come.

it’s interesting stuff, come. and the women i fuck react to it so differently.

my ex reacted to it like it was poison, not touching it, reacting to the smell violently, picking up more on the bleach-y undertones than anything else.

another girl smeared my come all over her skin after i came on her.

another one kissed me deeply with her mouth full of it, which was far more erotic that i would have imagined and really turned me on, so much so that i started fucking her while her tongue still in my mouth.

another always licks me clean and swallows it no matter what. speakeasy does the same.

no joke, she calls it “doing lines”.

none wanted any of the “cumshot” activities found in porn, and i can’t say they do much for me either.

i find all of this interesting.

men, or the men in my world, don’t share details of our sexual activity among one another, so i’ve no idea how all other men react to women’s fluids – i only get to sample women’s behaviors, i have no idea where my relationship with come lies.

the ex insisted that only “sluts and pornstars” pretended to like come. i never really believed that, but it’s just as odd to assume that only prudes hate it. it always hurt me that she seems psychically allergic to it, but i don’t expect all the women i date to be hungry for it either.

i’m wondering what the happy middle-ground is (while complete understanding that there’s a large spectrum of reactions).

i find it interesting that the most visible outcome of our sexual activity is something i understand so poorly.

sweet nothings.

clichés. when did the women i date start using clichés.

we’re fucking and you’re giving me clichés. out loud.

like wake the neighbors out loud.

i’m a fan of talking. it’s hot. it’s communicative.

but don’t feed me a porn tape.

i’d love to hear about how i feel inside you.

but.

it’s a lie when you say i’m the biggest you’ve had.

it’s a lie when you say i’m the best you’ve had.

it’s nice that you take the trouble, but i date smart girls for a reason, and i’d like to hear a smart viewpoint on our fucking.

please be loud.  but please be you.

slipping.

blogging is hard. it requires some form of honesty, and that honesty can become habitual. and personally expensive.

i’m writing this as i check (even though i’ve long since subscribed) debauchette’s blog to see if she’s come out of hiding from her own punishment for being honest (thanks gawker, for ruining this rare treat for the rest of us, btw).

in my case the honesty comes in the form of discussing the the various illicit facets of my life that i’ve intentionally kept apart because i fear that merged they would overwelm me, as well as those who are important to me.

it seems my fears where correct.  in the last two weeks i’ve:

• starting consuming cocaine in public, which has resulted in my consuming quantities of the substance that can no longer be confused with special treat status
• i’ve recombined drugs and sex in a way i’d decided i’d never do again
• i’ve told not one, but two people of my crack trials years ago, losing a friend to worry each time
• i’ve kissed a boy, in public, causing a stupid amount of scandal that was highly avoidable
• i’ve asked a friend for help in finding heroin, causing future awkwardness

none of these things are particulary scandelous. but they defy my approach to life. i compartmentalize, hide parts of me from others, in an effort to push the limits along as many dimensions as i can without losing control.

it takes discipline. i thought i had that discipline. i used to have that discipline.

what’s changed is this blog. other than random musings in the shower, there’s never been a forum for me where i united different thoughts i had into coherent musings, and it appears to be an addictive, and hard to
go away from. the new mental coherence is infecting my real life, and i’m unsure that i’m comfortable with that.

i haven’t told the speakeasy girl about a lot of these things, but it lies there inside me, trying to get out. i used to stifle random “i love you”s post sex and intimacy. now i’m fighting back more personal statements. this is not a person with whom i should be sharing an interest in heroin.

i’m just not sure how to back off of this new path but i can’t keep it up this way. secrets are made to be that way, even if the secrets are relatively benign. i have a public persona i’m uncomfortable killing off in the name of personal honesty.

so anyway, i’ve slowed down posting on this blog while i get my inner monologue in check, and, er, inner

canary.

so i’m seeing the girl from the speakeasy. which means, given my pre-disposition to falling for every chemical substance known to man when i’m not trying to be insanely careful, that i’m taking big risks.

so i bought a pack of cigarettes i have no intention of smoking. it’s in my shirt pocket, opened up, so i can smell the sweet smell of the tobacco. it’s distracting. but my addictions come in waves, and i know, from experience, that if i fall down one hole, i’m falling down the niccotine hole as well. so when i smoke on of these cigarettes, it’s time to move on from her. for my own health. my canary.

i’ve resigned myself to the fact that she’s not going to stop yet. she’s younger, still immortal in her own eyes, far from the rock bottom i can see staring at her. i’m juyst happy i get to know her now.

i’m not the type to save people, everyone makes their choices. she’s smart. maybe too smart for her own good – she’s tired of thinking so much she says, she’s taking this time to indulge herself and stop thinking. but she’s smart enough to own this decision.

the smell surround me all the time, interrupting my thoughts. i really want a cig.

this blog is ostensibly about sex and not drugs so i guess i’ll mention we’re fucking fairly regularly and that she’s a licker. in the mornings after we are together i wake up with my entire body’s skin covered in a fine layer of dried spit. i end up smelling like her. it’s lovely. she licks me like i were her cub. always ending up in my groin, and then we fuck.

i’m seeing her again tonight. i’m going to try to straight edge it. she won’t. i doubt she can. we’ll see how it goes. i’m not entirely sure if i’m flirting with her or distaster, to borrow a cliche.