this blog will return. shortly.
things have changed. much to report. much to not report.
many thanks to those of you who have asked about me.
this blog will return. shortly.
things have changed. much to report. much to not report.
many thanks to those of you who have asked about me.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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
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.
the girl. kissing me. her tongue in me. then my tongue in her.
tongue on lips, teasing sometimes, then giggling.
all the while, our feet at still mingling.
oh yeah, and cocaine.
she has her own stash. she does lines though. these aren’t games.
she’s used to this too. a regular weekday night.
every line brings with it guilt. she’s so smart, too smart to be getting this heavily in this thing. part of me wants to play knight in shining armor, and take her away from all this, but in truth, going down this road, taking these risks, i think it’s part of what makes her who she is. what makes me so attracted to her.
back to kissing. kissing makes the guilt go away.
her hands end up on my thigh and, ungracefully, suggest that it might be time for us to leave. she agrees.
her place is closer. that’s usually the case.
the air is cold. and flush on my cheeks. sobering.
we make it a few blocks, holding hands. looking completely sweet.
you’d think we were sweet.
she attacks me when she closes the door of the apartment. and i attack her back.
kissing her on her neck, tracing her jaw with my lips. her lips. limps, breasts, waist. it’s all fair game. and i’m getting more aggressive as she returns in kind.
i keep kissing her, because i’m not getting hard. limp. powerless.
this is new. i know i’m getting older, but i’m blaming it on the coke.
i end up going down on her, and afterwards she tries to stroke me hard. fails. but she’s surprisingly nonchalant about it, for which i’m grateful, because i’m crushed.
mortality and morality just caught up to me in a bad way.
we make up for it in the morning, when i’m reinvigorated and hard for her. we fuck until late in the morning and she’s loud and yells out supportive things about how hard i am and how i fill her.
she’s supportive. have i become pitiful?
if you’ve grown up internalizing the worst of mrs. reagan’s anti-drug messaging it may surprise you to know that addicts are actually quite normal, tender and sweet people, provided they have the means and funds to maintain adequately.
one of them is playing footsie with me right now. tenderly. we’re staring into each others’ eyes.
also coked up.
she used to be my type. definitely trouble. definitely not someone you’d want to know six months longer down this road. but right now, she’s full of life, smart, sassy and seemingly smitten with me. maybe a bit suicide girlie, but not much.
she keeps calling me her “dirty librarian” – apparently it’s like the sexy librarian devoid of anything wholesome. i dress like a librarian i’ve discovered.
she’s not a librarian. tom-boy – but sexier. younger than me… she tells me later she thought i was five years younger than i was.
but right now i’m really concerned with our feet. and her eyes. blue. vivid.
my friend’s cut me off from the coke, but’s not happy that i’m making eyes with her. he keeps giving me an evil eye, but i’ve decided i could give a shit about what he thinks.
feet playing, toying under the table. it feels innocent and subtle, even though everyone knows what’s going on.
we’re talking, too. she likes chuck palahniuk, reads all his work. i weighed the options of ignoring this and simply moving forward in her attraction versus giving in to my contempt of him and challenging her. maybe it’s the coke, but i hope it’s me that ultimately takes her on for her fandom.
we argue/talk/tease each other about our literary tastes for a few hours, exhausting the community of the speakeasy. they leave one by one, tired of drugs, bored by our conversation. we stay.
eventually we can retreat into a dark corner. this bar has a lot of dark corners.
i kiss her, she returns the kiss.
i like her. but this is bad.
when i kiss someone i generally can imagine a future, a future i’d like to investigate. this girl would kill me. fuck, she’s likely to kill herself soon. she’s already told me as much. that’s she’s self-destructive. has been on a tear for a while now.
but i like her. she’s smart. warped. immediate.
i kiss her with a different urgency. the urgency of getting to know her while i can. before she’s gone.
it’s not a speakeasy. or it is, but only if you strip the word of all romantic associations associated with the historical and contemporary fine cocktail bars in the better cities that call themselves “speakeasy.” it’s an illegal bar. a firetrap. if you need a bathroom, go piss in the back alley. but it has community and i’m privileged that my friend brought me here.
cocaine. yes. of course i do, but i have rules. drugs aren’t consumed with friends, aren’t consumed with habitual users, and aren’t consumed with a dark soul.
“yes – pass it over.”
shit. at least three people at the table are on a dark road that no one should get on. and i’m hurting.
he passes me a spoonful, carefully – not passing the stash.
i’m now high.
“dude, she was hot, she was smart, why’d you fuck up?”
“you fucked up, fucked around again, right?”
he’s asking me about why we ended out relationship, after 7 years, without communication with friends, without the standard pre-breakup rituals. i think he’s hurt that he heard about all this in historical statements.
“did you fucked around again?”
it’s not clear to me how i’ll explain this. i’ve avoided discussing it. i’m fucked up now.
“i haven’t fucked around in two years – but i broke up with her because i fucked around. she couldn’t forgive me, it just took two years to figure that out.”
“but you fucked around on her only after she fucked around on you.”
true. irrelevant. this might take explaining for him.
“she fucked around on me, but i could forgive her. she couldn’t forgive me. it’s not about who fucked who, and keeping score. it’s about what we could give each other, and she couldn’t give me forgiveness.”
“but you stayed with her for two years.”
“i wanted to give her time, and then it just took a long time to realize it wasn’t going to change. i’m not sure she believes she can’t forgive me yet, but i couldn’t go through the rest of my life feeling guilty about the past.”
i got tired of constant suspicion, constantly reminding her of her pain soley through my presence. got tired of failing to live a full life because i had to watch what significance my actions carried in reminded her of the past. i got tired of hearing the anger in her voice.
in truth, not cheating was far more exhausting than trying to hide the fact that i was cheating. i loved her, but we failed each other and rebuilding ourselvers afterwards failed.
“you’re a pussy.”
“have another bump.”
“thanks.” i reach over becoming a repeat offender on my rules.
we’re going to keep talking about this for a while now, i might need the feeling. he was one of the ones that fucked her.
i’m not sure that he knows she told me it was him. knows that i got over it. it was raw, and hard, but worth it.
i just wish he’d tell me some day. i love him, he’s dear to me, but i’d like to know he’s half the man i believe him to be, this should be his opening to honesty. tonight. i hope he will, i’m getting tired of the secrets, it hurts a little, exposing myself to this.
i’m snorting again. i’m challenging myself. risk.
i’m taking risks.
(drinks. 2nd avenue and 2nd street. there used to be a bar there, i’m not sure it its still there. the bar was in the emotional purview of the texan, not mine, so i’ve never been back and it’s been almost 10 years.
“so you liked that, the other night, huh?”
i’m blushing a bit. not sure what to say, not sure if admitting it will mean she would judge me (i was young) or if she’ll do it again, which would be nice.
“um… yeah, very much so.”
“i could tell, heck, i can tell now”
“so are you open to…”
“… the ass? can we play with our asses?”
i’m blushing, but excited, unsure what to say, i just nod.
“ok, but you’re going to have to pull your weight.”
she smiles, reaches across the table and kisses me passionately, her tongue penetrating my mouth violently, lingering there long enough to get the attention of the remainder of the bar.
“we should go then”, she says smiling widely.
it’s not far to her apartment. we get their quickly. she turns on me in the elevator on the way up, grabbing my cock through my pants and whispers, “i want you in my ass.”
i’m not quite sure what to say, blushing, she puts a finger to my lips and lets me get away with my silence and leads me out of the open door to her apartment. opening the door and pulling my inside.
we make out as we normally would, but i’m distracted, worried and nervous. i must have started shaking a little because she noticed and hugged me close, promised to guide me though it. (i didn’t realize how literally this was)
it wasn’t much longer before we’re naked on the sofa, my cock in her mouth, my tongue inside her. she breaks off our embrace and we head to the bed.
“so this is lube…” and so forth. all of the mechanics are being explained to me patiently by a woman i was starting to feel something special for. exhilarating. she’s patient with my questions, keeping the mood going by occasionally stroking me, and letting me pet her.
when the time comes for me to slip into her ass, it’s difficult, i get the angles all wrong. everything’s a slippery, glistening and beautiful mess. but i finally get inside of her.
“not so fast, go slowly”
i push in slower, hearing her gasp.
i slow to a crawl, following her instructions as carefully as i can. i push i deeply and withdraw, and push in again.
her back arches, as if she’s on the verge of something, “oh god, shit, my god”, her cursing turns me on, but i’m nervous i’m hurting her. she assures me i’m not.
it’s only now that i start focusing on my own experience. it feels wonderful. i’m not sure, even in hindsight, if i’m more turned on by the act, or the idea of the act. the experience in intensely satisfying. i come quickly. too quickly. like when i was in high school.
afterwards i hold on to her close.
“i love you inside me there, stay in there a little bit”
i hold her for what seems like ages, still parsing out the taboo we’d broken. this was all new to me then, this is before the ubiquity of pornography had made this almost normal.
i wasn’t sure what this made me. i was blinded by morals, norms and preconceptions. feeling guilty and confused but also enthralled, i was already starting to become more open-minded.
i got an email from a reader after i wrote about the artist becoming disgusted in me. it was warm and friendly and reminded me that there’s a lot of value of exploring the darker corners of my psyche while i’m alone, while it’s easier [i added the later reason].
and with that, as a model of inspiration and self-motivation, here’s a list of fucked up things, rooted in the darker side of my life, i might try to do while i can, while there’s no one who cares about me to stop me, or object. i’ve also added my pre-arranged excuses for failing to try them:
i’m generally hopeful to expand this list as i move forward.