what I want to know is...

how come alcohol doesn't feel like a depressant when you're drinking it?

how come I always think I know best when experience tells me different?

how come I can always find that point to push at, to widen the gap in trust?

how come I always take something and twist it out of shape?

how come I sound like a little kid whining "it's not fair"?

is someone else here?

Yeah got a chick lined up for tomorrow night, sure need to get my rocks off for real in a warm sweet wet cunt, my cock is red and aching from all the jacking off I been doing recently.  Couldn't help it I just got addicted to it this last week, there's this girl, no I've not met her, she's like another writer, in Europe somewhere and man she writes some hot stuff. 

-

"I'm out on a date tonight," I tell my flatmate, "You know with Martin?  The writer guy?"  I am kind of in awe of him he's published a book and he runs a magazine, how cool is that?  I'd love to write a novel you know, they say everyone's got a novel inside them and I want the world to see mine, see how creative and cool I can be!

-

Oh I love hearing from my favourite correspondant; right about now he should be checking out the mails I sent to him last time, asking in my faux naive way to tell me about how it feels when a guy is ready to come.  Time for another e-mail conversation which will end up with us both sticky and wet and satiated.  I love that he jacks it off at his work for me.  I even sent him some pictures.

-

Thing is, we have these conversations and they make me so fucking horny, and cos there's like a time difference she's playing with herself at home and I'm in the fucking cubicle and every day this week I had to get up and shuffle to the mens room to jack one out quickly but when I get home she's gone to bed but I can read the mails over again and again and I feel so fucking horny all the time at the moment.  So it'll do me good to get out there in the real world with, um, yeah Trish.

-

"We're gonna meet up at that new bar, you know, we all talked about it last week?  Apparently it's only a couple of blocks away from his apartment..."  I want to tell her not to wait up but he might not take me back there.  I'd like him to, it would be pretty cool to introduce him to people as My Boyfriend, The Writer.  I'm sure I could be creative, I mean my brother has a blog so it must run in the family.  I could be his muse!

-

I know I told him it had to be virtual only.  I think I said my head was pretty messed up with an ex and hinted that things were messy in real life.  I thought if it was only virtual, only make believe then I wouldn't be prone to all the worry, the neediness, the wondering if I had done something wrong when the beam of attention is not on me.  And writer guy did oblige with the attention, I could not complain about that.

-

It is loud in the bar, one of Andy's mates runs it and Andy had a spare couple of VIP tickets which is bound to impress, isn't it.  We drink little bitty fizzy cocktails in a raised area with squishy black leather sofas.  Trish is cute but a bit enthusiastic puppy.  The noise means conversation is difficult but she keeps at it, along with peeking up at me in a come and get it way.  Which is good.  I'm fucking dying to grab a hold of her and her all american sweetheart tits.  Push her down onto the sofa.

-

Wow, we sit in the VIP area and the bartender brings Champagne Charlies.  This is what it will be like all the time when he gets famous!  Well I will smarten his clothes up a bit, it's alright to look boho and geeky when you're just starting to get known, but nothing says success like a well dressed guy, you know?  I'm so glad I put this dress on, it makes me look sweet and sophisticated at the same time.  He isn't saying much, but he's enigmatic like that.

-

But when he told me he was going out with some chick tonight I felt a stupid pain.  I know it's really nothing to do with him and all to do with the ex, but I still felt it.  The pain of being left behind, the self-disgust at being taken again and again for a cheap fuck to be kept apart from a person's real life.  I'd been kept apart from his real life containing his marriage that was so fucking sacred that I was the third person he'd cheated with in less than a year.  Hmm, and as for writer guy, well I should be rational.

-

Gotta get out of here, I got her a load of them cocktails and she's sure enthusiastic now, couldn't manage more than three or four myself, too sweet and fizzy.  Cute dress she's got on, white and sort of lacy but more like embroidery, pretty, and fucking love the way it rode up those thighs the more she talked and drank those cocktails down.  "Hey, lets grab some fresh air and starry night," I tell her, and hand her up all gentleman like.  She wobbles a bit on her heels and clings on my arm.

-

He does like me, people are looking at us I bet they think we look really good together.  Oops, little wobble there!  Coffee at his place is such a good idea.  We'll sleep in the same bed, and kiss and cuddle and stuff but nothing full on until I'm sure he likes me in the morning.  I am a little tipsy and he can read me his poems while I fall asleep and he can stroke my hair and in the morning we'll have more coffee and the sun will shine and he'll tell me he thinks he loves me.

-

I should be rational about him going on a date but I am not.  He doesn't know that I do know him in real life and the reason I insist on it being virtual is well, complicated.  He thinks I am some girl in Berlin that he would never meet.  I love it that he thinks I am a girl, and that we can talk and meet mind to mind even though I am starting to suspect that he's only interested in the fucking talk, not in me, or any personality behind the words.  If I was a girl waiting on the end of the line for him I guess I would be disappointed.

-

Fuck this isn't going too well, I got her back to the flat and the bedroom fine even through all her "baby we'll do this when..." and "baby when you are so famous..." stuff.  And she did look so hot laid out on the bed in that white dress and the long legs but when I crawled up on the bed behind her and kissed her neck and rubbed my hand along those legs she crossed them and my cock is not even properly hard she's just too much of a good girl.  I leave her on the bed to sleep while I grab a beer, and I can't help it, I turn the computer on to see if Berlin girl has sent me anything new and if not I can read one of the old conversations and jack off and the night won't be a total failure.

-

His flat wasn't that nice really.  A bit small and cramped.  And instant coffee, how cheap was that!  And he had been a bit presumptuous, taking the coffee straight through to the bedroom but then the main living area wasn't really much more than a sofa, a dining table and a tv in the corner.  Some bookshelves, yeah.  But he got more presumptuous, sliding his hands between my legs as I lay sleepily on the bed, so I wriggled them closed and pretended to fall asleep because I didn't want to fuck him there and then, suddenly wondering what if he didn't get to be famous?

-

I needed a distraction, I turned on my computer even though I knew writer guy was out on his date, but it would pass the time.  I called my sister for a chat, even if she is a bubble-headed gossip she can be fun in small doses, but her flatmate tells me she is out on a date.  With Martin, you know, the writer guy? 

Fuck, fuckfuck, fuck fucking fuck. 

How could she have got to him?

And then a mail comes in from him, "Are you there Berlin Girl?"





with apologies to "writer guy" for taking something out of context as inspiration ;)

published at new wave vomit here

confessions...

I have 76 e-mails in my inbox from today titled "oh fuck fucking fuck"

With this level of attention, I don't feel the pain of his absent minded good wishes so much; I can rein in the level of neediness I display to him and of course it has obvious results.  I withdraw, he pushes harder.  He withdraws, yeah you guessed it, Pavlov's dogs, bitch in heat stuff.

I can imagine fucking someone else now.  I haven't told him that, that someone else is throwing those switches in my mind, I want to hug that secret from him.  I do imagine fucking someone else.  But I still imagine telling him about it.

Oh fuck fucking fuck indeed.

I lost my voice

I did not speak with anyone yesterday.  I could have picked up the phone and called a friend but I didn't, a delicacy that prevents me intruding on normal people's lives.  People who have lives don't want me bothering them.  I did speak out loud, I said "Miaou, Miaou," and "Get down," to the cat.  He didn't do anything though.  I did e-mail people.  But the ones I wanted to hear from did not e-mail back.  I went onto the social networks but they were as usual full of strangers grasping for your friendship to win points in games.  I got e-mails from them, telling me what they wanted from me, which button to click to give them their virtual rewards.  I got sucked in and asked for non-existent stuff too.  I managed not to talk to any inanimate objects.  I read blogs.  I read books.  I wrote stuff.  Did I talk to my reflection in the mirror?  I don't remember now.  I wrote comments on blogs and people wrote back on a couple of occasions, I could pretend a conversation almost got going.  A conversation did not happen.  Except in my head.  There were several going on there so I lost track of them in the end.

un-titled

I am not a dog

I do not have to chase them

just because they run.



I am not a budgie

I do not have to wait in my cage

chirping "pick me, pick ME" at whoever passes.



I am not a cat

happy for my home to be with

whoever feeds me.



I am a woman

I should have a brain, a persona

that stops me doing those things.



I am a mirror

just reflecting

I want what you want.



I am dark

so you don't know

if I am a hole or a mountain.

when does the story end?

It was so hard to let go of him I wanted the story to go on I still do I hate to be without a story. 

It was a slow start with him knowing him being acquaintances drinking with him but not sparking until one day the brain and the sense of humour clicked in and that was that then the story started properly, chatting for hours on end and then flying on a plane and racing along the dark motorways to meet up with him for a real date. 

It was real even though we both knew there was only one place it would end up, he wore yellow and oh god I knew it was risky as I was already half in love with him for chatting to me and finding me interesting all that time and I thought the biggest risk was that being with him wouldn't live up to my imagination but it was worse than that as it was so much more and we laughed and his arms cradled me and I felt cherished and spent and cherished again and then of course he went home but that didn't matter so much as we still chatted and chatted and planned the next chapters.

But the expectation monster grew and I wanted more of him and he wanted more of me too but he hadn't left his old life behind he was still living that he was greedy for two stories while I only wanted one but he couldn't always tell which story he was living in and one day he got them confused and took his wife with the passion that was meant for me and then one day after that while we were holed up and hungover in a cheap hotel she called him with the news that wrenched our story off the rails and called him back into her story which she called their story.

I did not want to let him go although I said I only wanted what was best for him but of course I thought that I was the best for him although it turns out that he valued respectability over happiness, over his own happiness for sure but over mine as well but our story continued through more hotels and bedrooms until I finally pestered him as there was nothing new happening in our story pestered him to the point where he had to make a decision and he did make the ending decision but even then our story was not through for all the repeats of the story had to be lived through.

And although I did let him go and there is no new story and you would have to search hard in the multichannel world to see a repeat to spark up that story again it will be dead and quiet while he and his wife bring up their child it will be quiet so quiet and he will have regrets and swallow them down and not turn to me until one day he will turn to me and tell me how bored he is and then I would have to decide how that story goes on as I am a storyteller and I weave many people into my stories.

circulation II

the blood now staining my cheeks has already run through the rest of me; it enlivened the tips of my fingers as i explored you the arteries split and divided and got smaller and finer and the red cells flowed along through ever narrower capilliaries until they gave up their precious iron-bound oxygen to enliven the flesh of my fingers until, exhausted, the deoxygenated red cells limpingly start the long flow back; the blood starts to run back along my arm gathering momentum and flow as it joins other cells, tiny muscle movements in my arm drive the blood flow, send it back to my heart where it is expelled, the pulmonary semilunar valve thumps open and closed and the blood goes through and is sent empurpled to my lungs; my lungs were busy gasping at air for your mouth was fastened on mine in a slow dreamy kiss and even the oxygen was recycled; my lungs inflate draining your breath down on in to my trachea and sucking down into the alveoli slowly inflating, the blood flows past the little sacs and relinquishes the spent gases and picks up the oxygen and the blood runs back to my heart again, rich and red this time; my heart with its steady bpm pumps and sends pulsed waves of fluid back out into my arteries to the extremities of my skin, i wonder if your heart is pumping the same way can the beats be synchronised could the cells be synchronised the blood reaching the skin of our fingertips at the same time could they jump the barrier of skin at our fingertips, cross it like the oxygen in our breathing?  your touch calls my blood to the surface my touch calls your blood closer to mine; the blood now staining my cheeks

just desserts

I mean yeah I have been raped but you know it wasn't like a bad one like?   It was one of those things you know I, well I wouldn't say it was all my fault but you know wrong place wrong time?  I was drunk, I mean, of course, it is me; and yeah so I went back with him when I was drunk and we had sex and I don't remember it but when I woke up with him in the morning I knew I didn't want to do it again.  He had other ideas though and although he wasn't much bigger than me he was stronger, muscles where I had beer flab and he pinned me down on the cheap student hall mattress and I tried to struggle and I really did struggle for a while before something clicked in me and I let him get on with it and I lay there underneath him pushing and grunting and I let him. 

Does that count then?

Measure for measure

She sat down at the computer to wait for his e-mail to feed the latest obsession the explicit and horny sexy e-mail conversations with a stranger she had read his writing and he hers and they had looked at and liked each others blogs and now each night for the last three nights they had exchanged flurries of mails in linear and forked conversation strands and played with words and she had played with herself as he told her about playing with himself.

While she waited she played the damn facebook games that she had been so enthusiastic about the week before in the absence of the fucking talk she robbed properties and did jobs for dons and fought yakuza and sent virtual gifts for virtual chop shops and weapons depots and when she had run out of energy and stamina and had to wait for time to refill those she went to the farm and planted tomatoes and helped virtual friends raise barns and fed their non-existent chickens.

While she waited she recalled the mails and the mood from the day before OMFG to use one of his acronyms but the words moved her beyond heat she loved the way his words made her feel and the way her words did too and in some ways she didn't really care that she would probably never meet this stranger especially as this stranger might not be the same as the picture of the stranger she had in her head from reading his blog he might be a completely different virtual stranger.

And OMFG his mail came in and the conversation started again and when he typed how much he wanted to ram his thick fat cock into her she felt herself responding and typing back that she wanted him to she wanted to feel this lust rising she wanted to feel the strangers lust wanted to feel that there really was a person at the other end who wanted to turn her onto her stomach and pull her arse cheeks apart and dip his fingers into her juices and spread her legs apart and work his enormous cock deeper into her and she slides her own fingers into her folds and feels the stringy wetness and thinks of him sat at his desk at work with his hand in his pants too.

Oh she is warm and wet now and needs more more stimulation needs to feel the push of something inside her and as she types about his thick cock stretching her walls she finds the wine bottle is empty how did that happen but its good and in a quick break from the screen she rinses the bottle and pulls her trousers and knickers down and places a towel on the chair underneath her and rejoins the one handed typing as the wine bottle takes the place of her fingers down there she tells him where she is at the conversation forks again one half still in fantasy and the other half describing what she is doing feeling and are both strands fantasy for him or is one of them real and she has to stop typing and finish herself off.

And after she is done he types that he is not yet so she asks him to tell her about his thick cock again and then the new obsession is kicked off for he believes in driving a specific bargain and tells her his cock is 6.5" in girth and at first she cannot imagine how big this is then she finds a tape measure and makes a loop with it to see how big it is but a loop isn't very easy to imagine pushing at you so she measures the wine bottle and fucking hell 6.5" is way bigger than the neck of that even though it wasn't a champagne bottle it was only 3.5" around and though there was a little room for manoeuvre she thinks double that size is really too big so she looks around for more objects to measure.

In her bathroom she finds the deodorant stick, short and stubby but at it's widest only 5" although an interesting shape she sees the travel shampoo but no don't bother with that it is no wider than the wine bottle the shower gel looks huge but it is only 5.5" it looks as big as she imagines she could take and it is nowhere near the 6.5" she can't imagine how fat the strangers cock must be there is the bath foam but that is eye wateringly big and and there is no way that would fit her.

She imagines wandering up and down the supermarket aisles with her tape measure inspecting the various bottles and jars on display looking for the perfect fit and the shop assistant watching as she wraps the tape measure around them but she measures the bath foam and that is still only 6" and she measured it even though she thought it was too big and now she is a little sad for if she did ever meet the strangers cock it would not fit her the owner of the cock with his fantasies is too big for her she has an inadequate cunt she is too small for something that size although then she thinks maybe because if she met the stranger his cock would be flesh and blood and filled with blood and therefore flexible and not the planar smooth unyielding surface of a bath foam bottle and maybe it would work.

But if even the strangers cock was flexible it was still 0.5" bigger than the bath foam bottle then she was still too tight for the strangers cock even if she was hot and wet and yes in theory she knew they were capable of expanding to the size of a babies head but how much work would that take and maybe the stranger had exaggerated his size after all men do that all the time she wondered if there was a graded scale by which men did exaggerate so that if the stranger said 6.5" then she could look at the penis girth exaggeration (PEG) scale and know that he would really be (in the norms of statistical distribution) somewhere between 4.75" and 5.5" and then having a tight wet cunt would not be so much of a disadvantage after all.

Sometimes she wished she had majored in something other than Mathematics.

Also published here

"Rose Bush" or "My Private Jet"

I wanted to be a good girl today.  I was going to take off my dirty-girl, stain-hiding grey nail varnish and paint my fingernails and toenails palest pink.  The grey varnish is chipped now anyway, I won't tell you why.  I went swimming before 7am because exercise is something good girls who care about how they look do.  I put my bikini on and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and I looked OK, the muted light was kind and creamy on the skin of my shoulders and neck and the uplifted swell of my breasts and the mirror finished before my eyes could travel further down my body to see flaws there.  In the news today the beauty queens refuse to wear their swimsuits.  These good girls worry about showing the impressionable young their perfect bodies.  In the news today a lottery winning benefit fraudster is uncovered.  A 51 year old guy did it but the picture is of a girls hands filling in a lottery ticket and the hands wear dark blue nail varnish.  I still think I will change to probably french manicure pink.  Benefit cheats wear dark varnish.  Lottery addicts too.  Bad girls, nasty girls.  Good girls don't scratch at the other person and mark their flesh as the excitement builds, don't collect his'n'her bodily fluids under their nails.  I do have days where I want to be a good girl and I thought today was one of them.  But now I can't decide between "Rose Bush" or "My Private Jet"

circulation I

the blood now staining my cheeks has already run through the rest of me; it enlivened the tips of my fingers as i explored you and it ran back along my arm to my heart where it was expelled and sent empurpled to my lungs; my lungs were busy gasping at air for your mouth was fastened on mine and even the oxygen was recycled and then the blood ran back to my heart again, rich and red this time; it joined the surge flooding to my groin where it pulsed in time with your blood again engorging you to slot in easily; the blood now staining my cheeks called to the surface from your slap calls your blood closer to mine

words

He says my cunt mound is soft and the folds are fleshy and he can stick his tongue in there and get lost until he finds the hot nub, a homing device, an addictive taste that he will never want to leave alone...

I say I love the feel of the weight of him, pushing at the entrance to my insides, my cunt, the filled stretched glutted feeling of his cock pushing inside me...

We both say how the other makes us feel, how we feel dirty sexy horny excited ravenous dirty longing greedy sexy dirty.

Minds and words meld.  I don't know if I would ever meet him one day for real?

Anniversary

It's

a

year

today

since

I

last

had

sex

with

the

ex.

Or

at

all.

One

year.

But...

heknowsitwasthistimelastyearbuthehasn'tcontactedmetoday,

IwonderifheremembersasclearlyasIcanhowitfelttobebehindme

myfaceinthepillowashetookmefrombehindifhecanrecallasIdo

howitfeltwhenhethrustnotcarefullythefeelingjustthissideofpain

howIwantedhiminmeovermehowIwanted.

How

I

still

do.

Musing at the Mira spa...

I pay money to have someone touch me.

I live on the periphery and holiday

to the places where other people live.

Their frustrations, mis-matched needs, endless

compromises and irritations grind away

but mostly some human lubricant

keeps things from breaking apart.

Is it that I don't compromise enough? 

Or too much maybe?

Chameleon-like

I can be all things to all people but 

do they just see actress?  

Shutter click on a

devoted and self sacrificing "mistress";

click, lonely career woman;

click, wild temptress;

click, fucking cock hungry woman

from an electronic friend.

Click, click.

Emotional void wanting to be filled. 

No wonder people run.

I lay face down on the bed and

the small Chinese girl moves my legs apart

because I have paid her to.