgeous. I watched the entire series for this guy. I even dig the ponytail. Look at the tats! Look at the arms! Fucking strong.

DMX. Now here's one with the voice, too. All raspy and low. I love to listen to him. And he's so wholly male. Mm. Fuck.

Daniel Johns, frontman for Silverchair. How he get in here? I know he's all crazy and stuff, but you have to understand...my favorite accent int he world is the Australian accent. And he's fucking got it. And he's kinda like Kurt Cobain but my age. And fuck, I just want him. What can I say?

Vinnie Jones from Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and Snatch, among others. I know I'll get shit for this, and I know he isn't his character in Lock, Stock, but I love this guy. LOVE HIM. Yeah, he could be a massive asshole, but a girl can dream, right?

So, I hope yall (and by yall, I mean the ones who have said, "I know what you're like now, and I'm disappointed") have a bigger picture of that which I find lust-worthy. On the one hand, I feel like a douche bag for basically spending the last two hours writing a thirteen year old girl's diary entry, but on the other hand, it has been an afternnon full of photos of unbelievably hot mens. Who wins here? Me. Heh heh.

PS. How could I have left this handsome fella out? What is wrong with me? Yeowzah!! What a dish!

Tesseract

Dido Music Video Codes

Playing: Dido - White Flag
Myspace Layouts Music Video Codes

I'm building my shrine.

UFC the Hotness

My Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) post, as promised here. So, let me start by saying: I am a girl. I just have to clarify because that's the first question I get when I say I'm really into professional wrestling or UFC. Now, to be fair, my appreciation for UFC is a more recent event (which isn't so bad cause it really only became known in the US by non-hardcore fans in the last ten years or so). It came about because I used to be a die-hard wrestling fan (WWF, WCW, and eventually, sigh WWE), but after the last two years of monumental suckitude, I had to put my foot down.

I think it was the incident of necrophilia -- but then, to be fair, I was losing interest after this guy impregnated this woman, and she gave birth to a gooey man's hand. I digress.

Boxing doesn't do it for me because it's boring (all the same style, too much protective equiptment) and it's depressing (I hate seeing people lose). But UFC and PRIDE (the Japanese version) are different. It's a fight between Mixed Martial Artists so you could see any number of different types of fighters including but not limited to Judo, Muy thai, Jui-Jitsu (Brazilian and Japanese), Tae Kwon Do, Greco-Roman wrestling, and kickboxing. How cool is it to watch a grappler take on a kicker? Or a Sumo wrestler go at a teeny little Muy thai fighter? And you can't ever be sure who'll win.

Yes, sure, it's bloody and disgusting.

But on the other hand, lots and lots of deliciously meaty, Alpha-type men. Like my favorites:

Tito Ortiz - Fucking behemouth and hot as fuck. Okay, excellent fighter. Fuck, he's beautiful...to watch, of course. Swoon.


Chuck Liddell - Second only to Ortiz in my book. Feisty as fuck and mean. He's unreal.

James Thompson - Serious eye candy. Yes yes, good fighter, but really, can you see where my priorities lay?


George St. Pierre - Come the fuck on, he's not massively hot?!?


Okay, okay...let me show you two that do it for me almost purely for their presence. (Also, really, when a man knows his craft and can execute devastation on the level of these two, it makes me weak. I'm so 13, right? This is silly.)

Fedor Emelianenko:

Mirko Cro Cop Filipovic:

The long and short of it? A buncha gigantic, dreamy men kicking the shit out of each other to establish dominance. What else could this girl want?

PS. I can't believe I almost forgot this last guy, Quinton "Rampage" Jackson. He beat my #2 favorite Chuck Liddell in the PRIDE/UFC crossover a few years ago. Check out this shot of him. Damn.

Clever Girl

For a secret someone.
Happy Valentine's Day, babies!

“Come on, baby…be a good boy,” I say, twinkling. He’ll smile at first, tell me I’m a funny girl—razor sharp, baby. He’ll look past me. I am still not sure why he does that; it feels like he’s making sure we’re alone, like he’s closing off my exits.

I like this. It makes me afraid. I like fear; I like the way it travels through my body, fiery cold trickle trickle down my spine, wash through my hips and lick my cunt. I like how it contains. I am calm and focused. My eyebrow tilts so slightly; a familiar incorrigible grin slopes up my face. I am not a good girl.

“Come on, baby,” I breathe so softly, a kissing whisper, my hand a falling curtain from knee to flushed thigh, “You are begging for a taste.”

His smile deepens, and his eyes are bright with arrogance; he reminds me, “I do not beg for anything.”

I catch my lip in my teeth, narrowing on him with a decided pout, and inch farther up the bare wood headboard, my legs unfolding before him, smug. I slide two delicate fingers across my dewy petals as my eyes flicker over him.

His smile is gone. Just like that.

I wonder what he will say. A warning? A threat? Nothing at all. His eyes are on my face; my sweet cunt is only a trifle when he can own me, all of me. I am to be obedient. He expects nothing less that absolute submission and I have paid a high price for past insolence. But it is part of the game.

He must always re-earn me, remind me. And now, with my wicked hands on his property, I would be a stupid girl to expect anything less than strict and exacting punishment. And I am not. I am razor sharp, baby.

My hand has found its way to my mouth, fluttering at my wet, swollen pucker; my tongue is braver than I, whipping out and wrapping recklessly around my fingers, pulling them into my mouth. A moan, a breath from my greedy throat. He is livid; his fists clenching and jaw tense.

But it passes, and his eyes clear, focus on my cunt, “Close your legs, please.”

A request? I couldn’t have heard that right. He is watching me, but he is impassive. I feel the stupid girl, sitting there nearly naked, my thighs cleaved and parted, my pussy shamelessly exhibited. I cross my arms but not my legs, scowling up at him.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” he scoffs, somehow superior again in his jeans and tee, “Close your legs and stop touching what isn’t yours.”

I am furious. No! He won’t—he can’t! I hate this. I hate how he always takes it. Thief. Fucking thief. I close my legs and pull them up to my chest, lacing my arms around them miserably. He sits on the edge of the bed and runs his hand up the inside of my calf, my thigh, his fingertips a tremble away from my slut cunt. I want them inside of me, but I shouldn’t ask.

His breath is slower; mine has caught, praying for him to be merciful. He is not. I know better than to trap his hand between my creamy thighs; his expectations are unspoken but perfectly clear.

He joins me on the bed, and takes my wrist into his heavy hand pulling me into a straddle across his lap, my hips and pussy spreading around his thighs and my back pressed against his chest. His arms wrap around my waist and I can feel his lips on the back of my neck, his cock swelling under my grinding ass. He drapes my long, thick hair over my shoulder and bites gently down my back, following my arching spine. His hands rake up my belly, my ribs, and clasp my tits, curling deep into my soft flesh and making me gasp. His teeth sink deeper into my back and I moan.

“Mine,” he says, his palm now escaping my breast and slapping down sharply on the top of my thigh, holding me securely as I buck up against the sting of flesh on flesh. His voice is in my ear, through a vicious growl, “Mine. Mine.”

I shake my head violently, his nails burrowing into my thighs and scratching toward my dripping slit. My hair thrashes his face while I struggle, groaning into the onslaught of physical reminders. He palms my cunt and presses me down into him; I can feel his cock tucked thick and eager inside his rough jeans. I moan loudly through damp lips.

“Fuck, woman,” he says, hips slamming against my naked ass, “Why can’t you just ask like a good girl?”

He sighs irritably and shoves me forward; I catch myself palms down on the bed, my hair shutting out light around my face, my breath erratic and deep. I curl around to peek at him. He is tugging off his shirt and staring down at my ass purposefully. I am on my hands and knees, my cunt hovering inches from his thighs, my nipples brushing his ankles. He catches my eye through my tangle of hair and I smile, sliding my knees farther from each other and sitting back into my hips, my ass split, my pussy throbbing.

His hands cup my hips and he strokes over my scorched skin with his thumbs; he can feel my thighs quivering. One hand locks my left leg, fingers sinking into my tender flesh, while the other rises up quickly and slaps down hard across the bottom of my ass. I wince and jerk against him, but he has begun and I cannot stop him. He is skimming my captured backside with a severe and rapid spanking, and I can’t get away.

His hands are rough, heavy and my bottom bruises like a ripe plum, glowing pink and searing reds. I claw at his legs, gasping and spluttering my pleas, my obscenities. I bounce in frustration, my clit happily tapping against his thighs.

Fuck. Yesss. I hiccup my pleasure as I ride against his lap, brushing my pouty bud across the coarsely ridged fabric. I moan and he narrows his eyes, lifting my hips from his jeans and frowning. He spanks me faster, harder.

“Fuck, stop!” I cry, back twisting and legs pounding the bed on either side of him, but he is deaf and relentless, now torrentially smacking the outer edge of my right cheek, the sound so constant it seems to echo, the pain spreading like a rash and settling into my muscles. I am near tears, just now, fighting frantically, shrieking and begging.

“Quiet. You deserve this,” he grunts, not even slowing. My right side is devastated but my cunt is open, soaked. I groan, thrashing my hips into his punishment, into his lap.

“Yes yes yes,” I plead, shoulders tensing and lip ground between my cries. He stops. Mid air. He can see how my bruises are shadows beneath the surface, waiting for their hour of bloom. His hand rests gently on my ass, fingers climbing onto the small of my back.

It is merely pause and my luring crease is heavily filling the air between us. He grabs the sides of my hips and pulls my lap to his mouth, his tongue darting out and lapping at my frenzied cunt.

“Fuck,” I breath, vision elusive, coherence obliterated. He tongue-fucks my delicious fold, and makes me ask to cum, like a good girl. Restrained, grateful, obedient. He loves the humiliation; he loves enforcing his control over all that was mine.

And I beg—shamelessly; I grovel and plead, promise and bargain. I get nothing without his consent. He is up, shoving me forward, unbuttoning, unzipping, his jeans gone, his shorts gone. He drives his cock into my willing cunt; it is swallowed into my snug slickness.

“Fuck,” I groan, as my swollen pussy stretches around his cock. Flicking my hair away from my face, I turn to watch him fuck me. He slams me harder, reaching toward me to slap my face lightly and point forward.

“Ask first,” he commands, driving his taut, sanguine head into the deepest corners of my cunt. My mouth drops open, moans choked from my throat; I am trying to make words.

“P-pl-pl-please. Can I. W-wa-watch?” I stutter, squeaking as he yanks my sore ass against his lap, cock hammering my slit rhythmically. He shakes his head and I try to keep my eyes open. I want to cum. Fuck, I want to cum.

I can feel him tensing, and he gasps his permission. It is so sweet; my cunt clutching him, tugging, slurping, devouring. I am loud, appreciative, back bowing and thighs shaking hard. I leak sugar between my legs and he cums, plunging his cock brutally into my aching hollow. I can feel him fill me, tricky sticky, hips slapped under my tender ass.

Fuck. Fuck. He is panting and damp, clutching my body to his own.

He leans down, his dick still imbedded in my possessive puss. His hand curves into my hair and tugs gently, pulling my ear to his lips. He asks me, “You think you got what you wanted so badly?”

I hide my smile. Razor sharp, baby.

Waking Nine

From the Darkness and the Light, "My will is power and my power is my will so why do I hesitate?....No more questions, now I WILL break free and be, what is to be..."

Okay, I've been avoiding this update for awhile. Mostly because I have been scared shitless to say this is what will happen in any definitive manner. And I find myself too pussy to say it now. But if my will is power, this is why I am powerless. I have no will of my own.

Too many of my decisions have been made for other people. My entire childhood was an extension of my father's illness, my father's death, my mother's solitude, my brother's descent into his own personal demons. It's why I lived as I did, it's why I fucked those that I did, it's why I left, it's why I hid, it's why I went numb, it's why I have slept through so much.

And I want to be awake now. I believe fundamentally in the power of the Enneagram, and as a Type Nine, I am aware that I will mull a decision over from all points of view, from everyone's point of view, until there is an equality of sides. But an equality of sides means inaction. And inaction in the face of predictable unhappiness means depression, numbness, sleeping. I want to be awake.

My will is my power, but only if will is my own, and only if will is not habit. Be awake. Be your own. Fuck the world. Be your own.

Redirected

Okay, I used to write in this other place, so I thought I would do some convenient linkage for all yall that read my stories. Here:

Cupcakes - Spanko annecdote.

Signature - D/s style story and one of my all-time favorites.

Tangled - Little more story, little less spanko. Tried a younger set of characters. I liked the story development, but this is atypical of my style.

Bad Girls - A twist, and written for a friend of mine, this one is between two girls. Hee hee.

Ladylike - Very much out of my realm of kink and written for a different audience; the main character is a child.

On Patience - Spanko annecdote.

These following two were there, but have subsequently been moved over here:

Owned - D/s annecdote.

Behave - A little car trip in the middle of the night.

Jekyll

You can't fucking see me.
None of you.
I can't always see myself.

Happy B Day!

It's B's birthday. We celebrated. A fine dinner was had by both. He had steak. Typical of him. But then, I know better than to try to convince him to eat anything else. Salad? Vegetables?!?

I know what he'll say. He gives me this look:

And says, "Are you stupid, woman?" I know, I know. But he made me bites and I must say, fucking good. Mm, meat.

And on that note, thumbs right back up to the guy in the next car over at the left turn signal. Yeah buddy, tell your friends at work tomorrow. My back (read: ass) was to him, so I didn't see it, but B told me that he was more than enthusiastic.

And I'm not even close to done yet.

Last year in the 20s for him. Gotta make it unforgettable. Grin.

31 Flavors

So, I'm sitting here, listening to some Lynard Skynard on a fine Wednesday night. Good fucking music wakes me the fuck up. Was thinking about that blowjob earlier. It was inspired, really. Nothing complicated. See, complications get in the way of the purity of the cock/throat relationship. It's fundamental to giving head.

• Loose pucker, fat lips.
• Wet, wet mouth.
• Eager, aggressive tongue.
• Relaxed throat.
• Concentrated breathing.

Damn. I just love cock. Can I say that? Does that make me look like a whore?

It makes my mouth water; I drool on my tits while I suck. Sounds gross, right? I can't help it. I swallow and swallow, sucking saliva down. Never fast enough. His balls are dripping, his thighs, my hands, chin, neck. My dental hygenist told me that I have "active salivatory glands" and then demonstrated by pressing on one with a gloved finger. A little stream of saliva shot out of my mouth.

The upside? Less cavities.

The downside? When I want something -- really want something -- I drool like a fiend. And fuck do I want dick.

Evidence

I have a bunch of sketchbooks that contain private drawings. If we had ever retained any hope that my mind isn't wholly soiled, this ought to set the record straight. Sigh. What the fuck is wrong with me? This just isn't okay. What is this?!?



I sicken myself. Mostly.

Shame. Shame on me.

Meer Love

If I could have any animal I wanted, it would be a meerkat. I am obsessed with them. I go sit with them at any zoo visit (like at the LA zoo, they have these underground bubbles you can pop up in to watch them from their perspective) and watch all the documentaries on them (like when little Arnold almost dies from being bitten by a scorpion). They have the cutest little faces and they're all inquisitive and shit. This one looks ready for life in Hell-A:


Anyway. Did you know they like, babysit each other's kids? That's so cute! I want one! I want one! Someone buy me one. Squeak!

The Prodigal Lush

Here's my night (Last time at Mexicali, I embarassed myself most ridiculously by throwing up all over myself in line for the bathroom -- not my proudest moment, by far -- and then washing my shirt in their bathroom sink like I was on the prairie...if only you could see me wringing and sudsing. I was sure I could never go back. The night is not spoken about anymore. But tonight, I had self-control! I have redeemed myself!!) :

Went to watch some of my colleagues play tennis.

Got suckered into hitting a few balls around. Didn't do so bad, considering I opt out of anything that involves running or sweating. Lots of power, no aim.

Went to bar. Ordered pitchers of Margaritas. Wasn't fucked up too early.

Called my coworker "whore-flavored icecream." Discussed other coworker's penis size and shape...wait, wait, alleged penis size and shape.

Drank more. Made fun of barflies. Got accosted by colleague's friend who was supposed to be going after my girlfriend. (This changed her mind about him, unfortunately, since I am still curious about his vanilla-type status.)

Drank more. Smoked lots. Tried to leave.

Leaving denied by coworkers. Snuck out. Forgot to leave money. Will have to give A money on Monday, or assume that G will pay, as always. But, he does owe me, so...

Roshamboed (rock*paper*scissors) with my girlfriend about whether or not she should sleep with accoster, purely on curiousity sake. I lost. She will.

Drove home, not drunk but definitely, shall we say, chatty?

Talked to Mom (was trying to call B), B. Navigated safely to the video store and dropped off my late videos to one of my favorite video monkeys, David. David and I had a few words about porn.

Made my way safely home. Figured out how to grasp my key and voila!

All and all. Not a bad night.

The Great American SouthWest

So, I would consider very seriously molesting you...as I know you wouldn't mind....

And I take another look at my hair and think about how I'm such an LA girl, so I opt against it, but I feel you up gratuitously anyway...

Okay, so then, when you're all crazily thinking about tearing up the bed and fucking like crazy....

At that moment, I let go of your dick and check my watch.

And I say, "Shit, baby, I'm going to be late again. We have to get out of here and you have to drive like a maniac."

And though you're distraught, you do like to drive like a maniac...

So, you sigh...very aggressively...and stomp off to the bedroom, TO GET DRESSED...very quickly...since we're late...

And I grab my purse and my day bag and my keys and go to wait in the car...

And you take a while longer...trying to pour some coffee in a thermos or something...getting your money and jacket together, your phone...totally disorganized...

And I honk the horn...several times...

The neighbors come to see...and you lean out the door and point menacingly at me, but I then gesture to my watch and do the imaginary steering wheel thing...

And then you finally come out and get in and drive maniacally through the streets of Arizona...

And I berate you for bringing coffee when you could have, just as easily, gotten a fresh cup at my work...

And you say how you like YOUR coffee...

And I say “Coffee is coffee.”

And you say that attitude makes for a shitty barista...

And I tell you to shut the fuck up and drive...

And you smile, cause you think you won...and you ask, “Why you gotta rag on my coffee?”

I say, “I make coffee for a living...it's my right! Nay, OBLIGATION!”

Yep! And so we get there and I'm late…of course...

And we see my asshole boss doing the five minute meeting with the rest of the baristas...

And you say, “Baby, there are many coffee shops in Arizona, are you sure you HAVE to work at this one?”

And I ponder the idea, responsibly.

And you give me a very tempting look, which reminds me how much I wanted to fondle you gratuitously all morning...

So, I say, “Well, maybe I could just call off...”

And you shrug your shoulders so that I can't blame you later when I am fired from my fourth consecutive barista job and have to go work for (GASP!) Crate & Barrel…and sell flowery headboards and clear plastic cups and clever napkin rings.

And so I call up my manager, Dante...and you snicker, cause his name is Dante...

And I say, "Cough, cough...Dante? I am reeeeally sick and I can't come in today."

And he believes me cause my coughing is so dramatic.

But you think you're funny and you honk the horn.

And he says, "What was that?”

And I say, "NOTHING!" and hang up real fast.

And then I start beating you with whatever is handy. So, I am slapping you with a bag of trash and a dirty running shoe...telling you that you've just got me fired again...and that now I'm not going to suck your dick in the car, though that had been my intention upon making that call...

And you pretend that it's no big deal...and shrug more while I growl to myself on my distinct side of the car...

And then you say that I shouldn't be a barista anyway...

And I swear at you in Spanish, but you are driving to my favorite diner, so I half-forgive you...but I slam the door *dramatically* on my way out and walk way ahead of you...and go off to the bathroom to wash my hands while you get a table.

And um...you've ordered the tea I love...and so I 3/4 of the way have forgiven you now...

And you tell me I am a simple girl and that, if tea makes me happy, maybe I should be a barrista...

So I forgive you 98%...but keep a little in case I want to use it later...

And you order some sort of meat travesty...sausages and eggs and stuff...on a blanket of ham, with cubed chorizo...

And I make lots of faces just reading about it off the menu...

And order French Toast.

And I order some sour cream cause I intend to nibble some of your hash browns when you're occupied with your meat tray...

You'll never notice…there’s a meat tray, remember? I'm hella sneaky.

I even called the waitress back and told her to make them extra crispy for me when you were on the phone...

So we chat and people-watch a lot while we wait for our food...

It takes extra long (for the hash browns to come out extra crispy)...

And we make fun of all of the Arizonites...especially the ones that are with bad perms, and smelly babies, and oddly matched couples, obnoxious teenagers, we love....

Our food turns up and you'd go to town on your meat-stravaganza while I would slyly fork up some hash browns...

Okay, so, I would be stowing away your hash browns...dipping them in sour cream while you're ravaging your main course, totally unaware of the hashed deceit...

And I would then begin the very neat and tidy ordeal of consuming my French Toast, offering you my bacon, which, though you have several slices already, you shruggingly accept...

I order a refill of tea, and you nod politely when she asks you if you want more orange juice...

And we get done, get our check...you let me pay because you're “A Feminist”....grin....

And we get back into the um...Honda Civic, I now have...yeah, in Arizona...it's reliable...you wanted a Mustang, but I live in a studio...I'm on a barista salary...how am I gonna get a Mustang, huh?

So you buy me a pick up truck.

Okay then, we're in the truck, but this time, I'm driving…cause you dug through all the lollipops they give out at the door...hada have a green one...you thought it would be apple...it was lime...you were disappointed...

I sighed and went to pull the car around...

Then you said, "I wanna drive."

And I said, "Tough."

And you get into the passenger side, irritable but compliant...

And I take us to a bookstore so we can pick out books for our next reading adventure...

You want something classic; I want something creative...you pick something...mmm.............yeah, you pick something impressive...you call my choice fruity and rubbish, you call me an "American" in your snotty foreign tone...I point out my SAT scores were mighty impressive and you can just lick my pussy on that note!

And you say something lewd loudly enough to attract attention from nearby pervo bookworms and I blush...yet, find myself reconsidering what I can do to you in the car...

We take the selections up to the counter and I am jumpy, eager to get out of the store...you're amused...

You take your time at the register, counting perfect change from your ridiculously European money clip...yeah, you thought you'd show the Arizonians how it's done.

I am tugging on your shirt waist and trying to hurry you along...

You're very condescending and uppity in Arizona, I've noticed.

Grin.

And so the salesman hands you a bag...but you ask for them to double bag it...you lean across and remind him that this is a CLASS-IC and thus very HEAV-Y…You just can't hide your contempt for American culture...

And I am about to reach into your pocket and molest you in the store.

So, I grab your hand...I am dragging you bodily from the store at this point..

And you follow behind, as I try to fish my keys from my pocket...

Not there...

My purse...

Digging frustratedly, putting it on the hood of the car and taking shit out...

Find them at last and hold them up in triumph...sad, little victory over the void that is my purse bottom...

I unlock the door and...you're such a child...grin...

You say you want to drive, as always, but this time, I don't argue, hand you the keys...I climb across the seat, tugging my skirt down...

You climb in after me, saying, "Seatbelts, please..."

And I shake my head, mouth watering, and say, "No chance, baby."

You have barely started the car when I am across the seat, leaning down with my hands in your lap, unbuttoning your jeans and working on the zipper...

You smile to yourself, and pull expertly out of the parking lot while I situate myself to play with you, most comfortably...on my knees, leaning down with my arms on your thighs...my mouth is just above your shorts, and my breath is hot and fast as I work all the cloth away from your lap...my hair is spilling around my face and you brush it back so you can watch my mouth...

You are managing the multitasking very well, trying to look relaxed and nonchalant while I am working my mouth around your swelling cock, nimbly...

I can't help the moans…you make me so hot, my legs spreading unconsciously as I suck the head of your cock, hard, constant, my hand sliding up and down your shaft…you hold my hair back, watching my cheeks hollow as I suck you, harder, my face flushed with excitement, my cunt tingling, panties no longer dry...

I groan, sliding my hand down to my pussy and shoving my panties to the side, flicking my clit while I swallow you into my deep, wet throat...

You look up, brake lights, decide you can't keep driving...you pull over on a quiet street, the heat all around us, dry and climbing as noon approaches...

I can feel sweat behind my knees, under my thighs, between my breasts as I suck you faster, the car heating up with the air conditioning off...you roll down the windows but it's not any cooler, a burning wind whips across my ass and blows my skirt up, I moan loudly, you can feel it vibrating across your cock...

Your head is back, resting against the back window, your hand creeps down my back, over my ass; I am gasping now, sucking you until breath is no longer an option…

Your hips are working against my mouth, shoving your thick cock way past my tongue, my throat relaxing as my cunt melts, the smell of my pussy filling the car, my tits slapping your thigh gently as my mouth works around your cock...

I am moaning and choking on you, your hand instantly on the back of my head, shoving me down farther, as I tear, my fingers working furiously around my clit, sliding into my slick pussy...

My hair is wrapped around your fist, you have my face locked against your lap, your hand scratching my ass, squeezing my skin harder, the tips of your fingers sliding under my panties and into the cleft of my ass, down farther to my sticky lips...