Tuesday, May 26, 2009
I told my therapist about this feeling that he's "Made for Me" at the end of a chatty session involving all sorts of stories of my social butterfly activities and intrigue. He was tacked on there, not an afterthought but an undeveloped sense of possibility.
Mmm...undeveloped sense of possibility. Now there's a state of affairs I can get hot to trot for.
I included my sense of this man to my counselor because I get a lot of shit for falling in love "all the time" from my friends and it causes me to worry about my behavior. I get a sense off of some people that I'm not being "careful enough" with my heart. I'm becoming more sure that it's not a simple as that, and that the flip side of these admonishments should be the statement that it is the others who are not being careful enough. So I was looking at this mild, romantic, and funny concern that I might fall in love again.
How that got to be a fearful thing, I don't think I'll ever understand.
I have hesitated to begin processing this man because I am looking at my patterns and do not want to act carelessly. I do not act without care, I just like to look and see if I am taking care to have an intention. I have had enough of getting swept up in the third act of someone else's drama, just because my own play is at intermission. I have a vested interested in my own course when people enter the theater now. Getting swept up is how I have acted in the past, and we lovers all know this, there is something akin to destruction in falling in love. What is destroyed, in the universal sense, I cannot put my finger on. What I wonder about is this: it seems to be a human truth that there is a sense of destruction in the act of falling in love. We all know that falling in love is far different from being in love and from sustaining love. So, in the act of falling, an obvious destructive signifier, what is destroyed? Is it destroyed simply because you cannot have a new thing without an old thing dying?
But, let's back up from this philosophical edge and again towards the point. The point was honestly to gush. Can anyone get sick of that giddy feeling? Of being smitten?
In the words I've absorbed from money market watchers this last year, here are the indicators.
1. My horoscope has been consistently buoyant since before 2009 mercifully walked in. I have been given words of encouragement from multiple sources in the areas of my communicative ability, my instinctual development, my future's path, and my innate capabilities to see what others do not.
2. I have known that something was going funky in the house of Venus, for Aquarians like me, since the beginning of the year and that this spring-bacchanal time was riper than usual for my Venus to come back to her vixen-virtuous ways and Bloom.
3. I have known, since I lamented that I'd never find love, one of those times a year ago when I kept falling for the wrong sign of people, that Sagittarius and Leo are the favored children for my long term amore.
4. I have known since I was little girl that people who embody opposed juxtapositions are more delightful than others. I am attracted the the unlikely stereotypes of the classical piano playing car mechanic or, in this very real instance, the submariner who paints, carves, sews his own fantastically freakish and beautiful attire, et al.
My dream man can fix anything. He can name his favorite poem. His hands are rough and his eyes are playful. He is older than me and wraps me safe in his arms. He lets me lay my head in his lap and strokes my hair with his heavy, washed, and yet cigarette smelling, palms. He has traveled but loves home. He is busy manifesting his dreams into reality most of the time. He disappears and returns baring unusual gifts from accidental out posts. He fucks dirty. He paws at, grabs hold of, slaps around and orders me, in the bedroom and out.
This is really the man I have dreamt of since I was old enough to say "I love you Daddy." My dream man is only partially my father. My dream man is more get-up-and-go than my own sweet Dad ever will be. My dream man lives more in the reality of right now than he does in the places he never got to in the past.
Here are a few difficult-to-admit truths about me. I have wifey fantasies of cooking dinner, keeping the house neat, and looking and smelling nice when my man comes home. I love pleasing my man. I love feeling looked out for, watched over, instructed by my man. There is not one man on earth whom I have allowed to do for me those things until just now, when he walked on to the street at the corner of my favorite bar and met me a few days ago.
I want to oppose the above statements here to remind you of what I am that counters those things, but I don't want to dilute those truths. So here I sit smiling wanly, pleased.
I find myself dreaming, dreaming, I'm always a dreamer. I find myself in a home with my man. He doesn't keep me in any historical or oppressive way on a day-to-day basis. We are egalitarian in most functions and efforts. I am pleased a rum-punch to put on my jeans and hold the carburetor while he digs into his old truck's bowels, just as he is sweet as pie when I ask him to paint my toenails. But there is a structure. There is a symbiosis to the nature of our relationship which was constructed upon a set of understandings and strict rules that I have never been more pleased to adhere to.
Why was a smart ass masochist before and why will I bend deeper than I think I can now? Because I was testing the boundaries and ropes and attention to detail. If the man wasn't knowing what I needed, I taunted him somewhere, rather than boss from the bottom, because I wanted to play. I might hope to get him onto the right trail but, when communication is based on crooked ground it rarely rights itself, even aided.
This situation is no more straight-forward than any of my other explorations. I can do nothing straight, nearly everything I do loops and curves back in on itself. I met him in the same upsurge that introduced me to so many nearly two years ago. I met him on the same internet watering hole and have gotten to know him in similar ways, virtually, in that time. It is an interesting indicator to me. All those people that have come and shaped and gone, or stayed with me, since then. He was always in the periphery, us separated by more than half the width of a continent and by vastly differing experiences. When I thought of that time frame those two weeks ago, on my way to therapy, I thought, "Huh, I do love a good turn of the story."
Friday, May 22, 2009
I just finished reading your book, Valencia, and I wanted to say a few things. Let me get out of the way my gushing: I was impressed with the immediacy of your writing (which might be a writer's compliment of the vaguest proportions). I mean your writing resonated for me with its hilariously dramatic sadness and its orgiastic astrology. When you first began describing the main characters as "Piscean...children of karma" or your own "Aquarius electricity" I smirked conspiratorially and felt a connection to you that transcended longing.
The longing comes from the lives you glossed on while you cataloged those two years in hilly and bacchanal San Francisco of your youth. You wrote some lesbian modes of operation so clearly that all I could do was roll my eyes knowingly. The diving, diving in that you did with your love affairs and girlfriends, the self destructive partying, and pushing the limits had such romantic appeal it was hard not to pine for it.
What I'm really here to say is that I want to defend myself. Maybe "defend" isn't the right word. I think I mean, I want to speak up on behalf of the women like me, who have just left the age you were when you were writing Valencia. I want to talk out for those of us who have been watching the likes of you as we came of age.
You're like the high school freshman and we're like the fifth graders (stick with me). You will always be older, more cutting edge, more experienced and with more freedom to explore, shout out, fuck up and get older. I will always look at your writing references and want to catch up, but I know I missed my chance. If I had been the kind of girl to hop out of high-school and onto a box car headed anywhere, I might have found you older sister punk grrls. I might have experienced Team Dresch live myself, or done meth in some shit back alley in the rainy darkness of Seattle or San Francisco. I might have written a memoir about living fast and dying young only to follow up by slowing down and staying alive to enjoy the fruits of my so called fucked up youth.
Your version of "lesbian," complete with chopped up green hair and butch dykes in make-up, is something I'll never fully experience. I was ten years too late, playing with my G.I. Joes while you secretly nursed crushes on the outcast poetess of Main St. in your boring town. You are my older sister, with the wilder stories, the battle scars, and smoker's voice to assist your alibis. You fed on political action groups while I was being served advertising and stories of the good old by-gone days.
Everything for my generation was filtered and fabricated. But you, and your sisters taught me all the wrong moves along with the right ones. I understand the fire in your belly with every long term girlfriend, the desire to die trying rather than sell out.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
For example, I spent all of last summer mourning the loss of who "I was" due to the strong ties between my current identity and my sexuality. My sexuality happens to be a very large part of how I relate myself to the world politically and personally. I'm not sure if it was always that way or not. When I was young, I did place my self-worth and importance on my perceived ability (or not) to attract the opposite sex. I became valuable to myself only when I could see the external appreciation for what I could give. That is to say, head.
Ok yeah, obviously I'm being tongue-in-cheek about this now, but it's a very important thing for me to understand. I really, really hated the parts of myself the external world taught me to value: i.e. my height, weight, hair color, clothes, boob size and friends. The parts of me that felt valuable were hidden and I mourned daily that no one could see what I knew to be my best attributes. That common feeling of self loathing is one thing that I work to prevent in any female I meet who is not giving herself the love and credit she is due. Women are at a disadvantage in almost every way in society because they don't value themselves, their opinions, their validity, and what they have to offer. Men struggle with the opposite problems I'm sure, but I'm not a man; I have not lived my life as one, and won't speak to it now. That mission is being saved for another life time (the mission, yes, of helping males to value themselves more and to be kinder to their own inner beings).
I didn't set out to write this post to catalog the ways in which I reclaimed my sexuality and turned it to work for me, but to look back and compare this time last year to now.
brevity of bike crash a year later
I was angrier than I've ever been after it all happened. I threw away beautiful apology bouquets, trashed mementos, and yanked roots from the ground (literally, yarrow). I've never been one that can sustain vitriol at people, especially if I've loved them. I find the energy it takes to have that rage more useful in creative arenas.
Then, there's how Sandra Cisneros put it in her poem "Bay Poem from Berkeley"
Mornings I stillwhich another ex posted last week. Cisneros's words have a way of sinking into me like needles will and leave me in the sweet subconscious where pain and pleasure are indistinguishable; where the importance is not in the two emotions' difference, but in their sameness.
reach for you before
opening my eyes.
An antique habit from
last summer when we pulled
each other into the heat of groin
and belly, slept with an arm
around the other.
But when I open my eyes
to the flannel and down,
mist at the window and blue
light from the bay, I remember
where I am.
But that's just one part of it all, the messy ever changing feelscape of emotions. The more tangible outcome was physical and terrifying for me. I felt so broken that I didn't touch myself for most of summer and fall. I became celibate and obsessive over the state of my pudendum. People assured me it'd get better, but I couldn't even read the information available to me. It was all too painful. I managed to take daily medication, but the medication was no match for my stress, the number one causer of outbreaks.
It took about six months of despondency for me to begin coming around. I began seeing people casually, some of which was documented here. Before that, sometime around September, I began covertly talking to Devyn again. The anger was waning and the feeling of missing him was increasing, as my energy to remain vigilantly enraged decreased. A conversation with a close friend opened my eyes to see his side of things; the shame and fear that kept him from sharing, the denial that grew out of wanting things to be one way and not another. I could see how he would have done it, being so scared myself, to reveal my diagnosis with nearly perfect strangers on a semi-regular basis. She pointed me toward the unquestionable high road, when I had wanted to slink along a mildly less moral path. I was able to forgive him because of this. No one but he and I liked that I did so.
Because my friends and family (and casual blog followers) didn't understand why I could forgive such heinousness, Devyn became a default refuge. He felt like the one person who understood what I was going through with the diagnosis, the one person who felt "safe" sexually (ironically, of course), and he remained the same person I loved before, though profoundly more sorry and intent on my happiness. He'd also taken up a crusade in his sex blog to talk about what he'd done, how he would mend his ways, and how he was still having a vibrant sensuality while maintaining a positive diagnosis.
While I secretly nursed our tattered relationship, my life in Chicago seemed to lighten up measurably. In October I went to my first energy reading and was helped to begin releasing years of baggage, anger, and fear in very obvious ways. I felt positively springy after that meeting and became more aware of my destructive thought patterns. I was thus able to release myself from them. Eventually I saw Devyn again, and brought down some terrible anger on his head in person (unexpectedly at first), thus releasing me further from the past diagnosis, trust loss, and fear. I moved into December solidly, planted on the most beautiful feet I'd ever seen: my own.
iv. what i did this weekend
I had no outbreaks in the brief, but intense, love that began with the new year and felt I was finally comfortable back in my sex again. I began to relax and make love and have orgasms. With the melting snow my favorite spring fever attribute, the horny honey-bee syndrome, returned and I smiled wide at the good old salacious way I love. Being dumped brought stress of course, and my old way of being challenged at letting go of relationships reared up. The first outbreak all year occurred two weeks ago, not long after a nasty bout of self-pity applied with anger. I blamed myself for this unhappy recurrence, all the chocolate, all the beers, etc. etc. I told Devyn about it. After he finished feeling terribly sorry he did what he does best for me. He asked me why on earth I would supplement physical discomfort with malicious psychic punishing. I told him about my diet taboo indulgences and he tsked me, reminded me to get more sleep and to "goddammit, be nice" to myself. His was a good reminder again, of how I treat myself when I'm being unconscious. I re-worked my energy and focused on positive outcomes instead.
Two weeks or so ago, as well, I said, aloud that I was tired of dating. Tired of getting my heart broken and tired of expending all that energy when there's other things I could be doing, things that will last as long as I want them to. Not a day later the universe laughed at me and sent couples and singles of strangers my way to ask if I could come out to play. I laughed and met them with all the Virgo intentedness to "get what I could" that I could muster.
I went on my second date with a lovely couple (we'll call 'em H.A.) on Friday. When the lady of the bi/het couple asked why I wanted to date couples I found poetic and honest words spilling from my mouth. It seems like all the rewards and none of the commitment and compromise. It seems like a privilege to me, to get to witness something united in motion. It sounds fucking hot. It's the best of both worlds for a bisexual hedonist. And so on. At the end of our second date we took it to their place where I was given a lovely pair of soft pajamas to put on. She wore lavender silk pajamas too. I had been admiring her almost unreal full lips and round ass since our first date, while his style, forthrightness and also firmly round ass brought a sparkle to my other eye.
I had to make a conscious choice early in our making out: remain apart so as to be able to write about this in detail later or get deep into the sensual motions and come out unable to recall anything but electric fuzz later.
I chose the latter, unsurprisingly. I am happy to say that I actually could write about it in scorching detail here, but I won't tonight. Tonight is all about me. After 7 days in a row with no solitude I have a softly lit apartment full of warm early summer breeze, a head full of creative adventures apart from my keyboard, and again, my lovely solid feet. Perhaps ten toes that could use a fresh summer coat.
It is hard to tell people that I'm tired of being heartbroken. I had wanted the commitment and compromise that coupledom brings. Sometimes, when I'm being pitiful I lament and wonder if anyone will ever be fit to stay with me on my adventures. But others remind me that my desire to give love over and over is a lovelier part of my nature.
I was asked this weekend if I am a conduit for other people's energy. I don't know that I can channel it yet, which is what "conduit" implies to me, but I definitely take it all in. I feel what people feel without trying. The trying comes in actually stopping myself from feeling it. In the heat of an argument I was not a part of I slipped and spoke the words my best friend had been trying to speak to her opponent (it was a friendly argument, but heated nevertheless, between two hard headed people). As soon as her reasons finished pouring from my mouth I clapped my hand over it, wide eyed. "I'm sorry!" I said urgently, "I shouldn't do that!" The defendant loved it and she pushed that I should do it, having helped her so. The other player left the argument in his Gemini way and asked me why I said I shouldn't do that. He then asked, in complete seriousness about my ability to suck up and spit out others' energy. When I matter-of-factly didn't answer him fully, so he knew he was right but it was hard for me to say so, he said, "That's why you can fall in love so much. It's kind of a gift."
Friday, May 8, 2009
"I better go lay down?"
"I better go lie down?"
The Michiko Sato Rule
"I call this “The Michiko Sato Rule” because she invented that quick little way to make sure she always got it right in quizzes and exercises (and life).
When Michiko, who lived in Tokyo but has since married and moved to the Boston area, was a student here, she would always write six words — three atop the other three — on her quizzes and exercises (we did 'em on paper then).
Lie Lay Lain Lay Laid Laid
And she never got 'em wrong. Never!
I, therefore, being the smart guy that I am, developed the theory that if it worked for a student whose first language was Japanese, it would work for everyone. Give it a try."
Last night I fell asleep pretty quickly, but not before I laid there creating more bogeymen to fear. Or maybe I was acquainting myself with the bogeymen I've created already.
..."Greetings, my name is Dr. Frankenstein..."
I am talked to, a lot, about fear. I am told that I create fearsome futures in my mind and that I needn't.
...Hand me that wrench"...
The bogeymen were doing their nighttime jig, limbs flopping like drunken fish on their torsos. Technicolor hues of vicious scarlet and putrescence. Singing like those pink elephants in that movie. Their lyrics, which I make up so effortlessly that they seem to come from some outside maleficent source, went something like:
Give it up now. You'll never get recognition.
You won't do something big. You're an
Office Worker. That's what you know.
You've done it more than anything else.
Give it up now. You won't be a writer.
You won't be a traveler. You won't be a healer.
You won't be Unconventional. You're not
a poet. You won't aim for the corner
Office or save enough for a holiday.
You're doing what you're going to do.
This is it. Give it up now. You're not going
to change anything but the small sphere you move in.
Don't be too sad. It's enough for most people.
Take this on now, this is your life, be happy.
This is what you do and just be happy
you've got that.
..."Is anyone else outraged? Does anyone else agree that that's hogwash?"...
But I'm scared it isn't.
..."You're way to too young to give up now. Aren't you the one always pushing your Dad to follow his dreams, even though he's lived one lifetime already?"...
Those bogeypeople. They're assholes aren't they? I can't decide what's worse:
trying to accept what I have and be happy with it OR
never allowing myself to settle, never giving up no matter how hard, never being satisfied until I'm satisfied.
..."There's a middle ground in there, isn't there?"...
What did Dumbo do? He accepted his big ears and made them into something joyous. Are my big ears this office life? 9-5 by day and eccentric by night? Or are my big ears, which I must learn to use and make joyous, my dreams that eat at me the way they do?
I really don't know, but that is the question.
What makes me laugh right now is thinking of a scene from the movie Hamlet 2 (watched it last night, hilarious) in which the eccentric drama teacher who won't quit, even when he's fired, is at his computer writing a screen play.
The scene is shot from behind and over the flat screen monitor. You're looking at his face. He's crying and twisting his features up as he gloriously bears the torture, yet release, it is to write his opus.
It's fucking perfect.
I've been laughing at a lot of parodies of writers lately. We are a great bunch of fools.
In what way, I have yet to decide.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
I had my tarot cards read again yesterday. To the right are the four major players. I find that it's often a struggle for me to have my cards read because 50% of me is listening, but the other 50% (or so) of me is immediately interpreting the information, linking it up to what's going on internally and externally for me. I realized that process was happening last night and then tried to stop the simultaneous interpretation. It seems to me that thinking about a story's impact prior to the end of the story means that one could miss a lot, but also that one could limit her options of perception. If I decide to choose door two, before I've even heard what possibilities lie behind doors three and four, then what might I be missing?
It's hard though because there is this thing that happens every time I get my energy, chakras, tarot or whathaveyou read; I find this deep voice in my low gut urgently whispering "I know", which really means "I knew it" or, "yes, [the reader's] right". There's something that's completely heartening about that. It feels very reassuring and very validating. I get to be the one carrying around the wisdom I need, and it doesn't have to come from outside sources...but there's totally a hitch. I in the previous sentences context is the ego, whereas that deep gut voice has nothing to do with the ego. The voice deep down there doesn't comment on my daily goings on. When I'm feeling pessimistic it is silent, it is not a "good mother" it does not rush to my aid when I'm roiling internally and grasping externally at any interaction I can get. It speaks rarely, usually when I sit quietly long enough, and sometimes even then I (my ego, surface consciousness) have to ask it questions. The answers this deep wise voice gives me are always simple and complete. "The Buddha voice" is one way it's been called. Sometimes I just call it the "me" voice.
So I tried to get my ego to stop yammering about how "'I' knew it!" long enough to listen to what I was being told. There are some big questions coming down the highway at me. I'm wondering about writing and blogging. I'm wondering what my goal(s) are for my life. I want to know why I intend to leave Chicago and what I intend to find wherever I go from here. I want to know why I fear so acutely being alone "forever". I want to know why my friendships seems to be shifting and what I want to do about them. I want to know why I feel so goddamn bored with myself these days.
I wondered last night about writing and all it's challenges and glories. I wondered what it would feel like to stop blogging for the public. Would I stop writing? Would I write more? I've been noticing that I'm concerned now about the amount I post on my blog, since someone told me I won't garner more followers unless I write more consistently. I think that person's probably right, based on looking at "successful" blogs out there. I am being challenged, this moon, with the Taurus habit of wanting more. I've been doing too much comparing of myself to others; wondering why I don't get more comments, have more followers, and other random crap. I wondered about the feeling I have that "I am a writer". I wondered if I would stop thinking that if I didn't blog regularly. I wondered if it's possible for me to stop writing. Then I went to bed and vowed to start fresh today, to regain my intention, to let go of my attachments to things past and to look forward. I'm aspiring to Virgoism right now: "Improvise, Adapt, Overcome and keep fucking moving forward."
One more interesting thing about behavior before I go. One of my best friends is also energetically intuitive and an air sign. She is of the sign that alights all over, and is a grace to those who know her, but hardly understands why she's doing what's she's doing until she's reaped the consequences (good or bad). We were talking, as I stood at O'Hare waiting for my baggage the other night, because I was feeling very lonely and low. I needed a good kvetch session to help clear my head. I had lashed out at someone because I was lingering on painful feelings of abandonment and betrayal and I didn't sit with them long enough for them to pass away. I had been dwelling for days, not that that's a good excuse.
I saw this friend of mine the next day and I talked to her about how we each process our emotions. I am as external as possible, I talk, write, kvetch, cry and get physical (like yoga or masturbation) whereas she is as internal as one can be. Her way of internalizing everything protects those around her (in some ways) from those raw, and sometimes unfair, emotional fall outs. I was kind of admiring that in her, that she didn't have to go back to people and be embarrassed or feel ashamed of her behavior because she rarely let on that she was feeling something terrible in the first place (not that one can't tell if she is feeling terrible). I was wishing I didn't reach out so much.
She reminded me that her internalizing is usually to the detriment of herself. She takes it all on, instinctively not trusting that anyone but herself can deal with what she feels. So where is the balance? I wonder. Then, last night as my cards were read to me I thought about the fact that there's always been at least one person in my life that I can go to whenever and however I need to. That person has changed over the years, but there is always one with whom I allow myself to be as raw and embarrassing as I sometimes feel the need to be. I said a little prayer of thanks for all the people that have held out their hands when I have been groping and gasping in the dark.
Friday, May 1, 2009
The following is a story in a style that is somewhat novel to me. Let me know what you think about the flow or anything else. It is a true story. There is a "monumentally embarrassing moment" mentioned by name only. More begging may get you readers that story some time in the future. You never can tell.
One more thing. Today, while kicking the cross-word puzzle's ass in the newspaper I saw the answer to yesterday's "word scramble" was a quote from Ernest Hemingway. He said, "A man must endure a lot of suffering to write a comedy."
On the second day of my freshman year I slunk into the Psych 101 lab fifteen minutes late. At 8 am it was my earliest commitment by two hours. The only open seat was in the second row between Jeremy and a slight girl with cherry-red hair and a big rack. He whispered to me, as I hung my head, "What? You got a high-over?" I smirked, and this was before I knew how. I would come to think I was a radical in a few years. I was more than green. I was completely un-germinated, but not in the biblical way.
Jeremy was burly but smooth. His characteristics were not unlike a shrewd gopher: his apple cheeks pronounced and his white smile sharp. The tan and freckled skin hid his advanced age from the college girls. It helped that I was usually clouded in ample fogs of marijuana smoke and lust charged panties. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes would have been more visible if not for the cone of ringlets and frizz around his face.
"How did you know?" I whispered back.
I would take a few different girl friends to Jeremy's over the years. He taught me about bodybuilding and plant cloning; the Rainbow people, modern Pagans and pumpkin patches. His was the home in which my first threesome fantasies were set.
"Jeremy, how old are you?"
"I like 'em young" he would reply.
He wanted to fuck each of the girls I brought to his house, except Jade maybe, while I nursed a severe crush for several years. When I brought petite Jessica, with her enticing lime green eyes, he told us, "I like to pull her to the foot of the bed, have her legs wrap around me while I'm standing and hold her up while I fuck her. I like 'em small, like you Jessica."
"Oh Jeremy." Jessica was an impressively classic and cloying flirt. She'd tease all she wanted while I’d be in fear of her getting into trouble "leading them on."
The little sprout in me became a twinkle, still not germinated, but my seed rattling with the pressure of growth to come. Seven years later and part of me is still trusting that he wasn't a total creep. Or perhaps a bigger part of me accepts that, really, I enjoy creeps, just so long as they're respectful in the end.
I would imagine myself in Jeremy's undecorated bedroom. His second floor had unpainted walls and ceilings that sloped with the roof. There was a room with drums and psychedelic posters. There was a room with a small tv/vcr. Each of these rooms housed a camping chair or two, the kinds with cup holders in the arm rests. His bathroom was the nicest with the plush maroon mat, towels and bathrobe. And there was his bedroom. From my peeking, as I walked past, up or down stairs I saw only a queen-sized bed with a worn old comforter and a wooden dresser.
Before the monumentally embarrassing experience with Jeremy, I fantasized so thoroughly that I confused our separate realities with some of the emotions I conjured at night in my own twin bed. I thought for sure we were going to sleep together. When I squeaked those words out on the phone, he half laughed, half gulped: "No, Shana. I like you."
After that, I couldn't return to my fantasies about as often, but before, it was the only unfettered place where my seething sex was coming out. My fantasies were in flash images, or I got lost in details of clothes worn, or "plot" and fell asleep before I came. They were conjured like the set up for a one-act play.
Bedroom, bare walls, dingy blue carpet, faded blue comforter on a made bed.
Overhead, white light fixture. Unflattering lights on.
Me-Girl: long blond hair, pale skin, fat. On her back, naked. "O" shaped mouth. Legs spread, wiry blond bush.
Girl: long dark brown hair. Thin. Skinny girl, "petite". Weak looking arms. Pale. Standing, bent at the waist. Glasses on the dresser. Eyes closed. All face, from chin to nose, hidden in wiry blond bush.
Man. Standing. Blond, bushy curly hair. Blond beard. Muscle toned arms and smooth chest. Light colored hair creating a fuzz on his legs. Bush hidden as he violently and rhythmically pumps the petite girl. He barks, yelps, moans, grunts, yells and commands. His finger tips white with clenching.
I had no imagined vocabulary. I could have never intertwined us so that he was in a receptive position, or so that the brunette could be lithe, contain hips, be in control with her surprisingly strong arms. I had not yet guessed at my howling capabilities.
Bedroom. Curtain covered window, open door, dark hallway outside. Dingy blue carpet. A glass of water on the dresser.
Girl on her knees filling her mouth with the burly blond man. Her method is concentrated and eager. Her eyes upward when open. She wants to please him more than anything. His pleasure is the nexus of her existence. She barely notices the thin brunette under the knees on which she balances, unless he does. The imagination of brunette's mouth on blond's cunt does not exist, but the seed is quaking.