Officially, Intermittent

I did *try* to write every day. And mostly, I did actually write at least something. And then was felled at the knees by lack of internet, lack of privacy, and much mental time occupied by being The Boss.

So yeah. This is now an intermittent blog. I can't keep letting you down, Gentle Readers, by saying I'm going to do something and then not doing it. So when I do, I'll make it as good as I can. And I'll also not kill myself by saying, oh, don't post that until it's perfect, because that way inaction lies.

Where am I now? In a secret location (let's note that it's a major honeymoon destination), shacked up with the Ex. I know. Dumb, dumb Mandy. So far there's only been minor shortness of breath. And really, who knows? The part of me that says, hmmmm, you're* kind of self-involved and a little bit boring and really, the sex had been going downhill, is strongly considering making this a last hurrah. The part of me that thinks, hey, never know when you'll be hit by a bus, would rather not end without closure. I'm working on having Part A strangle Part B but then the thought of choking just turns me on.

Where will I be Thursday? Possibly in a Midwestern City with Big City Lover. We're texting it out.

Where will I be the first weekend in June? With Fucked-Up Guy, plotting and planning to give my team-members and his fiancee the slip so we can shag intensely and silently in shared lodging.

Where will I be all year? Why, on the road, of course. That big beautiful pond full of fish, maybe one of whom will touch the thing in me that needs it beyond my control...

* * *

Quote of the week: "I never learned in health class that wiping front to back thing, and that's why I got a gall bladder infection that almost killed me..."

Words to live by.

* * *

*note intentionally ambiguous pronoun

Jealous

(A Paean to Beautiful Girl)

This is the girl who loves me no matter what I do and she is beautiful. There is a
scarf wrapped three times around her neck – there is always a piece of silk or amber there, in case her voice is stolen from her by the kind of spirits that respect talismans like silk and amber. Beneath the scarf, her skin is pale, she’s a hats and sunscreen girl, you’d never know she works outdoors except for the length of her stride. She’s from Appalachia. She was unpopular in high school. She has lived in tents and vans and little trailers with the original brown paneling painted periwinkle and violet and magnetic poetry on the tiny oven in which she doesn’t bake.

She still checks her ex-boyfriend’s email, and has lately been amused to note that someone else is checking it, too. She’s tempted to send the other checker a message, “Hey, sweetie, still the same blue-eyeshadowed slut?” but she refrains by thinking of her current lover, who, although he sighs and protests, will sometimes throw his arms out to look like Jesus when she straddles him. He is the Penis Flytrap, he is unmotivated and owns a dog and smokes too much pot and reads her journal and lies to her about things that don’t matter, and yet she loves him anyway, fucks him joyfully, lies there afterwards with the tiny nibbling feeling in her hindbrain that she is already tired of him, but is too trapped in the inertia of sweaty joy to send him away, tell him to slink off with his dog behind him, tails—well, you know. It wouldn’t actually be leaving him. You have to be at a destination to leave it, and she’s not there. Not from the neck up, anyway. The Flytrap has covered her with sticky botanical mucus from the neck down, and her body is so dissolved by him that she wonders if partial digestion by vegetation is really such a bad thing.

She wants to live in a Japanese garden, white walls and white rocks and pale pine benches weathered to a gentle grey, so calm that the space between breaths becomes important. Instead, her tiny studio in Ugly Southern City is cousin to the kind of used bookstore with a big metaphysical section and a brisk trade in secondhand crystals and sacred objects, a tarot reader in the back on Tuesday afternoons, mugs by the sink so stained with tea they never bleach, and really, when all you drink is tea, who cares? I think of her doing yoga in the morning, rising around 11 from a pile of throws and toss pillows and a puffy duvet with a cover made by a friend from textiles brought back from India and a clinging smell of a hundred nights on the road without a pause, the rhythm of non-home settling into the pulse that’s the feeling of home. I think of her in her pajamas, shifting through the poses, advho mukha svanasana, urdvha mukha svanasana, chatauranga dandasana, eventually reaching savasana, the resting pose, corpse pose in the literal translation, her hair fanned out like underwater, eyes closed, in the state of awareness and withdrawal.

I don’t know if she does yoga in the morning. Or what her bed looks like now. But her pajamas are old friends, veterans of mornings and tea and trailers and new locations for five weeks at a time, and I can see her pale legs in the light from the probably too-small window, pants sliding up her shins as she sits cross-legged in the wreckage of the bed.

I have met the succession of her boyfriends, invariably gorgeous or burning with passionate intensity, in inverse proportions. I know they have lived with her, slept with her, played in her succession of soulfully-named folk bands, taken her to swingers’ clubs, pierced her above and below the waist, and yet she remains virgin, the hymen of her heart firmly intacta. They’ve been down and pitched their tents in the valleys of the country, embarked on expeditions well-fitted or poorly supplied, returned home resigned or discouraged or embittered or confused or bewildered or simply tired, but they and all their sherpas have not made the final climb.

Don’t get me wrong – she’s been fucked. In many and righteously shagarific ways, just as she wishes on me. But there’s a note on the back of an envelope that begins, “My darling daughter, you are now two weeks and two days old,” a note from the woman who every day took her into the room with the changing table, and in the reek of her baby sister’s shit, told her, “This is what marriage does. This is what men do. Do you want to be anyone? Do you want to do anything? Do you want to get out of the mountains and away from boys with clumsy hands and girls who whisper as you pass because you’ve committed the ultimate sin of Not Being Like Them?”

Yes, she does.

And her mother’s hands swiftly diapering the baby who will be her sister, “Never marry. Never let a man do this to you.”

She is, of course, in therapy. She is also in school, and in the pit that is Ugly Southern City, and in thrall to the Flytrap, whose name is Sam. Sam is also beautiful, with a grubbiness that keeps him from being effete, and he plays the guitar with whichever group needs a guitar, and records with her, and works just enough to keep himself in pot and gas and dog food, but not enough to stop his ceaseless whining about being broke. This whining drives her crazy and makes her disrespect him as much as she disrespects anyone who whines without trying even the tiniest method of solving their problem, probably more so because after all, she’s still with him, and the self-loathing amplifies the disrespect. And yet they are committed, she is committed, not so much to him as to the next six months of work, Florida, Georgia, Chicago, Missouri, because singing for your supper beats working for it any day of the week, whether your accompanist is a whiner or not. It’s fun, it’s easy, it’s uncomplicated, and if it weren’t for the nagging feeling that she could do better, it would be fine.

I am deeply jealous of Sam. Perhaps she is, too. After a day of Music Tech 385 and Arabic 110 and an hour at the Financial Aid Office trying to make sense of the forms that will not only allow her but pay her to go to Morocco where she will chant with dervishes and play her flute in dusty souks and sing with the voices of a hundred other travelers as filled with music as she is, her evening is unrestful still, her desire to burrow in the bed prevented by the pile of paper that must be attacked and subdued to feel like she is Getting Somewhere. And Sam? Sam on the floor with the dog is an indolent reminder of the ease of a life in which one cares much less. A life in which one’s beautiful, soulful, tender man does not look up and ask “why are you so tired?” at the end of the day.

But I am also jealous for another reason. I think she could do better. I think she could do me. Ridiculously, I think of playing Toklas to her Stein, or perhaps we’d take turns being the one who is merely ugly instead of jolie laide, the typist, the cook, the cleaner, the keeper. I think of sharing a house, on the outskirts of the funky, mostly-gay neighborhood in some mid-size city with a good Ph.D program. I think of sharing meals. I think – when I dare – of sharing her bed. I see us in the evenings, books open, or she with a instrument and I with a pen, and she plays me a verse, or I read her a passage, and she laughs, her hands slim in light of the death of the evening, her hands gentle in her lap, fingers strong on the strings, fingers strong or gentle in my hair. I see us in the train on the overland journey to Pamplona. I see her going to India, to Morocco, to Spain, to all the countries that grow oranges and hide women’s hair, free in her headscarf and long skirt, free of Sam, free of me. In the end, one of us would have to be the free spirit and one the anchor (or the brick, or the rock, or the leaden albatross around the other’s neck), one of us would have to be Sam.

I turn my face towards her as I read this at the sushi bar, she, and I, and the musician, and the girl from the Peace Corps who doesn’t quite understand what she’s in the middle of (but unlike us, willing to admit it), and I see her blushing, and smiling, and touched, and teary, and in the end, knowing me like I know her. And that is, and will never be, enough.



(written a few years ago)

Sweet. And Uncomplicated. And Pirates.

Sweet and uncomplicated. That’s all I need. No owning, no taking, no teasing, no hurting. Just sweet. And uncomplicated.

I go to a party. Flat-iron my hair, new black top in which my breasts look smashing (thanks again, Be-My-Real-Friend), the one pair of jeans I own ($10, resale store, Yonge Street, 10 years ago), black spike heel boots, pretty bra and panties just in case. Power Girl is my wingman. She will keep me from choices of desperation. I have consulted her, I have consulted Beautiful Girl, what I need is “something sweet and uncomplicated” (and oh god the terror, what I need is a man who will not want to touch me there, so that I do not have to text or worse call Lover and ask, may I? because the answer may be no, or worse, yes, or worst, it’s not my decision to make).

It is a pirate party.

There are skulls and glow necklaces and black flags and hats with plumes and for some reason, plastic Viking hats. There is a pirate trivia contest and games involving whoever has an animal on their drink bottle or is holding a face card or is wearing something red. There is, of course, booty. And an hors d’ouevres table with grown-up pate and salmon mousse and tiny circles of ham with Dijon and my favorite, devilled eggs. It is dork-tastic. Geek-a-licious. Spectacu-nerd. And it is sweet and uncomplicated. The hostess is incredibly nice. The host is an ex-lover (and then I walked away from the club where we all shot pool and you had to walk the other way with your friends who didn’t know and I ended up on my knees for the man now hosting, in the alcove of a public building, within sight of the window where Husband awaited my return and never looked out, and oh how you held my throat with your hands while I told you how I spent that time kneeling). I tell the host that, were it not for his obviously happy relationship, I would be making a play, and he concurs. Sweet and uncomplicated.

I talk to an engineer. I make him tell Power Girl the story of the iron ring that engineers wear, made first from the Twin Rivers Bridge and then from the Mauritania and now from stainless steel, the ring that rubs against the paper on the working hand and reminds them all that human lives depend on doing the job well. The engineer is cute, talkative, nervously dorky, fun. Sweet. Uncomplicated. While he talks I scan the room, Attached, Attached, NotGoingToBeGame, NotMyType, Attached, AlrightGoodEnough is standing in front of me finishing the story of the ring.

I don’t win the trivia contest. But Good Enough and I flirt throughout, sharing answers (I’m still competitive enough to start hiding my paper when the questions get tougher), moving towards and away. I catch him eyeing my cleavage, and I stand too close to write my name on my quiz paper while holding it against his chest. He plops a plastic Viking helmet on my head and I warble a few bars of "spear and magic helmet!". I'm pretty sure that counts as a pass.

At midnight, lasagna comes out, and there is a renewed rush to the buffet. I talk to a girl who lost her beloved pet rat. She has a tattoo of the rat, she was born in the year of the rat, twelve years before me. I don’t have the heart to tell her that as a February baby, she was probably born in the previous (Chinese) year, rather than the one she thinks. Later I’ll look it up for my own curiosity, and in the meantime, she is happy. I drift by Power Girl, who is trapped between two Francophones who haven’t showered. She gives me the eye, I give her the eyebrow, she gives me the shrug, might as well, nothing better and he’s clean and cute and a not-stupid. Good Enough turns into a pumpkin, and when he hugs me goodbye, I whisper in his ear, “any chance of a shag?” He asks me to call him next time I’m in town. I know it’s over, but I give him my card anyway.

When Power Girl and I head downstairs, he is waiting in the lobby. I know he is waiting for me, so we drive him home. Two streetwalkers cross in front of the car, and I observe that this part of town is full-service girls, short skirts and no tights. The ones further down are head and handjobs, and they wear leggings and high boots. Good Enough says he doesn’t connect with it, and I ask, paying or selling? Neither. He has friends who are “polyamorous,” and he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to do that, either. I feel Power Girl’s psychic signals in my head: don’t tell don’t tell and are you really sure you want to do this babe in the woods? She's pled sick, we drop her at the hotel, I already know it’s not going to happen, that the level of honest I have to be I can’t not be will cause him to run screaming, possibly literally, now I’m only deciding whether to bother enlarging his world.

I stop at his corner, he tells me he’d like to get to know me better, he’s ruined two relationships in a row by moving too fast. I think:

I cost $1500 and you could have had me for free.

There are a dozen people at least who’d love to see my face, let alone fuck me.

I can give pleasure like you wouldn’t believe possible, even without the extra whore/porn touches I often throw in.

He says: “Thanks for the ride.”

I say:

“I’m married.

I’m polyamorous, though I hate that word and wouldn’t choose it.

There’s a reason for the “one” in “one-night-stand.”

You’re welcome. Sleep well.”

Betrayal

Cartoon from Gaping Void.

You know a guy likes you when he also sends flowers to the three other girls in your working social group so no-one will notice that he likes you…or at least, that’s how things work in Lying Cheating Slut – I mean “Open Relationship” Land. Deutschefuck. Yemeneverywhere. Ivory and Lots of Other Colors Coast. Secret Scientist tells me later that he felt his original impulse to send me flowers would be noticed. I did, in fact, notice the subterfuge, and was stroked that he effectively bought me some damn expensive roses.

It’s the last night he’s along on our sort-of-tour, and for the past three nights I’ve been sleeping in his bed, nothing dirty or even naughty, no touching of bits, waking to his gentle hands smoothing my hair away from my face, sneaking back to my own room past The Gossip’s room between us. The lack of solid sleep – every rollover is a new surprise, there’s a man next to me? where am I? I didn’t pick these awful sheets did I? – is a trade off. Back on the other side of the hall, the spider crack in the ceiling mocks me until exhaustion claims me as a bedfellow, sleep mask tight across my eyes to keep from waking at first light, generally unsuccessfully. At least in bed with Secret Scientist, I can sleep by two, wake at six, and avoid both calling ex-Lover and agonizing over whether to call him.

Group dinner tonight, a nice local place, local specialties, local waitress waiting past kitchen close and waiting again as we sort out a seven hundred dollar check between three cashes and five cards. Sometimes sharing a table with rock stars is more trouble than the comps are worth. We go home. We narrowly evade a game of Never-Have-I-Ever that starts with “Never have I ever had a (slang for member of my work team) in my bed,” and go for a walk on the shore. A pang – ex-Lover’s probably doing the same five hundred miles away, bet he’s not alone either. Another pang – I’m still in my best suede boots and I’m not sure wet sand is doing them any good.

Secret Scientist tells me how he ended up here, the journey from a European sport to sociological research to music. (No, Tom, he does not play the guitar. It’s a bass.) We admire the moon on the water, we comment on the stars and light pollution and projects our respective teams should work on together. And then we go home.

I’ve told him I want to feel his skin on mine, no tshirt and shorts between us. When I come to his room (my roommate finally snoring) his dark skin glows in the low light, the curve of his ass into the lines of his thighs a sculpture for my patronage. I have condoms in my pillowcase. He comes to me and gently takes off my shirt, drawing it over my head, kissing my bare breasts. His hands on my back pull me towards his mouth, warm and wet, his lips firm on my nipples. He slides his fingers into my waistband, taking down the thin jersey of my jammie pants, and as I step out of them, he gathers me in his arms, sets me on the bed. It’s cold, and that focuses my attention on his mouth on my pussy, his tongue broad and flat and taking me back to a moment in line at the theatre bar I want to lick your pussy until you scream…. He must remember, too, and his hand slides up my body to cover my mouth. There is wet and heat and soft tongue pushing slightly too far while my body catches up and my brain checks out. I don’t come, I rarely come from oral, but I come damn close, mouth open under his hand, the taste of his fingers in my mouth.

I pull his face to mine and lick his mouth, tasting myself and him on his lips, sucking me off his tongue. He kneels close to my side and I see his cock in the dim light, thick and black and long enough that at dinner one of my workmates looked down at his jeans with no underwear and said half-shocked-half-amazed, “Well! There it is!” I cannot take him fully in my mouth, I lick and suck the head, no taste but clean skin and salty arousal. I wrap my hand around the base and urge him further into my mouth, pulsing my tongue along the bottom, feeling him lean into me, his cock in my throat, gagging me as he gently thrusts. “Sorry, carried away,” he says into my ear, and I take him from my lips long enough to tell him, “Fuck my mouth.”

My hands cup his ass as he leans over me, twisting his hips as he slides in and out, over my tongue, back in my throat, me sucking as best I can while he takes my mouth. He pulls my hair harder than he means but not as hard as I like, pulls me off him so as not to come yet. There’s more he wants, more I want. I roll the condom on him, it’s from my whorebag, I’m thankful to always buy extra-large, the clients like it. He’s over me and though I seldom come from mish, I want this, I want to look into his eyes, watch his face watch mine as he slides in. He is the second-biggest cock I’ve ever felt, and when the head is in me it’s already pushing me apart. He gently swivels, opening me, making room for him, and with each turn he thrusts gently a little deeper, pain following pleasure following pain following pleasure, and when he’s nearly halfway in I grab his hips and thrust onto him, feeling his skin catch mine on the way in, feeling the rawness of having come, having closed up again, the delicious forcing of the gates. The size of him pushes against my cervix I’ll be bruised there tomorrow, but right now that tiny trigger of pain is enough to bring me to the edge again. I am open and raw and needy and vulnerable and it is easy for him, even unknowing, to touch the right place to make it happen, hard and often.

He slides in and out, we watch each other’s eyes, I recall holding off on missionary with ex-Lover, too intimate, too personal, wait and see. But now that part of me has been split open and I think, once a cheater always a cheater, how’s this for cheating now? Each time he thrusts I feel my cervix yield, my insides lengthen to hold him, push my clit against his body until I have to hold him to me, circle on him, rub and rub and rub until I come, the warmth rising through the little pain, my head arching back then forward to put my lips on his, murmuring into his mouth, so good, so very good..

He hasn’t come yet, and he eases out and rolls me over. I come halfway to my knees, lift my pussy for him, feel him part my flesh and bring his mouth to my rear end. He kisses me there, on each cheek, then brings his mouth to my ass. Panic shoots through me, this is cheating and then I think of what ex-Lover is probably doing now and still the urgent voice that tells me, “this isn’t yours to give.” It is now. Secret Scientist licks my ass, probes his tongue around and around and then inside, licks his own finger and presses gently. I press back, push, push out to let him in, feel the gentle suction draw his finger forward. A second finger slides into my pussy and there is that feeling of full, doubled, pinched, possessed. He takes the finger from my pussy and adds it to my ass, my own wetness easing him in. Do I want this? Perhaps, perhaps, and then the third finger slides into me and makes the answer yes.

Secret Scientist and I have talked about anal, he knows I love it, he knows it’s not been mine to give before. Maybe he also knows more than I do about what I need right now. This flashes through my brain and at the end of thought there is the tip of his cock against my pussy, pushing into me again as his fingers still stretch my ass. For a few thrusts, I am full to oblivion, unable to do anything more than try not to cry out, wake the house with this sharp joy. And then I’m empty, disappointment succeeded in an instant by the feeling of his cock gently set against my ass. I reach my hand back, pull my ass open for him. His hand on my wrist, he leans over my body and whispers in my ear, “Are you sure?” I do not say yes, I only push back on him, trying to make an involuntary muscle draw him in by choice. The tip passes into me, that first gasp of what am I doing? This doesn’t go here! and then he slides and swivels, slides and swivels and I am more full than I have ever felt, his cock so large inside me that all the pain is pushed away with pain and there is no room for ex-Lover in this inn. He can’t fuck me quickly here, there is barely enough room for him to be there at all, and I pull his hand to my head to push my face into the pillow so I do not scream. Six long slow thrusts, every one a sacrifice I never thought I’d make to another, and then I feel him shudder, silently, and the condom fills.

He pulls out, unwraps, and we lie together, his hand on my breast, his arm around me, his other shoulder under the pillow and under my neck in the way I always worry makes their arm fall asleep. He kisses my hair, my ear, my cheek, and I think about what we might have done, what I imagine we did instead of his voice in my ear, “I’m not ready.” Well, I am ready. Ready for his mouth on me, his hands on me, his cock in any part of me he wants to take. But he is right, that is wrong, and too big a burden for any man, even one whose lineage was bred to bear.

I call him the next week. “Thank you. I know it’s hard to turn down a naked girl. I wasn’t offended.”

“Yeah, I was hoping I wouldn’t upset you.”

“You were right. We’re not ready, and I wasn’t in a good place to make that choice. It was wonderful just sleeping naked together. Thank you for being my friend first.”

“I’m glad it’s ok.”

“We’ll get there someday.”

“Yes.”

Yes.



***
Photo from Hectik.com.

Coffee, Gentle Readers?

I will be in San Francisco this weekend. If you would like to meet for coffee, drop a line.

A note to those who care (thank you) - right now, the blog is about four days behind my actual life. This is a good morning, this is a good day - I can't swear there won't be another abyss (or at least a small fissure) but I have come through to the other side and things are much, much better. One more already-written bitter post to go, and then we'll all step forward together into the lovely fun world again.

I'll be holding my hand back for you still finding your own way.

Live Through This

And this is the flip side, the sitting at the computer knowing that hey, if you can just write some porn it will all be ok, the readers will stop deserting you for newer, fresher content and you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that someone likes you, someone still wanks to you, but all you can do is try to make the solitaire game come out right, over and over again. Because the thing that stops me from being a really good whore is the truth, and the thing that stops me from writing you, Gentle Readers, some damn good porn, submit to Sugasm, make it all glossy and fun, is the truth.

And the truth is, I want to die.

Monday, I wake, weeping. Husband cradles me, wants to know what’s wrong. And so I finally tell him – I broke up with someone. I worry that I’ll never be their friend again. And Husband, the strongest man I know, soothes me and holds me and tells me that it will all be ok, it’s just my pride. We go out together instead of alone, and spend time, spend money. It’s lovely. I decide, midway through Target, I Am Over It, which is what I text to Lover. Beautiful Girl reminds me in a long chat, don’t give up your power, don’t let him be your equal, this has been coming for a long time.

Tuesday, Lover texts me, Will It Make It Any Better to Know That Cute Girl and I Have Imploded? This makes me happy, of course. They have finished because she logged on to Facebook at 8:39, saw all the public flirting with Yet Another Girl, and finished him at 8:51.

Tuesday night, I unavoidably see Lover. I resolve to treat it as a first date, and I am not impressed. I’ve dressed, new shoes, new top, taken pains to look like Not From the Discard Pile. The way he speaks of women does not impress me. He is slightly unkempt, not on time, takes the last bite of asparagus. We are cordial. My allegiance shifts slightly, how dare he pick Cute Girl over Yet Another Girl because the plane ticket costs less? Do I want to even be friends with someone who plays the game this way? Our ability to be polite is hopeful.

Wednesday, Cute Girl learns through a complicated and high-school-reminiscent system of Facebook, Myspace, and LiveJournal comments that I have been her lover’s lover. She and I talk. I make it clear I’m not mad at her.

Thursday Lover calls me, wistful. We again discuss a week in winter in Foreign City. He reminds me of special times we’ve shared in the place he is now, texts me about songs on the radio that have to do with the Us That Was, laaaahh da da da daaaahhhh…

Friday, when I have been sick all week through all of this – truly, snottily, nastily sick, not just heart-sick – Lover rings again to see if I will mind his seriously dating Cute Girl.

Well, let’s see.

What he can do:

- Date my friend/co-worker without any social disapproval, since we have been secret and must remain so.

- Suck her in deep before she even knows she’s screwing me over.

- Continue to flirt with lots and lots of other girls in a way that I will have to be aware of, that will be unacceptable to Cute Girl, and that I can’t pass on to her because 1) I will look like a jealous bitch (which I am) and 2) she’s a big girl.

- Force me to continue being “friends” with him so there won’t be talk.

- Force me to continue working with her so there won’t be talk.

What I can do:

- Nothing.

And thank God for writing, thank God for words, thank God for the few, the brave Gentle Readers sticking it out through what by now looks like the cover of Hole’s first post-Cobain album, because as I write the urge to count out the number of NyQuils it would take onto the counter fades and in comes righteous anger. Thank you Cyndi Lauper, thank you Dresden Dolls, thank you PowerGirl and Beautiful Girl and Secret Scientist who are there and Computer Girl who would be there if I called. Thank you Husband, for telling me it’s not OK to bring this into our home, but loving me anyway while I can’t stop crying, can’t get out of bed. Thank you Lover’s Ex-Wife, because this is what your end was like and I was part of that. Thank you Be-My-Real-Friend, because Just Clients don’t listen to me whine like this. Thank you patient S and D from GC, thank you G, whose emails haven’t yet been answered, who send hugs, who trust anyway. Thank you words like bricks, building the wall, the shelter, put up the yellow triangle on the door because this relationship is now radioactive and while half my heart (ok, more than half) wants to take pity, let him in, it’s only until the world ends, there is no room, no room, I only have enough left for me and anger.

Today I Am...

1) Crushing hard on a Kiwi who plays the ukelele.

2) Bitter that I'm not better at my job.

3) In another time zone.

4) Out of love.

5) Totally thwarted in #1.

6) Wearing a totally ridiculous outfit...

7) ...that I am paid to wear.

8) (Not like that)

9) Alternately loving and hating my hair.

10) On the edge of tears.

11) Behind on a big project.

12) Transported by said Kiwi playing "Sweet Child Of Mine" on said ukelele

13) (Including the guitar riff)

14) to another girl.

15) (Context is important)

16) Contemplating starting a Facebook.

17) Definitely out of love

18) and calling on Beautiful Girl

19) to help me stick to #17.

20) Because if he puts his hand on the back of my neck, it's all over.

21) Craving Thai salad rolls

22) which will be made for me by a tiny Laotian woman

23) whom I think understands how much I love them.

Second Date (still secret)

Mexican food. Good Mexican food, served by actual Mexicans in a strip mall outside Southern City. Secret Scientist comes last, someone’s showoff car had to be pulled from the ditch (to the delight of all his friends). I’ve saved the seat by me, Power Girl and our colleague Picky-Picky across the table, warm chips, medium salsa, guacamole so good I scrape the bowl with my finger and for once, I’m not the only one.

Secret Scientist sits in the inside seat, there are rabid fans on the patio, he’d rather not be accosted, some days being a musician sucks. We’re girls, we’re used to freezing out people we don’t want to talk to.

Amazing food, his hand on my thigh, my hand on his under the table. I catch the waiter by the bar, pay cash for the meal, it’s Picky-Picky’s birthday, Secret Scientist has bought a couple of times already, Power Girl can leave the tip. Deep-fried cheesecake split four ways, just a few bites is enough.

“Secret Scientist’s going to drive me home, I’ll see you there.” Bless Power Girl, she understands, often more than I expect or deserve.

He cleans out the front seat of the pickup, the drive for home is not long enough. The chat is wide-ranging but also constrained. I look. “What?”

“Ummmm…I don’t mean to offend you, but I have to ask…is this because you’re curious?”

Bi-curious? Curious about his cock? Huh? Oh….that’s right. All at once, Circus Guy is on my pussy, his eyes closed, Big City Lover swivels inside me, my father opens the door to Andre, looks him up and down, “Couldn’t you find anyone from our side of town?”

I say, “I’ve had black lovers before.” He’s relieved and ashamed, I let him off the hook – “We don’t know each other that well. It’s a fair question.” Because that’s the deal when you’re a slut – it’s not fair to be offended by the need to know, to confirm details that would come out over time. Ready to fuck, ready to forgive.

At the place I’m staying, we sit in the drive, the night is warm and slightly humid, still grey with dusk at 9pm. The truck might have been a stick, or maybe there was a big console, I don’t remember, I only remember that reaching across to touch had to be a choice, no accidental brushing was plausible. It’s been a long time since I’ve sat in the passenger seat and stretched out goodbye.

We talk about when we’ll see each other again, tours of duty intersecting, how far we’ll go when the time comes that we can be alone, strange city, a bed. We talk about race. We talk about things we like, I tell him I’m in love with my husband, I tell him I’m a whore.

Here’s what I like. I like that a man who specializes in a field that requires him to be very aware of all the dangers of sex with strangers would like to fuck me anyway. I like that a man who has a girlfriend (she’s hot, and she can probably kick my ass) thinks he would be jealous of my quarry when he sees me hunting.

The truck gets humid. I crack a window. The CD plays like a soundtrack to the moment of making him touch me. Or rather, touch me more.

I double dog dare you, I say, and there is his hand sliding up my thigh, I’m damp with sweat and anticipation, his fingers slide inside me and I make a noise under his mouth. I suck his fingers, sliding my tongue around the base of his nails, taking his fingers into my mouth, into my throat. He kisses me again, his tongue probing my mouth and with a rush I realize he’s tasting for my taste. It is sublime to be this wanted.

I look at him and laugh. “What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?” the quote itself a tiny betrayal of the man to whom I quote that play, and then I slide out of the truck, still laughing.

He waits, sweetly, comfortingly, until the door is opened to me, as if a bad high school date is wiped from history, replaced by something sweet and clean and still weeks from the sell-by date.

A Little Diversion (Poem for Beautiful Girl)

(People who post poetry on their blogs are lame.)


Fairfield Inn Room 346, Kansas City, Kansas

You are a goddess and a genius
i say to my friend she says to me
we will be princesses together
with yellow stones in your tiara and me with a green in mine
Victory Victoria Alexandria Albertine
your little sister shall be Albertine
and we will keep the good names.

You are an angel and a goddess my friend she says to me, she has created
me as Celestial, Celeste, Celesta (a tiny piano?
why not - i think it has the voice of angels, thin bells
arguing on high)
me as the heroin of my story
worth every penny for the high
dirty needles left in our wake
as she gets up from the dermabrasion table
(all reinvention comes from vanity)
and i lay down on the floor.

You are a genius and an angel
we say, we kiss hello, we rise from hell
oh, how we shriek with joy and share our scalps
and swap shampoo in tiny hotel bottles
that remind us of the nights
we spent and spooned, were chaperoned
and we were good little girls
good as gold, good as angels,
good as kind goddesses, not that other kind
of goddess, whose pretty words are sharp like knives
but not as sharp as scalpels - why make an easy wound?
we say, and laugh, receive our tributes
as our due, we pay our dues
with checks that bounce, and sign our names
Morgana, Calliope, Misti, Alice Pleasance
or just 'me', illegibly, i, i, i,
and tell our paramours to prove their love
and take the bait, slay the dragon, hold the line,
i'll be back, i promise, one day, i'll be back.

Secret Date

We’re in the dark. Sitting side by side, surrounded by people, but alone, in the dark. His mouth is on my ear, he says...

There’s a group. Fans, hangers-on, junior colleagues, Hairline Boy, Power Girl, Secret Scientist and me.

Allegiance: he warned me last time when girlfriend came along, I told him I was fine either way but couldn’t take a surprise, the coded phone call is the first tiny step towards the damp-sheeted tangle late one night to come.

No girlfriend this time. Just us. Two’s company, twelve’s a crowd.

Nudging my thigh between his legs when he hugs me

The junior colleagues’ faces fall, Power Girl and I are dressier, standing distant enough from the door to be a whole picture (“after you knock on the door, stand back a couple of steps…it’s important that the client gets the full image of you…” thank you, Sydney). We’re also older, more successful, less anxious, but we’re extra kind tonight and they relax. The hangers-on orbit gently. I’m a fool to dress for sex instead of the weather, Hairline Boy brings a sweater (white! cable knit! preppy beyond belief!) from his car and a long hug but the theatre is warmer even than his look.

His mouth is on my ear, his goatee tickles firmly

Into the theatre, up to the balcony, Secret Scientist, Power Girl and I deploy to the end of the row, Hairline Boy responsibly dealing with tickets is cut off at the pass, a sea of goth-y underage flesh between us.

My hand on his thigh, my nails on the inseam of his jeans

Secret Scientist brings a mug of tea, a beer, a bowl of noodles. He offers a bite and I suck the noodles off the fork, Asian sweet-vinegar in my mouth like sucking him. I adore being brought food, I adore sharing food, being fed, intimacy through basic need fulfilled.

sitting at Lover’s feet, my hands tied, fed salad and steak and then his cock…

The show, not all-around brilliant but decent, especially the actor we know. “Good,” Power Girl whispers, “now we don’t have to like him less.” We’re all facing forward, the stage light spills but the play is enough that no-one’s watching, the height of my crossed legs hiding us from all but Power Girl, who’s occupied mentally re-directing the show.

His hand gently beneath my hem, the outside of my thigh, the top of my thigh

In the interval, the dessert line, something sweet to share with Power Girl. Secret Scientist at the bar, I brush past him, a low tone less obvious than a whisper, “Do you know how much I want to fuck you right now?” “As much as I want to lick your pussy until you scream?”

My nails across his palm, the tips of his fingers across my palm

Applause and the lights go down. Secret Scientist’s mouth is on my ear, he says, “Open your legs.” It takes me a moment to understand and I do, his hand strong on thin lace panties, his fingers probing gently. I cross my legs again as his hand retracts and the lights come up all together. I clap and look left, he’s thoughtfully licking his fingers.

”Lover, is it enough I thought of you?” (but I didn’t)

Miscellany (real post later tonight)

- Yes, I, too, totally freak out when seeing my real name on the Amazon Honor Box on someone else's blog. Do Not Panic - only you, when you are actually viewing the page, see the real name. For more info, click the bit that says "How do you know my name?" at the bottom of the box. Now start breathing again. Holler if you need CPR...

- Should I put an email link on this blog? On one hand, I've had a few people contact me and ask to email a comment that they want to share but not post publicly, and I've enjoyed some great conversations that way. On the other hand, will I be deluged with spam and hate mail?

- On another note, I joined the Top Five Group Writing Project for a lark, but now I'm genuinely enjoying looking at (gasp) blogs that don't talk about sex! At all! Not even a little bit! Like Gillette said, it's a window on a whole 'nother world.

- The world is especially beautiful today. My tulips are blooming, the sun is shining but not too hot, and Secret Scientist just called me to talk for a long time for no reason at all...

- I'm having a fun time with the labels function on here. Sometimes they are significant...

Whore Sex Vs. Not Whore Sex, Episode 2

Part One is here.















Be-My-Real-Friend puts on his shirt, gets off the bed, and we go for a walk and have a very meta conversation about what this time together will be like, how it’s different (we both hope) from his previous experiences with escorts and my time as a whore. We eat Greek food, he picks up the tab and I get the baklava. Conversation is still a little stilted, but I am genuinely interested in what his experiences were like with escorts – one of them used to drive him home. Ohh-kay.



I like cathedrals, and the one we duck into is especially lovely, beautiful mosaics on the walls, the canticle of St. Francis, pagan in its thanks to Brother Sun and Sister Moon. Catholic churches are where I’m closest to God, the grandeur (as intended) making me feel the Presence. I light a candle in front of a saint I don’t recognize, female with book in hand, and quite literally pray that this will all work out. (It would be dramatically great if she later turned out to be an appropriate saint, but in fact it’s Anne, Mother of Mary. There are only patrons for reformed prostitutes. We working girls can burn.)



I turn on the stereo and find the Killers. Be-My-Real-Friend comes and rubs my feet (not pretty – I’ve been walking in new shoes), then sits behind me and kisses me. It’s slower. He seems to be listening. How much do I get to say what I want? He’s still paying, even if he does want real. Kissing, lots and throughout and gradually more real and fun – kissing is the hardest of all actions for me to get into in this context.



We don’t get under covers, which I like, I like that being clean space. I take off his underwear and his cock is indeed large, but shaved smooth and pink and no smell but clean skin. It’s a pleasure to go down on him. I’ve already warned him I don’t come from oral, and he spends a long time on my pussy.



Perhaps I will teach it to my Lover



















I suck him hard again, he licks me for a long time, I have to remember to keep letting him know it feels good, it’s so nice to just lie back and enjoy it. It slides from really good to too intense in a flash, and I pull him up and roll him over, suit up and lower onto him. His cock is long, long enough to slightly bruise my cervix every stroke. It’s a good, good feeling. I’m selfish in the way I am “at home,” guiding his hands to where I like to be pulled onto him, moving the pointy ends of his fingers off my clit (not helping, only distracting), telling him I like rubbing on his skin. I start to come, medium intense, and he goes to sit up and hold me. I push him down again and have what I want. A few minutes later, I come again and so does he, thrusting deeply into me with my legs around his ears.

Somewhere in there, there’s a nap. Somewhere there’s laptop time. Somewhere in there he looks a lot like George Clooney if you see him from lying down and slightly above and at an oblique angle.



I realize my favorite spike heels are not walking-on-cobblestones shoes and hold his arm while buying and changing into flip-flops. He carries the bag with my shoes the rest of the night. We walk, he tells me about the canal, the city, his friend in Paris. It feels like a second date. At one point, we come around a corner, into a cheesy area with overpriced drinks and bland restaurants but the terrace is lit with trees full of fairy lights and the tables overlook the water and there are columns and a biggish tower and tons of people having a nice time and it feels like Venice. We go into the used-and-good-music CD store and get Nina Simone.



Again and from behind, I don’t come and that’s what whoring’s all about. But it’s not. I don’t come every time with friends, and it was good sex. I am not unsatisfied when he departs, though I like sleeping alone. After he leaves, I go to brush my teeth and notice that my dehydrated skin has developed huge flakes across my cheeks. I look like I’ve been devotedly nursing in the colony of Face Lepers and finally been myself stricken. Also, my hair is flat. And I’m having kind of a fat day. And that’s the flip side of “please me *and* pay me” – that it matters to me if he doesn’t like me, if I’m not good enough in bed, not pretty enough, not enough.



He comes at 8 and so do I.

I rest and write, he goes to work. We meet for lunch, Malaysian, tender, spicy mango chicken, and in a discussion about coaching his son’s sport, it finally clicks. I’m no longer making an effort to be interested or interesting. I pick up the lunch tab – with Lover, I try to pay for something when we’re together, with Husband I carry the cash. I ask Be-My-Real-Friend if he wants to go to the hotel or if he has to be back at work.









He comes in to the room, a unisex single, slightly grubby near the end of the lunch rush. I’ve left the door unlocked and turn from the sink where I’m washing my hands. I squat on the dark red tile floor, undo his belt, his zipper, take down his briefs, take his cock – still pink and smooth and sweet, he works in air conditioning – into my mouth and suck him until the spit runs down my arms.

I’d like to do it again.

I hope he will, too.

Unlimited Ride Wristband Night!

Here’s what I got to ride at the midway:
Freak-Out
Power Surge
Giant Ferris Wheel
Monkey Jungle
Wacky World
Alpine Bobsleds
Giant Slide (3 times)
Merry-Go-Round

Here’s what I didn’t get to ride:
Secret Scientist

But his girlfriend is totally hot...


On another note, Power Girl and I were propositioned by carnies at, of course, the Merry-Go-Round. Nothing says wholesome, child-oriented-ride like a guy with six teeth letting you know he gets off in half an hour. I figure it’s like the way they train dolphins – if the reward comes all the time, the desired behavior gets sloppy, the animal will do only the minimum to get the treat. But if the rewards are irregular and unpredictable…well, they’re motivated to do their very best every time. Good try, Flipper – and keep up the good work!


(Amazing photo courtesy of World of Juice Juice, if you ever read this...love to comment on your pics but can't find a link or even a way to contact you on your site.)