Pounding Holes

So yesterday I had a guy over. A lover. No names will be mentioned, for obvious reasons.

We're upstairs in my room, "playing chess". "Playing chess" is what I tell my mother I'm doing when I retire to my bedroom with a date or guy friend (unless it's Adam, then we're watching anime - and we actually ARE). Of course she knows we're not playing chess. It's just a way for my dates to save face. I don't give a shit what my mom knows about my sex life, but guys tend to have this weird embarrassment about facing someone whose daughter they've been fucking. *shrugs* Whatevs. Not that I play much these days. Until yesterday, I'd only had one opponent in the last three years or more. But I digress.

We're in bed. Or on the bed. We're moving around a lot, and so is the bed. What can I say, our chess games have always been energetic ones. He's not a big guy, so the bed should take us fine (my last chess opponent was half a foot taller and maybe seventy pounds heavier, and we never had any issues) - but he's strong. Very strong. And we're really giving that bed a workout. So I'm startled, but not entirely surprised, when I hear something crack and the bed drops down half an inch.

"Oh shit, we broke the bed!" I half scream half laugh.

He slows down.

"Don't stop!" I screech.

And I forget about the bed.

After he's gone home, I collapse and fall asleep, but I keep waking throughout the night to a squeaking sound. I tell myself I'll tighten the bed screws and check out the break when I wake up, but I forget. It's only when I go to bed tonight that the bed sinks under me at an angle, and I lean over the side to check out the slats, when I notice the hole. And it's not in the bed.

We didn't break the bed, we broke the fucking floorboard. 

Soundproofed

WARNING: Contains graphic references to sex. Lots of them. Thou hast been warned.

I'm a screamer.

People don't expect this. When clothed, I'm reasonably quiet. I think a lot. I like to watch people. I'm friendly enough and laugh a lot in the right groups, but I wouldn't say I'm loud.

In bed, I'm the opposite of quiet. I scream, I moan, I cry, I wail. I giggle and purr and talk, a lot. Sex with me isn't ever a quiet event, and some guys probably want to shove a ball gag in my mouth just to get me to shut the fuck up...but dammit, you'll never have to ask me, "did you come?"

I think this is one reason why I love hotels. Motels, Holiday Inns...it doesn't matter to me as long as they're clean, peaceful and reasonably soundproof. There are other reasons I love staying in hotels, of course - room service (or at least a nearby restaurant), an afternoon to read without guilt, and a night where I don't have to sleep with my eyes and ears open for disaster - but sex is way up there on the list. I don't take vacations - I haven't had a week away in fifteen years - but I occasionally spring for a night in a Travelodge or Premier Inn. If I'm there on my own, I always have a little devil on my shoulder that tells me to pick up a guy in the bar. So far, I haven't done this.

Travelling with, or meeting, a lover, is always the best thing though, because you can fuck me in a hotel room in ways that you can't in my mother's house, liberal though she may be.

You can press me up against the door the instant we cross the threshold, and tear off everything I'm wearing. Nudity is fine in hotels. You have everything you need right there. There's no need to keep a robe at hand to go to the bathroom. Nobody gives a damn if you don't get dressed the whole time you're there.

You can throw me on the bed as soon as I'm naked, manoeuvring me into position before I even get a chance to shower. Face down, ass up. I'm getting the sheets dirty - so what? At home, a set of sheets needs to last a week; here the maid will change them daily if you request it. And you can slam into me as hard as you want, really force your dick deep inside me, bang me up against the headboard - I don't care if it hurts. Actually, I lie. It's better if it hurts, just a bit. Throw me around, bang my head against the wall, fall on top of me like a ton of bricks. It's fine. This isn't my elegant white cast-iron bed with the bronze finials, made for gentle lovemaking and sweet snuggling - this bed is tough. This bed was made for us to fuck hard.

You can look out the window while I suck your cock, if you want. Five floors up, nobody's going to see my head bobbing up and down just above the windowledge, and if they do - who cares? Who gives a damn if passers-by look up and see how your face contorts when I take you deep in my throat, or even if they hear you groaning my name through the open window as I lick up every drop of pre-cum just before you spurt all over my face and tits? Even if they see and hear, even if the windowsill is low enough for them to see me on my knees with a face covered in cum - what are the chances that in a busy hotel, in a busy city, we'd ever have to see those people again?

Want to take a shower together? Shower's right there, and nobody else is going to be waiting in line for it. It's non-slip, and has that nice little seat for disabled people, so if you want me to sit there and wrap my legs around you, I'm quite happy to do that. We can't do that at home - I don't even have a shower, and you just have a tub with a curtain where I constantly feel like I'm going to fall over. But here, we can sit, or stand, or lie on the floor while the water pours over us. Want to introduce me to the joys of anal? Go right ahead. It's easy enough to get clean, and it's not like the water's going to run cold.

Back in bed, we can go all night, or at least till we exhaust ourselves. And you can talk to me. You know how I like it, with that hard dick forcing its way into me roughly, and a voice in my ear ordering me to cum. Nobody's going to bang on the walls to shut us up. Pull my hair, or reach around and put your hands on my belly and thighs, and force me back even further onto your cock, or press our bodies together as tight as they'll go. I don't care. Just hold me tight and take me rough and hard. Make me moan and scream and cry and beg for more. Nobody can hear. Nobody's going to call the police because they heard me sobbing and begging you. I know you like it when I beg, and I have no qualms about getting on my knees and pleading if it gets us both what we want.

I'm not saying I don't have sex at home. I'm saying I don't get fucked at home. There's a difference. My bedroom at home is for love and lightness and laughter, for cuddly afternoon sex while the rain pours outside the open window, for half-asleep morning sex in the pale light of dawn. Home is for shuddering breaths and staring into each other's eyes when we orgasm, for quiet passion and deep emotional bonds. Hotels are for nights when we fuck till we're raw. For spanking and clawing and biting and pulling my hair and making me hurt so good that I can't help but scream your name until I'm hoarse. For leaning over me while you're deep inside and biting my neck and throat and chin and cheeks until you leave red bruises all over me that I'll have to try and cover with makeup tomorrow, and probably fail. They're for coming inside me so many times that when and if we finally decide to get dressed and go pick up something to eat instead of getting it delivered, I'll be standing in line for takeout with my legs pressed together because I can feel your juices running down my thighs, and I have to wonder if everyone in the place can smell you on me, if they all know that you've marked me as yours, at least for tonight.

I'm always going to be an intense lover. That's just me, I can't be anything else. But whereas my own bed is a place where I weave a spell of love and affection and emotional attachment, hotel rooms are places where an entirely different type of intensity comes to light. Like rollercoasters or birthday cake, it's not something that I could deal with having every day - but any time I'm lucky enough to have a night in a hotel with a lover, the world simultaneously recedes into a dream-state and yet seems more bright and real than ever, and I find myself wondering how I can possibly go back to my sweet, soft, pastel existence when our rendezvous is over.

Oh, What A Sticky Web We Weave

WARNING: This post contains semi-clothed pictures and references to sexual acts.

No life-changing news or pseudoprofundities for you at the moment, but I don't feel right abandoning the blog entirely, so I shall tell you a story.

So when I bought my iPhone, I lent my old phone to a friend - who shall remain nameless, so as not to incriminate her or land me in shit - because hers was on the blink and she had a couple months left till she was due an upgrade. It didn't occur to me to delete the data on it because - well - privacy is something I'm still learning.

So she's chatting with one of her guy friends (this is a girl who has several dozen male friends who are mostly platonic but not averse to flirting or sending naughty pics sometimes) and the boy asks her for a sexy picture. So she looks through the phone, and accidentally or otherwise sends him this picture of me:

(I should mention for anyone who doesn't know, I was raised in the Mediterranean and spent half my waking hours on topless and nude beaches, and worked as a life model and occasional underwear model in college. Nudity is not taboo in my immediate family. The chemise covers more of me than my bathing suit; the pose itself is a little risqué, but was actually just me experimenting to see if bending over could give me a waist. No biggie.)

Now, this could have been an honest mistake, since we're of a similar body type. I'm an inch or two taller, she's a bit bigger in the bust, a bit smaller in the waist and hip. (She also has a tattoo on her breast, but that could just be hiding, right?) Either way, honest mistake or not, she's expecting nothing more than some appreciative words.

But no. Instead, her guy friend says, "That's not you! I've seen that picture around on the Internet, on Facebook. I've cracked one off to that picture a few times. Why are you sending me photos of some random girl?"

So my friend goes on the offensive, as she often does: "ExCUSE me? That's my friend you're talking about. I'm borrowing her phone and got the photos mixed up. Are you telling me you've been masturbating to pictures of peeps on my friends list? What the hell is up with that?"

He gets embarrassed. Doesn't know what to say, bless him. She comes and shares the story with me a bit later, and although I should probably be annoyed, I find the whole thing totally, brilliantly hilarious. She did something silly, he did something pervy, and it backfired oh-so-sweetly leaving gloriously amusing carnage.

Do I care that some guy I've never met or talked to was wanking over a picture of me in a chemise? Not really. As long as people don't actually approach me - because I DO value my personal space - privacy of photos / blogs / thoughts (basically anything other than contact details) is not a big concern for me. Once photos are put on Facebook or dating sites, I consider them fair game. At least for, uh, personal use.

So that's the story behind the first (mildly) saucy photo I ever blogged or Facebooked. I can't guarantee that it's 100% true, but I've given it to you just as I heard it, and any embellishments were not made by me.

My Panties Smell Like Cake

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.

Yeah, really.

Three courses of antibiotics means that not only are the nasty beasties gone from my system, but also all the friendly beasties too. Therefore, no more salt-and-lemon smell, at least not for now. For the last couple of days, I've just smelled and tasted a teensy bit sweet, but not really like much at all. But combined with the vanilla bath foam I used a couple of hours ago, and the lavender-scented feminine wash I have, the whole thing has combined to make me smell like a sponge cake. I've been lying on my bed for the last hour and a half, going crazy trying to figure out where the cake smell is coming from, and who could possibly be baking at nearly two in the morning, and now I realize - it's me.

I guess the status posts I've been making on the faceplace for the last couple months, about how my sheets smell like cake, and my bedroom smells like vanilla, can all be traced back to this. That's a little embarrassing. :D

This all seems a bit unfair to me, because now I'm hungry. I suppose I could get up and actually MAKE a cake, but then I'd chance waking Ma, and I'm supposed to be dieting. Or I could get up and make a cocktail, but I'm not sure that I have the ingredients for a Screaming Orgasm, and nothing else will satisfy my sweet tooth. And frankly, cocktails at nearly 3am, alone, when I'm half asleep, seems a little overly hedonistic. If I were awake and dressed, or if I had a date or a girlfriend here with me, then no problem, but I'm not really someone who's comfortable drinking alone. Probably because I'm such a lightweight.

I had written a whole bunch here about my shopping trip yesterday, but I realize now that it does not belong on a post about my doodah. So I'll post that tomorrow.

For now, I guess I'll get some sleep - my eyes don't want to stay open anyway. And most likely the smell will give me gorgeously Sapphic dreams that make me blush when I wake up in the morning and remember them.

9am Is Not A Myth

[K did not come to visit, and never spoke to me again after this point, with no explanation given. And my world went dark, and still hasn't quite lightened up again yet.]

Oh yes, my lambkins. It's not just something that's made up to scare people. I'm sure I knew this once upon a time, but I think I buried all memories of this ungodly hour along with other traumatic experiences of high school.

Of course, I was up till 6.30. Night shifts and all.

Why am I up, you ask? Well, my plans for the day involve meeting up with Kurisu-san, who I still have just a teensy weensy crush on (um, OK, a crush the size of Jupiter) and hanging out, catching up, and somewhere along the line convincing him that he doesn't really want to sleep with me, he needs to try and work things out with the girlfriend he still loves, or at the very least sit down with her and have an honest talk about why they're having problems.

Why am I doing this? You know, I've been asking myself that for awhile and although I've come up with half a dozen answers, I don't have one that's completely satisfying. I'm doing it because people need to communicate in relationships, and when you love someone you don't throw aside what you have when it gets hard, until you've at least made a decent effort to talk it through and try and come to a solution, or at least an understanding of how you both feel. I'm doing it because he's young, and lacking in self-confidence, and he doesn't understand that there are a hundred reasons why a woman might not seem like herself for awhile, and most of them don't have anything to do with whether you're still attractive or not. I'm doing it because he's a close friend, and I love him dearly and I want to see him happy. And because love should be fought for.

Never mind that last night he seemed very flirty and very interested in me. Never mind that I still respond to him emotionally, and that even though our conversation wasn't particularly risque, the thought that he finds me attractive was a huge shock and a huge turn-on.

Fuck. Why am I doing this?

Oh yes, because I'm Bambi. I'm all moral and shit like that.

Even though I haven't had sex in months. And even though I know instinctively that sex with K would be something on a whole new level to anything I've experienced up to this point.

Rargh.

Karma. Focus on the karma, and the potential disaster of hooking up with a friend because he's in a bad place emotionally. Not a good situation.

Focus. Be a friend. He needs a friend more than he needs a hormone-riddled booty call.

I'll catch you up on how it goes later. For now you can go and read more about K if you want:

(In chronological order, earliest to latest: )

[None of these links work on here. I'll try and put in ones to the posts on this site soon.]

On Euphony And Dissonance, OR Why Kidfos Needs A Spanking

Kidfos is so gonna get his ass kicked!

Anyone who's been reading me more than a couple months - which I think is most of you; I haven't gained many new watchers lately - know that The Kid took over my blog awhile back, when I got cut off the internet. Much mayhem occurred, resulting in me nearly getting kicked off the site, Kid getting warned to stop fucking with guys on IM, and a couple of people stopping watching my blog.

In hindsight, when he told me he signed me up for a bunch of groups, I should have considered the possibility that he was telling the truth. However, we all know I'm a bit naive (<-- did I spell that right? For some reason my spelling's been off for a couple of days; I'm forgetting words that I've known perfectly well for most of my life) and I thought he was just joking. I never go on the groups page, and I only check out my main profile page when I've changed something. So it wasn't until last night that I actually saw them on my profile.

Apparently for the last month or two, Sati has been a member of "Girls Watching Guys On Cam" and "WhiteWomenWhoCraveBlackMen".

Of course, I immediately picked up my phone and yelled at him. "KIDFOS, YOU S.O.B., get your ass on here and explain!" Well, no, I didn't say that, quite. It was four in the morning, and I have enough problems with sleeping that I try not to disturb others when they're getting their shut-eye. But I did text him, and then spent the next half hour holding my head in my hands and calling him a fucktard.

Now I'm trying to figure out why I'm embarrassed by this, when there should be nothing embarrassing about it. I don't actually cam with guys, but if I did, so what? As for the other - yeah, I like Black guys. I like white guys too, and Asian guys, and Hispanics and Native Americans - not that we get a whole lot of those last two around here. None of my dating habits have ever been a secret, not since I started dating properly when I was 17. That's part of living in London. With the exception of a handful of religious and cultural groups, in London nobody bats an eyelid when it comes to dating different races. When I'm dating Americans, or people from outside the South East of England, the subject of race comes up quite a bit, particularly when they're a different race to me. I'll meet a (non-white) guy who's not a Londoner, and if we're interested in each other, I can guarantee that during that first conversation he'll ask me if I've ever been with a Black (or Asian, or Middle Eastern etc) guy. And we'll talk about things, and ascertain that neither of us has a problem with it. By contrast, London guys never ask me this, because it simply does not occur to them that it COULD be a problem.

But I digress. I was talking about the embarrassment. Obviously it's not because I care about people finding out who I'm attracted to. Lord knows I talk enough about droolworthy men in various blogs of mine. I think the embarrassment that I felt - and still feel - is connected to the word CRAVE. I associate cravings with wickedness and sin. I crave Krispy Kremes. I crave a lazy afternoon on my bed with Beverly Barton romance books or Frank Downey erotica. I crave encounters in dark alleys with men who'll push me up against the wall and have their wicked way with me. All of those things, and anything else that I would use the word CRAVE for, are things that hold some element of naughtiness. I would never say that I craved cranberry juice, or the ocean, or sunshine, because none of those things have that darkness, that wickedness, that I always associate with the word.

Word choices can be funny things. I've always had a good head for words. Until my head injury, my mom used to laugh at me and call me her walking talking thesaurus, because I had such an extensive vocabularly - but it was more than that. I had an innate sense of how a word should be used. I guess this was partly some inherent quality, but also something that grew - unintentionally - as I grew, and read so many books. Mom found it amusing and charming, but PaPa really thought it was a gift, and tried hard to nurture it. I remember countless times in my childhood and teens, and even early twenties, when we'd play word games.

LIKE:
"Don't say weird, darling. You use weird too much. What are some other words for it?"

"Um, odd?"

"Good, what else?"

"Unusual. Unorthodox."

"And?"

"Strange, bizarre, kooky, outre, atypical."

"Carry on."

"Abnormal, aberrant. Uncommon. Unique. Wacky, crazy, eccentric. Quirky, offbeat, off-the-wall. Nonconformist. Idiosyncratic. Phantasmagorical."

...
And so it went.

Since the head injury I've been less skilled with words. I have many days now when I can't even put a coherent sentence together, let alone write something worth reading.

I'm digressing again. It happens, especially lately.

But word choices...those have always fascinated me. I love to write, even now when I'm not so good at it. I love just letting my thoughts flow from my brain to my hands, and knowing that the right words will come at the right time, knowing that I'll be able (I hope) to find the ones that will create maximum impact. And although it can be uncomfortable, I also love watching the discord that sometimes happens when the wrong choice is made, particularly when the word chosen is one that SHOULD be synonymous.

For example, I've always been particularly intrigued by the word erotic. Erotic, taken from Eros. Used to describe the tantalising aspects of sex. (That's my definition, btw - I'm sure any dictionary you find will have a better one.) Eros was an ancient god of love, as Venus was a goddess of love, so by all rights you should be able to substitute venereal for erotic in any given sentence - but you can't. It doesn't work. Something - perhaps the modern-day usage of venereal to describe sexually transmitted diseases, or perhaps some inherent dissonance in the word itself - prevents it from sounding right.

Likewise, the word CRAVE in the context that it's used here leaves me feeling strange. You could substitute LIKE, or LOVE, or even WANT, and I would not feel the embarrassment that I do. Belonging to a group called Women Who Love Black Men? Big whoop, so what? That doesn't bother me in the slightest.

Now the cam group...that's another matter entirely.

How about you guys? Got any examples of words that should fit a situation, but sound completely wrong? Or even any cravings you'd like to tell me about? *grins*

A Torrential Downpour

Oh...hell.

I saw Chrissie today. We'd made vague plans to meet up this morning, then I didn't get to sleep until after nine (am) and decided to make it 2 or 3 this afternoon instead.

Of course, neither of our buses made it on time, and we didn't get into town until fourish. Couple that with Chrissie needing to open a bank account (she had to get an appointment for tomorrow) and apply for a bus pass (they gave her a form and sent her away) and spending way too long looking at things in New Look that she had no intention of buying, I didn't get to either of the places that I needed to go (Accessorize to look for a handbag for my mom's birthday, and Jane Norman to look for handbags and a dress to wear out with Curt when he takes me to dinner this weekend). I am somewhat irritated that after paying off my overdraft after Christmas, and being extremely proud of myself for doing so, I'm already back in the red again. Damn bills / shopping trips / dinners out. I have GOT to learn to budget better. Maybe take a class on economics in the spring.

Anyway, that wasn't the cause for the oh hell. That was due to Christie deciding to matchmake. Last week she texted me (in the middle of the night, natch) to say she'd thought of the perfect guy for me. Today she talked to the guy online, and gave him my FB details, and asked him what he thought of me.

Turns out, he thought I was pretty OK.

Now, I'm not bothered that she'd give out my FB details. I keep the whole profile public, and anyone from this site who I communicate with or who reads my blog is welcome to add me on there. The same goes for people who know my friends. We may get on, we may not, but even if we don't it doesn't bother me if you check me out - I live a public life and I'm happy that way. To me, being on FB is much like walking down the street in a low-cut dress - I know people are going to look, and whether those people are ones that I'm interested in or not, they're perfectly welcome to look to their hearts content, as long as they respect my personal space. I would never feel offended or put-upon by someone gazing at my breasts, and the same goes for anything I choose to put up on my profile.

I am slightly bothered by the fact that she told him I thought he was hot, when I hadn't even checked him out yet, but as lies go it's not a whopper. If I'd checked him out, I probably would have thought that. I did look at him this evening, and he's pretty good-looking. I'm told he's a nice guy, and that he's really great in bed, and has a high sex drive. He's not intellectual, but I know better than to expect that from one of Christie's guy friends.

I don't have any right to be bothered by the matchmaking, either, since a couple weeks ago I asked her if she knew anyone who might be right for me. I was half joking, and didn't think she'd know anyone - while we're both versatile enough that I enjoy the odd evening with her friends, and she with mine, our tastes in people are vastly different - but I'm the one who brought it up.

So why do I feel so...blah?

A couple weeks ago I would have been happy to find a guy who was safe, handsome and good in bed. This week I have zero interest. And it's not personal, either. I'm not uninterested in him - by which I mean, my lack of interest isn't anything to do with his looks or his personality, or really with him at all. It's just...well, it's that old cliche, I guess. It's not him, it's me.
Lulu sometimes writes about how sex seems to come in droughts and torrents for her; she'll have a dry spell where she's either not interested or dates get cancelled for a number of reasons, and then she has spells where it seems like every man she knows wants to hook up. I am much the same, except that unlike my dear friend, I am not built to cope with the torrents of potentials, at least not in the form that they come in. I become preoccupied with one - one person, one situation, one crisis, one anything that acts as an emotional trigger - and I lose interest in the others that come after it. And they always come, because that's the way my life seems to work. Periods where I'm footloose and fancy free, and can't get a date to save my life, and then periods where I have floods of people wanting equal time and attention, and I'm incapable of giving it to them - or at least of WANTING to give it to them, although sometimes I can drag myself away from my preoccupation long enough to give them what they deserve - because all my interest is used up on that one thing, or occasionally two or three things.

To put it bluntly, there is a very small handful of people I would welcome in my bed right now, and a stranger - even a hot, talented stranger - is not one of them.

Damn timing.

Part of me wants to force it, because I hate letting a chance go by. I know in a couple of weeks I'll be back to normal, and will wonder why I ignored such a tempting proposition. Yet I don't think it's fair to either of us to attempt to make a connection when my mind and spirit are quite simply not available.

Do you think if I wrote him a short note saying that I think he's interesting, and that I'm going through some personal things right now but would like to get in touch with him in a month or two, that that would be rude? Would you be insulted by that? Or would you think it was practical?

*sigh*

Poor timing is my worst enemy so often. Timing makes the difference between catching the wave and getting sucked under.

Toys, Objects And Masturbation

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.

It's rare for me to make a post that's particularly sexually explicit, but it's 7.30 am, and I haven't slept, and perhaps my inhibitions are a little lower than usual. Plus, this is a subject that's always fascinated me.

I have a particularly beautiful piece of blue calcite that I bought a couple weeks ago. It's about the size of a golf ball, except the sides are flattish and vaguely triangular, although it keeps the rounded edges. (If I were asked what the shape resembles, I'd say a lung, but that's just my scientist's brain at work.) It's a lovely stone, palest blue with white striations in, and no matter how long you hold it in your hand (or other places) it always remains cool. For the last twenty minutes, I've been running it over my body: over my stomach and arms, down my neck and throat, around my nipples. The coolness and the smoothness is delicious, especially on a morning like this when my skin feels too tight.

And of course, as I rub it over my body I can't help wondering what it would feel like inside.

Oh sure, I know the health "rules" about putting things inside your body that you shouldn't. But how many of us abide by them to the letter? How many of us have used things to pleasure ourselves that were not quite made for those purposes? How many of us have used food, or candles, or a hairbrush handle, or anything else that came to hand?

In this age of sexual freedom, there are so many toys that are made expressly for sex play, it's almost senseless to use anything else. Yet I feel there's something deliciously naughty about the thought of using everyday objects to pleasure yourself. It makes me feel like I'm back in the olden days, back before vibrators and weighted balls and love eggs, experiencing - or at least thinking about - the same things that our ancestors thought. Because many of them did think it, you know. Not all women (or even men) from ages before ours were as repressed as the history books would have you believe. Certainly my ancestors weren't - I remember one story from my maternal grandmother, about how she used a taper candle to masturbate one day when my grandfather and the kids were out, and then accidentally mixed it in with the candles for the dinner table. When my grandfather lit the candles, he sniffed the air curiously, and then looked at my grandmother and smiled, because he knew exactly what she'd been doing.

Most of the women here - and perhaps the men - will have at least one toy made expressly for sex. Personally, I have a couple of vibrators - one large, one small - and I want a Rabbit as soon as I can afford it. (My last one broke a couple years ago.) Plus a set of weighted balls for Kegels exercises. And even with those couple of things, I think I'm fairly conservative compared to the average woman on here. But I do wonder how many of you have ever used a household item - or even thought about using one.

So, thought about it? Done it?

What have you used / thought about using? Fruit and veggies? Shower head in the bath? Something else entirely?

Do you consider it objectophilia to be occasionally aroused by inanimate objects, if it's not all the time? Or is it just another chapter in a healthy sex life?

Cybersex, Weird-Style

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.

There's something faintly unsettling about having cybersex while you're listening to Bach's Goldberg Variations.

The Man Who Is Not My Boyfriend (aka Oli) is on my messenger now, and is being very blunt about what he wants - for the fourth or fifth day running. This has to be a record for us, because for the last couple years things have followed a pattern - he gets all hot and bothered by me, and then leaves me alone for a couple days, even a couple weeks. On rare occasions he'll be a interested a couple times a week, but I don't think we've ever had a period where he wanted me 24-7, for more than a day or two at a time.

I know I shouldn't be overanalysing this, but I can't help wondering if it means things are looking up, finally. He's always run so hot and cold with me, and I've never been able to work out exactly what it is he wants. So even if this period doesn't last forever, it's very nice to have some sort of stability.

It's not Bach anymore - it's Myers' Cavatina, and He is telling me exactly how he wants me to suck his cock.

That's all I've got for you tonight - it's coming up 5am, and I'm tired and have a stomachache.

What's the most incongruous sexual experience you've had?

Note: I keep trying to edit this post, and it edits briefly and then goes back to how it was, so if it doesn't quite make sense, that's why.

My Plans Were Fucked With, And I Was Not

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.

If things had gone the way I meant them to, I'd either be having sex right now, or would be asleep, having exhausted myself doing so.

I would also have seen my Dad and stepmother this morning, checked in at work, and had dinner with Oli before following him to some (unknown) place where he would have had me on my hands and knees, begging for his cock.

Damn trains. My stepmother texted me just before nine this morning to tell me there was a tube strike on, and to check the overground trains 'cause they might be upset too. Sure enough, when I called the local station they told me that services were "experiencing some delays". On a standard day - especially a Monday - services tend to experience a lot of delays, so for them to actually ADMIT it means it must have been pretty bad.

Therefore, no visit to my parents, and they're going down to the new house tomorrow or the next day - they've bought a place in Somerset, and have been spending a lot of time down there, although they're not set to move until October - so God only knows when I'll see them. Whenever they're back in London and I have a spare day when I'm healthy, I guess.

No checking in at work...well, that wasn't a big loss. But no Oli definitely was. Not only have I been nonstop horny for the last week, but for the last few days he's been very forward about wanting me, and I think - I wouldn't bet money on it, but I THINK - he might actually be starting to let himself need me, just a little bit.

Maybe. Not that I'm holding my breath or anything.

After all, I have more important things to hold my breath for.

I keep telling myself that it's a good thing I couldn't get to see him, as 1) I have a nasty mosquito bite on the corner of my mouth, and even opening my mouth wide enough to eat - let alone wise enough to suck him - is quite painful; and 2) We've experienced the frustration of London meetings several times. London meetings mean nowhere to have sex, since I live here in Alby, and I can't go to his place since his parents don't know about me. Actually, I don't think any of his family knows about me.

Unfortunately my arguments don't help much, since he told me to bring condoms today, indicating that he's found somewhere we can go, and as for the mosquito bite...well, if he were here, I'd take the pain and learn to love it if it meant I could please him.

I think I could learn to love most things if it meant pleasing him. *sigh* But wouldn't you know it, he doesn't have another day off for ages.

So this girl is fairly miserable today. Phone sex would be better than nothing, but it's 4am now, and I'm guessing he's asleep since he didn't respond to my last message. It seems quite monstrously unfair that something as stupid as an Underground strike could scupper my plans, especially when things are finally going well between us. Because who knows how long they'll be good for, before he gets weird on me again?

Well, I guess I just have to hope that they stay good for awhile; that I've wormed my way into his heart and he lets me remain there for more than a few days.

Sorry - I know I said that I'd try and post more often, about more interesting subjects, but I got nothing for you guys tonight.

Sex and Tragicomedy

WARNING: THIS NOTE CONTAINS DETAILS THAT SOME PEOPLE WILL FIND OFFENSIVE, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO BLOOD, TEARS, HUMILIATION AND SEXUAL CONTENT. (AND SOMETIMES A COMBINATION OF ALL OF THE ABOVE.) PROBABLY NOT AS DISTURBING AS MOST SOUTH PARK EPISODES OR ANYTHING BY CHUCK PALAHNIUK, BUT STILL CARRYING A POSSIBLE ICK FACTOR. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Firstly, please excuse any rambling and poor sentence construction in this note; it's coming up 2am, and I got maybe 2 or 3 hours of sleep last night, and I'm running on empty.

So, I had a date ten days ago, and promised a couple people I'd write about it. It's taken me this long to write anything down, because my head's been a bit woozy. I don't know what's wrong with me, to be honest. All I know is that someone will say something, either to me or on the TV or in a book, and my eyes will glaze over and I'll drift off into a little daydream, and next thing I know it's an hour later and I've been staring at the wall for a long time.

Heh. Christie Beth calls it "loved up", but that's not quite the right term. For one thing, I'm definitely not in love. In like, sure, but nothing romantic.

But I get ahead of myself.

So, I met this guy. I'm always amused by how many of my notes start with this, because there's ALWAYS a guy somewhere in my life. But anyway, I met this guy. On here, actually. I seldom use AFF for actual dating or sex; I joined it on an impulse a couple years ago and stayed for the interesting blog section. Like most women on there, I get plenty of emails, but I seldom reply to any of them unless the email content or the profile of the sender really catches my interest. (Until this guy, I'd only met one other guy from the site, and although he was a nice man it turned out that we didn't really have anything in common.) But this one emailed me maybe seven or eight months ago, and he was so funny and smart I emailed him back, and for most of this year we've been sending friendly messages back and forth, both through email and text message.

And then, maybe three weeks ago, he called me. Which was a surprise. Actually, I'm not sure if I'm more surprised that he called, or that I answered. Most of you probably know how much I hate talking on the phone. I suppose it's a borderline phobia, although I never let it progress into a full-blown freak-out. But while I tolerate talking to close friends and family members - and actually enjoy talking to a select few - I really, really hate talking to new people. If I ever give my number out, I tell the person to text me.

But he called, and I answered, and somehow he suggested that he come to see me, and somehow I agreed. I don't know how, to be honest - it just kind of snowballed, and before I knew it I was having a guy I didn't REALLY know come all the way from Leicester. So I spent the next week alternating between frantically cleaning the house, and having mini panic attacks, all the while thinking, what the hell have I got myself into?

But then Friday arrived, and I figured, well, this is good for me. I'm breaking out of the box, doing something different for once. Taking a chance, putting myself out there. So I cleaned the bathroom, and shaved my legs, and baked a cake, and then set off for the station to pick him up.

And that's when things got interesting. Strange, but interesting.

(By the way, this is the guy who has me reading Voltaire. Which is a nice little piece of irony, actually, since our date could definitely be considered either the best or the worst of all possible dates, depending on how you view things.)

So I met him at the station, and I have to admit, things didn't start particularly well. When I got there, I wasn't in a spectacularly good mood. My muscles were all hurting from cleaning the bathroom earlier (and my bedroom the day before), and my back was twinging and I thought I was maybe getting another kidney infection, and I'd gotten rained on several times, and I had a fever. So I was hot and bothered - and not in a good way - and trying not to show it. And at first there was that awkward silence that you sometimes get with people, when you think you know them, and then you meet them and they feel like strangers. We decided to walk into town to Tesco, since I needed a couple of groceries, and the whole way he walked a couple of paces ahead of me. (Most of my male friends do this with me, and I don't think any of them realise quite how irritating it is.) After a couple minutes, he started talking to fill the silence, and somehow it just felt like he was trying to make the best of a bad situation, and like it was a great hardship to be here with me. So we bought groceries and sandwiches, and got a cab home, and the whole time I was wondering what the hell I was doing.

But once we were home, things got better. I went into the bathroom, and while I was in there I heard him talking to my mom about uni - he's about to do a degree (a Masters, I think) in biomedical engineering - and about his upcoming trip to the US, and he seemed a lot more relaxed with her than he'd been with me. So I dried myself off and took some painkillers, and then my mood improved a bit, and I sort of told myself, suck it up and try and make the best of things. And funny thing - as soon as I stopped acting like a shrew, he stopped acting like being with me was a chore. Funny how that goes, huh? :P

So we sat on the sofa and watched QI - which is an awesome icebreaker, at least it was for us - and ordered Thai takeaway, and as we watched comedy and ate excellent curry, I could feel things thawing more and more. So when he moved closer to me and put his hand on my leg, I just looked at him from under my eyelashes and smiled a bit, instead of breaking his hand off (which I would have done an hour previously).

And then his hand moved. :)

So his hands are on my breasts, both over and under my thin cotton dress, and he's tweaking and sucking on my nipples, and the next thing I know the halterneck of my dress has become untied, and I'm turning off the TV and saying goodnight to Mom, and we're heading upstairs. He's rubbing my shoulders - amongst other things - and pressing me back against him into what feels like an incredibly impressive erection, and kissing me very excellently, and after I brush my teeth and wash off a bit we end up lying on my bed, cuddling and kissing, first with our clothes on, and then without.

I don't need to spell out the next bit, do I? :D

But then - ALAS! Tragedy strikes. Or perhaps comedy-tragedy, although it didn't seem like it at the time. We finish the unmentionable, and I'm lying there thinking that perhaps this liason was a good idea after all, and he's standing up and suddenly makes a funny noise in his throat. And then he turns to me and says, "Are you...?"

So I say, "Am I what?" And then he says, "You know...on your TIME." And he gestures to his crotch area, and I look down, and it looks like there's been a massacre. There's blood EVERYWHERE.

So, master of the understatement, I look at it blankly and say, "That's not right." I go to the bathroom, check myself, and sure enough, I'm bleeding. what I don't know is WHY I'm bleeding. I know it can't be my "TIME", because since I got the contraceptive implant I don't get periods anymore. All I can assume is that it's the kidney infection that I felt coming on earlier. So I curse for a minute or so, and debate bursting into tears, and eventually repress them and go back into the bedroom to see what the damage is. Turns out it wasn't as much blood as I thought. Naturally, any blood during sex is too much, so it seemed like a lot, but luckily it only got on us and on the sheet. So I gave him a washcloth and access to the bathroom, and went downstairs to get my spare sheet (which had luckily just been washed), and put that on the bed, the whole time managing not to look at him. Then I tell him I'm going to take a quick bath, and I lock myself in the bathroom, and sit in the bath for twenty minutes, banging my head against the wall and crying a bit and generally cursing the universe for making my life into a giant cosmic sitcom.

Eventually I pull myself together, and go back into the bedroom, and manage to make a couple jokes about it. I figure that the evening's totally ruined by this point, and that he'll never want to see me again, but it's too late to get a train or a hotel room so I owe it to him to at least try and make him comfortable, and not weep and wail about how humiliated I am. And he laughs, and makes a couple jokes too, and I feel absurdly grateful to him for not throwing a hissy fit or running out of the house while I was in the bath, which IMO he'd be well within his rights to do. Then he suggests going downstairs to have a cup of coffee and watch some TV, and with gratitude I agree.

We make the coffee together, and that gives us something to talk about, after discovering our mutual love for good filter coffee. I'm guessing he was expecting Nescafe instant, and I think I impress him a little with my cafetiere and my Java Sumatra blend (that I keep in the freezer, which I think surprises him a bit). It's a small victory after the humiliation I suffered upstairs, but it helps me feel a bit better, more in my element. We settle on the couch and watch Dara O'Briain for an hour or so, but I don't actually take in much of the program because we're talking for most of the time.

I can't actually remember all that we talked about, because it seemed like we talked about so many things. And I can honestly say, I can't remember the last time I met a more fascinating person. He seemed to know something about everything. I could - and did - bring up any subject, from medicine to boxing to the ancient Sumerians to parent-child relationships, and he could happily hold an intelligent conversation on it. I've realised by now that he's quite scarily-smart, but the really glorious thing about conversing with him is that he assumes that I know what he's talking about. Sometimes I don't, and I have to ask for more information, but he always assumes that I can understand him, which is a small miracle. People always talk down to me. Because I'm cheerful and smiley and soft and moderately pretty, strangers automatically assume that I'm not very smart, but even close friends and family members fall into the trap sometimes. Everyone does. And admittedly he did it for the first hour or so after we met, but then he stopped. And that feels nicer than I can tell you.

An hour passes in what seems like minutes, and Mom's turned off her light by this time, so we decide to retire to bed again. I go into the bathroom and wash my face and brush my teeth, and I wash the downstairs area again, and realise that I'm still bleeding. But it occurs to me, this can't be a kidney infection, because the colour's wrong - it's too bright. And then I take note of the pain in my lower abdomen that I've been ignoring for the last hour, and then it hits me. I know exactly what's wrong with me. He ripped one of my scars.

When I was raped, nearly five years ago, I ended up with some pretty nasty internal scars. For the most part, they don't affect my life. At the time the doctors warned me that the scar tissue would always be weak and there was a possibility that they could tear during sex, and that I should be careful, but because it never happened I pretty much forgot about the warning. But evidently something about this guy - I'm guessing his sheer size *evil grin* - caused him to hit me in just the wrong place.

I suppose when you're hung like Lex Steele, that's easy to do. :D

Part of me wants to start crying again, or throw a temper tantrum, because I'm so mad at my body and at Obie, and it seems grossly unfair that that fucking monster is STILL affecting my life, after all this time. But instead I shrug and sigh, and put on the long black nightdress I bought (that I mentioned in the last note), since it seems like covering up is a good idea right now. And I go into the bedroom and tell him that I know why I'm bleeding, and explain the situation to him - although when he asked me why I was scarred, I used the euphemistic "I was attacked" rather than "I was raped". I think he read between the lines though. So I slip into bed beside him, and turn to face him, thinking that we can talk for awhile and then go to sleep. Not quite the evening I had been expecting, I think, but all in all it could have been worse. We do talk some more, and it's nice and comfy, and I think that this is a pretty good place to end the evening.

Or at least my brain thinks that. However, our bodies have a different idea. :D

As I said, I don't need to go into detail, as much as my treacherous brain wants to lead me down that path right now. Suffice it to say that he still seemed to find me attractive, and that although he was trying to be a gentleman about it, because he didn't want to cause me pain, he really did want me again.

So he had me again. Four more times. I discovered after the second time that my abdomen only hurt when I was upright, not when I was lying down, so he did his best to keep me on my back for the rest of the night. Although there were times when I was on my stomach, or my hands and knees, or perched on the side of the bed, or sitting in the middle of the bed with him kneeling in front of me, while I wrapped my legs around him. Normally I'd be self-conscious about trying out so many different positions, but he made it so easy and unscary that once I got over my initial shyness, it just felt good. No, not good - incredible.

(OK, so I didn't NEED to go into detail. I guess I just wanted to relive it a bit.)

We spent the whole night like that, periods of blazing passion interspersed with talking and kissing and cuddling. I always think that people who are confident (but not cocky) about their looks make the best lovers, and it was so blissful to be with someone who's comfortable in his body. There's always that fascination when I'm with someone new, that drives me to explore them, and he seemed perfectly happy to lie there and let me run my hands over his face and his body for what seemed like hours, while I committed every detail of him to memory. I was a little surprised at how much of a cuddler I've become - it's one of those things that's vastly changed since my head injury, but having not spent the night in the same bed as many guys since then, I haven't had a lot of opportunity to examine the change - but I have to say, I like it. I can no longer remember why I used to be uncomfortable with too much contact. I know that in the early days I spent with Richard, I always used to get nervous and jump up afterwards, which I think hurt his feelings a lot. I regret that now, especially since I can't relate to that feeling anymore.

At about six, we finally went to sleep - well, he went to sleep, and I went downstairs to eat the rest of my dinner, and then eventually came back up and drifted off. My alarm went off at ten-thirty, and I got up and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face, in the hopes that I could make myself look less sleep-deprived.

Apparently I looked okay, because by the time I got back he was awake, and he pulled me back into bed, and we spent the next couple of hours entwined around each other, glorying in our bodies and the pleasure we could give each other. In the night we'd experimented a lot, trying to find a position that made it easier for me to take all of him, because he was so big and I'm fairly small inside, and it was a huge (LOL, sorry) challenge for me to try and fit the whole of him inside. But we finally discovered that the position that worked best for us was me on my back with my legs up over his shoulders, and boy did that work well! Being a multiple sort of girl, I've never had a problem getting orgasms, but I've also seldom had an experience where they came one after another in what seemed like a continuous stream without any effort on my part. I had to bite into my hand in order to stop myself from screaming and attracting the attention of the lodgers, and I still have the slight toothmarks in my palm. :)

Eventually, of course, he knew he had to leave. His plans were to catch the midday train, so he could be home by two or three. Unfortunately we sat down on the couch, and somehow kept falling into naps and cuddling (as well as watching an appalling movie on the Sci-Fi channel) and he didn't even call for a cab to the station until well past four. Meaning that he probably didn't get home until six or seven. I wonder how he explained that to his parents. :P

All in all, it was an incredible date. If he weren't such an awesome person, the bad stuff could easily have taken over and made it a night from hell, but he didn't let it, and he coped with my body's malfunctions (yes, malfunctions plural, but that's another story) with humor and grace. He had all sorts of wonderful things to say to me, about how great I was and how good I made him feel, and I could tell from his body's reaction to me that he wasn't lying. That meant a lot to me, because I'm never quite confident that I have any talent in the bedroom. He seemed to find me attractive and sexy, even my saggy boobs and my fat ass and my squishy Khoisan nose and my giant man-hands. :) And, as trite as this may sound, while the bedroom stuff was incredible, if I never slept with him again I'd still want to be friends with him, and talk to him, and just know him.

Most of the time I refer to myself as a cynical optimist, and I can never quite decide whether it's the cynical side or the optimistic side of my personality that dominates. But right now, I'm leaning towards the Pangloss school of thought - that even with the blood and pain and embarrassment and crying, the night - and morning after - simply could not have gone better.

He doesn't want a committed relationship, and neither do I. But I am hoping that we stay friends - even close friends - and that I get to see him again.

BTW, his name on here is diablophallus, and he's in the US right now if any ladies want to be satisfied by a hot young stud who's hung like a stallion. If AFF ever allows standard members to leave testimonials again, he'll get a glowing one from me. Until then, this blog is the best I can do.

So that, my darling perverts, is the 100% true story of my latest date. Hopefully you found something of value in this extremely long post that you've just spent the last twenty minutes reading, whether it made you laugh or cry or groan in sympathy, or if it just turned you on a bit. It's now ten to four in the morning, and I'm going to sleep. But when you turn off your computer, spare a thought and a bit of sympathy for this girl. It's been eleven nights since I had him in my bed, and I'm still having trouble concentrating on anything else.

A New Face?

I've wanted to post this for you for two months now, but I've been trying to work through it in my head.

After ten years of liking professional, well-groomed, well-dressed men, who were well-read and intelligent, with solid career plans and "normal", vanilla lives...I've gone and fallen in like with a 20-year-old, red-haired musician who always looks like he's wearing mascara and eyeliner, doesn't read books, is studying music at uni, has a questionable tattoo on his arm that he won't tell anyone about, and has probably never worn a suit in his life, let alone a hand-tailored one. Oh, and he has a girlfriend, and he's been in my dreams at least a couple times a week.

Oopsy Daisy is putting it a bit lightly. *sighs*

Funnily enough, even though he's the antithesis of my normal "type" (as far as I have one, anyway), the thing that bothers me most about him is the fact that he doesn't read. This isn't a measure of his intelligence by any means; he's probably as smart as I am, maybe smarter. But seriously, how could I fall for a guy who doesn't like books?

Well, "fall for" isn't really accurate. I don't love him or anything. I'm not even interested in him romantically or sexually, at least not so far. I just really want to know him. He interests me in a way nobody has for a long long time. Oh sure, I've met guys - both IRL and on here - who I find fascinating, and who I think about quite a bit, but it's been years since I met one who haunts my dreams and my waking thoughts the way this one does.

What it feels most like, is a schoolgirl crush. Except I'm not a schoolgirl, and haven't been for a long time.

Oh, but I adore him, even if I don't love him. He's smart and he's sweet and he's kind of shy, and he has the softest eyes, and when you talk to him, you really feel like all of his attention's on you, and for the duration of that conversation you're the most important person in the world. And when I talk to him alone, which I've only done a few times, I feel like I can talk about anything, like I've known him for years.

I'll give any of my regular readers three guesses as to what his name is, but you may not need all three.

It's Chris, of course.

But this isn't a case of me falling for a guy because of his name. I had a huge interest in him from the start, and I didn't find out his name until the end of the second lesson.

I think this is the one. Not, like, *The One*. Not my Twin Flame, or the Love of My Life, or anything like that. But the one I've been dreaming about for so long.

The problem is, if he IS the one I've been dreaming about, my dreams of him started when I was 12. Which means HE was 6. He wasn't 6 in my dreams - I think we were both in our late teens - but still, there seems something slightly creepy about that.

Meh.

I think I need to stop thinking about 20-year-old unattainable boys, and get laid. Like, NOW. Perhaps it's time for me to find another FWB on here. I spend far too much time lying naked on my bed, reading or daydreaming, and not enough time dating and getting fucked.


So yes. Time for me to start writing to guys more. There are a couple who've caught my eye recently, but I'm so bad at responding to emails...I'm putting that on my list of things to do tomorrow. :)

Right now, it's 2.44 am and I'm tired, so I'm going to get some sleep. Good night to you, dear reader, and I hope to see you again soon!

Randomness

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.

Ah shite, it's 3.55am and I have to be up at 9.30. I blame this wakefulness on Jay, who decided to make it his mission to get me aroused *ahem* and then tell me, "Oh, I've been drinking, I can't drive". Now, of course, he's buggered off somewhere, probably to bed, and I'm stuck here wondering if the Ann Summers leaflets are true, and every girl actually should have a Rabbit.

*sigh*

In case you can't tell, Jay is the man of the month. Not my boyfriend, definitely not. But a guy I met on a dating site I belong to, and occasionally hang out with. "Hang out" being a euphemism for "talk to in the middle of the night and now and then open the door to at 4.30 in the morning wearing a corset and panties".

Perhaps, in light of the fact that my father and stepfather have both joined the Facebook world, I shouldn't be posting this. But hell, if they're silly enough to read these notes, they deserve everything they get. All of you readers know to take what you read here with a pinch of salt, right? RIGHT?

Eheheheh, I hope so.

To be fair, if a note of mine contains any sexual details, I do try and place a warning at the top. Occasionally I forget, but not often.

I'm a little crabby at the moment, because the corset that I ordered off eBay, and paid frickin' £18.99 for, is NOT the size it says on the label. I could send it back, but I wouldn't get the P&P back, either the money I paid her to send it to me, or the postage it costs me to send it back. It's not the seller's fault that it was mislabelled, but instead of a 36DD (my size), it's a 32DD by my measurements. Possibly a small 34, but certainly no bigger than that. I can get it on, but it's not comfortable. Even when I'm slim, my ribcage is bigger than a 32. So I guess I'm gonna have to put it in the ever-growing pile of things that I have to sell. I have sooooo many things that I'm trying to get rid of, and once I've taken photos, I expect I'll post a list of things here before I try listing them on eBay. (By that, I mean post a list of things here for you to buy, not that you can have for free - I'm desperately trying to raise money at the moment, and can't really afford to give stuff away.) There are a couple of fairly nice designer things, plus a whole load of cheaper things, and a lot of shoes. Unfortunately I've been giving things away that I could have sold for a pretty penny - I gave Lauren the red Jigsaw evening dress from Trish, and Ellie the turquoise Karen Millen pants, and Selena the silver Louboutin pumps that I got on sale in TK Maxx and then couldn't wear 'cause they were too high. At the time, it didn't seem worth selling them, because I didn't have many things that I wanted to get rid of. But it's seeming less and less likely that I'm going to move into my own flat, at least in this country, and with Mom and Lori and Chris and Ryan and me in a 3-bedroom house, there just isn't enough room for me to keep clothes and shoes that I don't wear, for "one day".

The things that I should sell, but probably don't have the heart to, are my evening dresses. I love evening dresses - ballgowns, cocktail dresses, fancy meringues and simple sheaths alike - and have at least half a dozen that are just a little bit too small in the bust. Several of them come from Monsoon, and a couple from Jigsaw, and I know that I could get quite a lot of money for them. Possibly even enough to take that vacation that I'm craving. But I love those dresses, and have been holding onto them for that day in the future that I finally afford a breast reduction, and I'll only sell them if I don't have any other choice.

Or if Curt or some other lovely male invites me to spend a month island-hopping in the Caribbean. :P

4.17 now, and I'm starting to get sleepy. I'll read a couple pages of my book - if I can find a book to read, I just remembered that I finished the one I was reading earlier - and then sleep a couple hours. With any luck I won't be too tired tomorrow, Mom and Tony and Debbie and I are supposed to be going to the garden centre, and I'm looking forward to that - for one thing I actually have a bit of money in my pocket, for once. :)

Hope y'all are getting on well! xx

Need

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.

Strange week I'm having.

Firstly, I seem to be attracted to females a lot atm. I'm seriously thinking of changing my profile to reflect this, and actually looking for a girl to play with. Problem is, I don't much like English girls. Mostly I'm attracted to American girls, and a couple of Canadians, and I'm not really interested in internet play - if I'm gonna experiment with a girl, it's gonna be in person.

I also appear to be attracted to Cadbury's Creme Eggs. I have this recurring dream, and I can't exactly explain what happens, because NOTHING truly happens. It's all very confused. All I know is that I'm dreaming about women who appear to have Creme Eggs where their girlie bits ( LOL ) should be. And I'm licking and sucking the fondant out of the middle, mostly with my tongue but occasionally dipping my fingers in, and I can't get enough of it. Sometimes I race through my dreams landscapes, gathering as many candies / girls as I can, running my hands over their bodies and through their hair, kissing one moment and biting the next, sucking up everything that is sweet and good in life.

Every time I have this dream I wake in the throes of orgasm, having somehow made myself come with no (waking) physical stimuli whatsoever. Interestingly, when I wake up it's not either chocolate or pussy that I'm craving, it's man - a hard, hot, ready male, pushing inside me.

I blame this on lack of sleep, but there's definitely something in the air right now. I'd say it was spring, but spring rarely affects me this way.

Actually, I can't remember anything that's affected me quite this way. For the last couple days I've been too aroused to get anything done. I've given up on socialising, and am generally giving off vibes that say "If you're not here to fuck me, come back in a couple days."

Aside from fucking, all I want to do is eat and sleep. I think it's hormonal. Since I got my implant, I don't get periods often or properly, so it's hard to judge when they'll come, but I taste different right now, so with the combination of that and the need for sleep and food I'd guess that I'm PMSing. So I'm letting myself sleep.

I lay outside in a bikini today, which was chilly, but I'm living in hope that the sun will make a good showing soon. Last year the warmest days were in April.

That's really all I have to share today. If you're in the London / Herts area and would like to be in the bed of a chubby, sunny brunette in the next few days, drop me a line.

Morpheus, You Ass

SO...I've been having this dream.

I finally work up the cojones to meet a guy off here. I find one that catches my interest. Sexy, handsome, older. Piercing blue eyes, just the colour of my own - this should have tipped me off, but it didn't - and a smile that lights up the room. We meet in a coffee shop. I'm attracted. He's attracted. We go back to a hotel room and have a fantastic time.

Then he shows me pictures of his wife and kids. OMG, you're saying, You slept with a married man! Yes, yes I did. Not knowingly, but there it is. But this isn't the worst. His wife's beautiful. His daughters look like her. AND THEN I see a picture of his son, and it's Apollo.

My Apollo. Apollo the SBD, the absolute fantasy since I first met him when I was twelve years old.

Oh yes, I slept with Apollo's father*. What's more, I enjoyed it. The whole time, I kept trying to figure out why I was so comfortable with him, why I felt like I'd known him for ages.

Come on, dream analysts, do your worst.

* I didn't really sleep with Apollo's father. This is a dream, remember?

Giving A New Meaning To "Auto-Erotic"

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.

People ask me often if I have a particular thing that turns me on, or a particular place that makes me think of an erotic experience that I've had. And I always tell them, no. Which is a lie, but I don't like admitting the truth - that the one place in the world that I always associate with sex is not a romantic place at all, it's actually a gas station.

Yes, you read that right. A gas station. Or petrol station, for you Brits.

For several years now, I've been having a recurring dream about the Total station on the corner of Beech Road and Valley Road. I hesitate to call it a recurring dream, really, because it always changes somewhat. But there are some elements of it that remain the same.

For the sake of the Neo-Freudian analysis that so many of you seem to be into, I'll tell you a little bit about it. In the dream, it's cold outside. I'm tired, and I need a place to rest. So I come to the Beech-Valley intersection, and just seeing the gas station makes me feel warmer and less tired, like I'm already inside. I go into the store part to ask the guy behind the counter if I can use the public bathroom, and he tells me that they've added a rest stop to the back, and he gives me a keycard to access it. I go round the side of the building, to the back, and where there used to be a fence (and still is, in real life), it's been turned into a picnic area with benches where you can eat, and vending machines, and the little huts that in reality you can just see on the other side of the fence have become a kitchenette, bathroom and shower area. I let myself into the huts with the keycard, and I step into one of the shower stalls, and take off my clothes and turn the shower on. The water streams down my body, and I'm revelling in the warmth - it's cold and I'm tired, remember - and I'm soaping up my body and hair with a little travel-size bottle of shampoo that I got from the vending machine outside, and my eyes are closed, and the next thing I know I'm feeling a pair of strong, firm arms around my shoulders, and a pair of lips are kissing and sucking at my neck.

I should be surprised, but I'm not. It's almost like I subconsciously knew this would happen when I came here; like I didn't realise, but this is the reason I came here in the first place. So instead of being shocked and horrified that some strange guy has walked in on me when I was showering, I just feel warm and comfortable and safe.

Have you ever seen the music video for Calleon's "So I Begin"? The way that video makes me feel is the way I feel when this guy is showering with me. It's the way I feel when I'm in a modern apartment, with everything clean and sterile, decorated in soft, restful neutral colours, and I look out the window at the rain and know that I'm safe inside, away from the wet and cold. It's the way I sometimes feel when I play The Urbz. It's the way the underground tunnels in some northern cities make me feel. It's the way I would feel if I had a garage that I could access from my house, without going outside, and I could drive to the gym and park in the underground garage, and then drive to somewhere where I could get food and park underground there, too, and make the whole trip without having to face the outside once. It's the knowledge that the outside is there, and people are there, and I can interact with them if I choose, but I don't have to. I'm secluded, warm and comfortable and cozy and protected. In the world, but not of the world.

This man, and the shower and the warmth and the knowledge that there's plenty of food in the garage, all combine to make me feel wonderfully secure. I feel like we're in our own little bubble, where nothing painful can touch us. And he kisses me, and presses me up against the wall, and is loving me so completely and so beautifully that I don't care that I never get to see his face.

At least not while I'm dreaming. When I wake up, I care plenty. I really wish I could see who this person is, so I could find out a) if he's a real person, or at least a person I know, and b) if he IS a real person, if he makes me feel as protected and secure in real life as he does in the dream. But without seeing his face, it's impossible to work out who he is.

What do I know about him? I know he's a white man, with a golden tan. I know he has some hair on his arms, but very little on his chest. I know he has air-shaped hands, with square palms and long fingers with prominent knuckles. I know his arms are strong, and well-muscled without being beefy. I know he's a little taller than me, but not all that much. I know his thighs are strong enough to support me. I know that his abs and pecs are firm and hard. I know that his trapezius and latissimus dorsi feel perfectly formed under my hands. From the way he kisses my neck, I know that he shaves, although he has a little bit of stubble on his chin. I'd guess that his chin and nose are quite pointed, but that's just a guess.

Of course, this could describe a hundred men that I know, and countless ones that I don't.

Sometimes music plays. The music differs from dream to dream, although there are some songs that repeat quite often - usually ones where the backing music has a haunting quality. Gwen Stefani's "Cool" is one of them, as is her "4 In the Morning". Bobby Valentino's "Tell Me" repeats quite frequently. Stevie Nicks' "Crystal" is often our soundtrack. Abs' "7 Ways" has been the background music probably more times than any other song, at least as far as I can remember, and if I ever meet a guy who remembers that song I'll definitely give him a second look for this reason alone.

Sometimes there are several showers, and each of them has people in it, people who are doing much the same thing that we're doing. These particular dreams freak me out a little, principally because in the dream I'm NOT freaked out. Sometimes I go into the store area of the garage and there are people from high school in there, and I chat to them. Sometimes there's a hidden camera, taking pictures of us while we caress each other, the water flowing over our naked bodies.

I don't know how the dream ends, because I usually wake up. I can't say I'm happy to wake, because everything in the dream feels so wonderful. For days after having this dream, I feel slightly on edge, like I'm expecting something major to happen to me. I exist in a state of high anticipation. And nothing ever happens, and eventually I just go back to my life, until the next time. Recently, though, I've noticed that when I take a walk, which I've been doing a lot in the last few weeks, I plan my walks to take me past the garage. I didn't even realize I was doing it until a couple of days ago. And when I get there, I rest for a few minutes, and I watch the entrance, like I'm expecting to see someone I recognize.

And now and then, I go in and ask the guy behind the counter if I can use the bathroom. Even though I know they don't have one.

Y'know. Just in case.

Oli

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.


If you're wondering what that glazed over expression on my face is, I got well and truly fucked today.

And possibly made love to, too. Hard to say. Most likely it was a bit of both.

(This is a pretty big event for me, since it's the first time in months that didn't involve my hand and something battery-operated.)

I don't really know what to say, honestly. My brain isn't functioning properly tonight. I'm very tired. After battling rogue antivirus software all night, I then got four hours of sleep, then got up at 12 noon and cleaned my room in preparation for Oli's visit. (Although I've known him for a year and a half now, he's never seen my house, since he's been away at uni.) After cleaning I headed to John Lewis, got rained on, decided on a mirror and some napkin rings for the wedding present, got rained on again, came home and bathed, and then Oli came over. And...well, this is where you came in.

Some people say that great sex plus friendship equals love, and others say that love is so much more. I'm not sure which camp I fall into. I suppose it's a moot point really, since whichever it is, I know I love Oli. I don't know if I'm *in love* with him, but I know I love him. I know that I light up when I see him, and he does the same. I know that I trust him in a way I don't trust anyone else in the world. I know that I can lie there with my boobs hanging out and my stomach all flabby and not feel particularly self-conscious, and that he'll tell me I'm beautiful and I'll believe him. More than believe him, actually - I'll feel beautiful.

I also know that I'd rather sit and watch boring TV with Oli than have incredible orgasmic sex with anyone else. Of course, incredible orgasmic sex with Oli would be my first choice.

So why are we not together, you ask? I don't know, really. The reasons are becoming less and less clear to me as time goes by. Maybe we will be one day, or maybe we're just better off as best friends who sleep together.

Whatever. I'm very happy right now. Oh sure, part of it is that goofy-happy you get from sex hangover, but a lot of it is also just from seeing him, hearing his voice say my name, holding his face between my hands and running my thumbs over his cheeks and lips and kissing his nose.

I'm also very sleepy. I was hungry and sleepy, but I ate an obscenely large Indian takeaway (I can see I'll have to work out for several hours tomorrow at the gym, but it was worth it) and now I'm just sleepy. Well, happy too.

So I'm going to go bed. *tired smile* Alone tonight, but I can still feel his presence here.

What's The Noun Of Surreal? Surrealness? Surreality? Surrealism?

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.

Whichever it is, I'm feeling it now.

So you have a crush on a guy, right? All well and good. He's even a slightly-in-the-public-eye guy* - not everywhere, but amongst certain circles. You don't crave fame for yourself, but you think, OK, I can cope with that. It's not like he's Paris Hilton. (That's an amusing piece of irony, actually.) He's sweet, he's funny, he's smart. He wears mascara and guyliner sometimes, but you don't really have a problem with that as long as he doesn't start wearing your panties.

And then you randomly do a google images search for him, like you sometimes do for yourself or your best friend or the guy you dated in high school (just curious, really)...and one of the things you find is hardcore porn pics. Not just hardcore porn, but hardcore orgy porn.

So you're not a person who's easily surprised, and even when you are you don't always react much. So half of you is thinking, Ehh, we all have our kinky sides...but the other half is going, Meh, that's just too kinky for me.

Oh, and by "you", I mean "me", BTW.

So it's been a slightly odd evening. What makes it even odder is that I'm actually turned on by these stupid orgy pics.

Ja, I need to get laid.




______________________________


Other news...I had my gym induction today, and Ola taught me how to use the weight machines. I'm starting off small, lifting about 25 kg each time (although more for the back extension machines), but hopefully in time I'll get it up a bit higher. There was a point in my life where I could lift my own body weight (and a little more, actually) without a huge amount of strain. Which sounds bizarre, and even the gym guys would go "WTF???" when they saw me do it, because I don't look like a bodybuilder. Actually, I look like a soft fluffy marshmallow who should have trouble lifting her gym bag, let alone however much I weighed at the time.

However, that time was half a lifetime ago, or nearly. OK, 10 years. Not quite half a lifetime, but near enough. And these days, the fibromyalgia is a lot worse than it was back then, and there are days when I have trouble lifting a full kettle, so as I said, I'm starting out small with the weights. But I get to work my lats and pecs, then my adductor and abductor muscles (those are the ones in the inside and outside of the thigh, in case you didn't know), then my biceps and triceps. And hopefully soon my abs and quads and everything else.

Y'all are probably sick to death of hearing about my gym stuff, but it's exciting to me.

There's this one guy at the gym, he's a personal trainer there. And since I saw him the first time, I've had this sense that I knew him from somewhere. He looks a little like one of my cousins, a little like an old friend I used to have, a little like a guy from my English class a couple of years ago. But not quite like any of those people. I figured the sensation of knowing him was just due to the resemblances.

Either way, I've had a thing for him since I first saw him.

He doesn't wear a nametag, and I'm not entirely sure, but I think I heard someone call him Chris today.

I ran into him outside the gym, and he gave me a smile and a wave. And what a smile it was. It made my heart flutter and my stomach flip over, and it's been a long time since any guy's done that with just a smile.

So I'll keep you posted.




______________________________


* No, I'm not telling you who he is or what he does. Or anything else you can use to identify him, for that matter.

Chris

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.


I dreamed about Chris last night.

I've been dreaming about him since I was about 12 or 13. Not often, maybe once or twice a year. But every now and then he comes along in my dreams, and turns my world upside down. I don't know if he's a real person or just a figment of my (overactive) imagination. He looks like a real person. Ages like a real person. Changes his fashion sense and hairstyle like a real person. And most of the dreams that I have with him in are fairly mundane. Oh, some are about saving the world, or surviving the end of it, as most of my dreams these days are. But a lot of the time we're just doing random, silly things - making breakfast, doing grocery shopping, sitting on swings in the park. Laughing. Holding hands. Talking.

Last night was a strange dream, and would have been strange even if it had featured some guy other than Chris. In the dream it was snowing, and we were staying in a hotel in an old-fashioned town that I didn't know. My Mom and Dad (who have never been together, aside from briefly before and up to the time I was conceived) wanted to stay in the hotel and not venture out into the snow, so Chris and I went to check out some of the local shops. We looked at antiques and old-fashioned clothes and second-hand books, and somehow while we were in the bookstore, someone accused Chris of stealing. And I knew he hadn't, knew he wouldn't do anything that stupid or frankly wrong, but for some reason we got scared and ran. And when we took a rest, we found ourselves in a sort of spinney area, a patch of grass surrounded with tall trees so it's mostly dark and covered in there, just like what we call "The Alley" down the road from my house.

I could feel him shaking, could see the whiteness of his face, and I asked him why he was so scared. And I don't know exactly what he told me, because what I got from him were mostly impressions and pictures rather than a verbal reply. Something to do with a stupid thing that he'd done when he was a kid, and even though he hadn't been punished for it back then, he knew that if the cops were called they wouldn't believe him NOW because of it.

So I felt him shaking, and didn't know what to do to help, so I kissed him.

I'd never kissed him before.

The next thing I knew he was kissing me back, warm and soft on my mouth and neck and behind my ears, running his hands through my hair and biting on my earlobes and kissing me like it had been years since he'd had a girl in his arms, or perhaps like he thought he'd get taken away and it would be years to come before it happened again. And suddenly I was sitting there on the ground, facing him, fumbling at his zipper, frantically trying to undo his pants so I could touch him. I felt him, hot and hard in my hand, and then he was pushing me down on the ground and pulling my coat apart and my sweater up so he could suck and bite on my nipples through my bra, and I was pulling my jeans down and pulling him inside me, completely unaware of the snow on the ground or the fact that it was daylight (albeit more like twilight, at that time of year) and there were people shouting and hunting us down just a couple of blocks away.

I've never felt that urgency in my real life, never lost my senses over a guy. Even when there's been passion, it's always felt somewhat simulated to me. Not faked, exactly...more like I talk myself into it. And although Jamie and I did it in the middle of Parliament Hill Fields once, it was a fairly private place (for a public area, anyway), in the dead hours of the night, and there certainly wasn't any snow on the ground or people chasing after us.

The logical answer would be that my subconscious is yelling at me because I'm not getting any right now (heh) so it's bringing up a guy who I've previously enjoyed a more-or-less platonic - not to mention imagined - relationship with, and turning him into a possible partner. All I can say in my defence is that Chris feels real to me, and that I just haven't met him yet. I've been dreaming about the guy for ten years, for pete's sake. Surely if he were just a figment of my imagination, my dreams about him would come in greater frequency and eventually taper out.

Certainly I'm somewhat psychic. (Or somewhat psycho - you choose whichever sounds right to you.) I have plenty of truedreams. I just make the choice to ignore them most of the time. But this is one I don't feel like ignoring, since I sure would like to meet Chris one day. Any guy who can have me hot and wet in two seconds flat, even when it's cold outside and I'm wearing a ski jacket and thermal underwear, is one I want to meet in person.

So if your name is - or you know someone whose name is - Chris, and you're between the ages of 22 and about 27, with brown hair and warm, soft, sad eyes, possible oriental-caucasian heritage, excellent jaw and cheekbones and a touch of the psychic in you, and have been dreaming for ten years about a chubby blonde girl with big blue eyes who's on a mission to save the world, then give me a ring sometime.

Or just send a message through the ether. Your call.