Tuesday, January 31, 2012


I knew I only had a 50-50 shot of seeing the Gent. I knew I didn't want to wait around at home only to be let down by his inability to have me over. I knew I needed a distraction.

I ventured out to a kinky happy hour tonight. I dressed cuter than normal, just in case luck was on my side. I smelled good, looked good, and was in a generally good mood, but this was at the beginning of the night when I still held out hope.

As the evening wore on, my mood slowly dipped down. As the minutes passed, it seemed less and less likely that he would be free tonight.

I distracted myself with limes, booze, and friends. I spoke with a gorgeous couple, ArrogantSlut and WantAWhip. The subject of rope came up. I had just so happened to bring some; granted it was in hopes of using it on another, but being prepared for one eventuality can occasionally aid you in another endeavour.

We found a spot to tie, but did not start. It turned out they were about to teach a class on basic rope, a class I felt I did not need. Rain check for later in the evening.

I found myself at the bar. I slowly sipped my drink. I feasted on the limes of my friends. I realized my night was not going to work out as I had hoped.

I sent the Gent two photos over text. He responded. We chatted. He confirmed my assumption.

With the class ended, the lovely couple returned. It was time to cash in the chit. We again found a corner. I decided to be lazy. He sat in front of me as I tied.

I wanted to be playful, try something new. I had strict parameters: tying only. No beating (punching, slapping, kneeing, etc), as I had hoped. For some reason I didn't dare ask about kissing or massaging. To me, since one set of intimate acts was off limits, I didn't bother to inquire about any other.

I focused on my tying. On skin-to-skin contact. On cinching the rope tight. On having my body near his when possible. On the beauty of the forms. On the playfulness of my practice.

For a few fleeting moments, I was happy-bubbly-giggly. For a while, I was pleased I'd come to happy hour. For a bit, I wasn't disappointed.

We might be able to squeeze in a dinner tomorrow, but more than likely I will not see him for at least a week. Total suckage.

But I made new friends. I tied up a very cute muscular boy. And I have an open invitation to do it again. I'd call that winning.

Ropey Fun Time

Most of the time we talked. We geeked out over rope. We ate grocery store sushi. I put in an order for a natural fiber kit. We enjoyed each other's company. Most of the time was filled with words.

But part of the night was more action than notions, more feel than say.

I was in rope first. N3rddom tied me while Nomad and KnownUnknown watched and chatted. I let myself get lost in the constriction, his constant push-pull, his control of my body. I brushed my hands as best I could against his stomach, against his leg, as he tied. He always had his body against mine. He spanked my ass. I squealed a little. My head became swimmy. The feeling was delicious.

Next I tied Nomad. She was in the mood for whimsy. I was in the mood to inflict pain. I experimented with a tie I'd seen recently. I trapped her arms, secured her chest to a hard point, and took away one of her legs.

I immediately went for her free leg. She hopped around, trying to get away. When her free leg grew tired, I switched them up. N3rddom, more of a Sadist than I, attached nipples clamps and linked them to her ankle rope. She did not move much after that. He grabbed a Hitachi and she quietly came.

We removed the nipple clamps and ankle line, but I wasn't done. I punched, slapped, spanked, and kneed her more. She'd never had such treatment before, but found she liked it. I enjoyed beating on her. I enjoyed the power, the control, the force of my will on her body.

Her skin turned red, especially on her thighs. I hugged her and caressed her hair as both N3rddom and I untied her.

We sat, chatted more. I grew sleepy. It was late and I'm suppose to wake up for work in six hours.

With the assistance of caffeinated mints (disgusting but effective), I safely made my way home from a fun Monday night.

Monday, January 30, 2012


Tonight, as I sat with SkinnyBitch on our couch, chatting about our weekends and life in general, the power went out. She was on my netbook, which gave her form a soft glow. I, however, was surrounded by darkness. I freaked, frantically trying to find the flashlight app on my iPhone. The power was back on in less than a minute. I silently cursed myself for not having my actual flashlight near me.

I am afraid of the dark. I think this is an obvious fact; if you have read some on my erotica, I'm sure you've noted a few of my characters share this trait. And though I know logically this is a part of me, I don't often acknowledge to myself how deep my fear goes.

I don't sleep in the dark. Ever. For most of my life I slept with a television on, a practice I learned from my mother. College forced me to change this habit, briefly, as my roommates did not appreciate the distraction as they slept. I used the sleep function on my computer to scroll photos, providing myself a light source at night that wasn't terribly inconvenient for all others involved. However, as soon as I got my own room, I again went back to leaving the television on throughout the evening.

As I've developed in my adult life, I've transitioned away from having a television in my room and adapted to just having some light source available as I sleep.

Music has also been a soothing balm to my fear. With a soft glow and random rock songs from the local station, I'm good to go each night.

My fear of the dark extends beyond just my sleep habits. Each night, when walking through the house, I keep myself in a cone of light. I transition from room to room, flipping switches as I go.

The hardest part of each evening is the half dozen steps from my bathroom to my bedroom. We don't leave the hallway light on, or any other lights in the house. I leave my door open, my destination a beacon for my trek.

I scurry rather quickly, trying not to be too loud, hoping the roommates don't notice I am running because of what is behind me or what might pop out beside me. I close my door quickly, locking out whatever monster might have almost snatched me tonight.

There have been exceptions to my fear. They always involved other people.

I've slept in the dark when someone is cuddled up next to me. Though my brain still ventured to it's scary place, it was easier to pull back to safer sane imaginings with another's flesh anchoring me to my present. When venturing down dark halls, if I am surrounded by people they provide a natural human shield. And since I sometimes work in theatre, I have acclimated myself to surviving occasional blackouts.

Eventually I want to play with my fear. I know, of all the things someone could do to me, this would be the biggest mindfuck possible. But I also know it would require an extremely high level of trust and understanding. This is very much a long term project.

So, what are you afraid of?

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Good Night

"Will you suspend me?"

My night started slow; I had arrived early for the play party. I wore my red teddy, black tights, and my black heals. My teddy had not experienced enough play in my opinion, and I felt in a flirty mood.

I initially talked to my friends, and contemplated what trouble I would get into. As more of my compatriots arrived, the party filled.

This was a two night event, coinciding with a convention taking part in the area, but I didn't know that at the time. As the night went on, and more and more younger folk arrived, I learned this evening was geared towards the under twenty-four crowd. The next night would only be open to attendees at or above that age.

My first play of the evening kept me sore all night. I'd seen Jx

Since Jx was not into rope, cigars, and their boots were purple, we decided on impact. I told them punching, kicking, scratching, kneeing, and hair pulling were all welcome. I completely disrobed and we began.

Jx started by punching my right arm, transitioned to my back, and circled around to my left arm. They punched my chest, lightly hit my stomach, and continued to circle my body, abusing it as they saw fit. They kneed my rump, threw their forearm into my body, kicked into me; I rocked forward with their blows.

I began to cry. Jx checked in. I had forgotten to tell them this was a good thing. Crying in my play means you are doing it right. When I sob and wail, it is a catharsis. I take the pain in and breathe it out in my cries. Jx was very good at what they did.

They asked me how I would safeword. I tearily explained I used body language, crouching away from them if I needed a moment. I always do this in my play, in fact. If needed, I take a second or a moment to regain myself and then come back. If it becomes to much, I just don't present my body for them anymore.

Jx gripped my hair and pulled my head back. They slapped my cheeks, one and then the other, over and over, stingy pain shooting through my skin. They slapped my lips, a feeling I had yet to experience. I couldn't scream as they focused their fingertips over my mouth, muffling my cries.

Jx asked me to lie on the ground. They continued their blows, now using their booted feet. They reiterated that if it became too much, I should move away. They kicked, using their toe, again into my arms, my back, and now my thighs. They circled around again. They slapped my back with increasingly stingy blows. My cries soared into the floor. I let the feeling wash over me.

Finished, Jx complimented my ability to take a beating as they gently thumped my back. They massaged all over me, bringing my sobs down to normal breathing and my mind back out of my body and once again into the world.

I sat up on my knees, smiling. We examined Jx's work, seeing what bruises would soon appear. Jx was especially pleased at a boot imprint on my back, the lines of the tread visible on my skin.

We hugged. I was happy, warmed up for my night.

Rejoining my friends, I learned Jx and I had scared away some new folks. It seemed the crying didn't sit well with them.

Just then, I saw Lqqkout had arrived. I greeted him and offered him the ten cent tour of the space. I also mentioned my interest in playing with him that evening. We agreed to check back in with each other later.

Soon after, another friend arrived. AT and I greeted one another; I was happy he had made his way to the event. AT had newly arrived to town and I believe this was his first play party since settling in. We spoke for a bit before parting ways.

Randomly, I saw a new girl I had spoken to earlier in the night sitting on a futon in a corner. She had expressed an interest in rope, and I had encouraged her to speak to Amy Morgan who was installed under a hard point tying all those brave enough to ask. I sat next to the girl and inquired if she had had her time in rope yet. She had not.

Seeing her nerves, I offered to tie her myself. Relief filled her face; she agreed.

I scurried to my things, grabbed my rope bag, and returned. After a brief health talk, I decided I would tie her in a basic chest harness with her arms free. Then I would bind together her wrists and secured them up over her head and behind her back. With my work complete, she seemed to really enjoy the comfort of the binding. I let down her arms, but she kept the chest rope on for some time after.

After watching me tie the shy girl, another new girl approached me and asked for time in my ropes. Because she was more flexible than my first newbie bottom, I tied the second in a more constrictive harness. She enjoyed the experience as well.

A third girl also approached me; I tied her as well. Releasing my first bottom from her ropes, I used the strands to tie the third, who also opted to stay in the chest harness for a spell. My night was getting filled with lots of rope-y fun-ness.

"Will you suspend me?"


I'd completed all my ties by the futon couch in the corner of the playspace. For my time with AT, I needed a hard point. With all my rope secure and all the girls happy, AT and I made our way to a portable rig.

I secured my ring with my webbing and laid out my ropes. I asked AT my usual health questions; he was as fit and as tough as an ox. He took off his clothes, but I asked him to leave on his underwear, and his boots. I asked him what I was allowed to do. He said he had no restrictions. We began.

Working behind him, I bound his wrists and tied a tight chest harness around him. I pulled my excess rope through a carabiner, looped through his harness, and secured him to my ring. I then bent down and tied a cuff around his booted ankle. Asking him to bend his knee, I lifted the rope to another carabiner. I pulled his leg up, up, up, and tied off. I left his other leg free. Happy with my work, I moved in front of him.

I was in a playful mood and I could do whatever I wanted to AT. I wanted to punch him. I went after his thigh, abusing his one leg on the floor. I challenged his ability to stay standing. His thigh was all muscle. He smiled, confessing he was a cyclist. I liked punching and slapping the firm flesh all the same. It was the slapping that especially bothered him, causing his initial faltering.

I moved on to his rear. I punched one side of his ass while I spanked the other. I slapped his back, issuing hard stingy blows. He moved this way and that, trying to keep his balance, but he couldn't get away. When he could, he leaned into me, attempting to disrupt my hits. This didn't deter me.

All the while, as I'm abusing him and he's trying to evade me, neither of us can stop laughing. I'm giggling and laughing and beating on my friend as he's spinning and swaying and laughing with me. I'm up over his back. I'm down on my knees. I'm kneeing his ass. I'm spanking him. I'm tickling him. And we laugh and laugh and laugh.

AT is a pale man. Where my blows landed had turned his flesh a lipstick red. We both marveled at the effect. I scratched his back, and then wondered if I could scratch my initials into him. With what little nails I had, I scratched " P D ~ " onto his skin. It raised up nicely.

Both of us happy and out of breath, I lowered his leg, released his wrists, and freed him from my binds. We smiled. We hugged. Our scene was awesome.

AT now had another request; he wanted to flog me. We searched around for toys, but all had seemed to have vanished.

Instead we settled on watching Amy Morgan and Lqqkout play. I sat on the floor while AT rested in a chair. I leaned against his leg and looked on at the fantastic rope work before me.

AT lightly brushed his hand over my arm. I nuzzled my head into his leg, showing both my enjoyment in the small sign of affection and my giving back positive energy to him. As he read my interest into his gesture, his hand traveled across the back of my neck. I leaned into his fingers.

Going further, AT gripped down hard on my flesh. He massaged the knots in the top of my back. He kneaded away my worries about work, about money. Leaning forward, I dropped into his easing and found comfort in his efforts.

Finished with his caresses, I again leaned against AT's leg and went back to watching Lqqkout and Amy.

As I took in the scene, a beautiful girl approached AT and asked for a back rub as well. I leaned forward, giving him ample ease to work on the girl. After he completed his work, AT remarked how good it felt to have two beautiful women at his knees. This made me smile. I again leaned my head against his knee and his hand found my arm once more.

As Lqqkout and Amy's scene came to an end, so too did the event. Though the playspace was not scheduled to close until 2am, by 1:30am almost everyone was gone. I quietly slipped away, checking in on my friends. Later I came back, gave a hug goodbye to Lqqkout, and secured an IOU for future play.

Driving home, sleepy and tired, I smiled while recounting my night. I could feel the bruises from Jx rising. I could feel the warmth from AT's massage on my back. I thrilled in remembering the fun time I had giggling as I abused AT's body. It was a good night.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

The Boy and The Man


It was Sunday, cleaning day. If the boy did nothing else today, he had to clean. His life was so hectic, so full, that the boy put aside one day a week for normal adult activities. He would check all his mail, buy groceries for the week, and he would clean.

His grubby studio apartment wasn't much to look at, but it was enough for him. Between work, school, and his social life, he barely saw it anyway. His apartment served as the room where he collapsed each night, woke up, showered, and left in the morning.

The boy, however, didn't want to live in squalor. His first few months of his senior year had taught him well. Take out containers, cardboard pizza boxes, soda cans, and the few dishes he did use piled up in his kitchen. At one point, the boy realized there was a swarm of flies throughout his apartment and he couldn't see any part of the kitchen counter. And thus Sunday became his maintenance day.

But, more than that, it also became his personal day. No homework. No friends' issues. No complaining customers. He had grown to love his Sundays, even if they were full of things to do. Everything the boy accomplished made his life better.

This Sunday had gone well. He breezed through the mail, setting aside the paper for recycling. Grocery shopping had been relatively good. Since he'd gone fairly early, the usual crowd was not as bad as in weeks past. All that was left was the actual cleaning.

He'd started with the kitchen, which he hated the most. Memories of the first offending insects always had him worried a new pest would show. When all the containers were thrown out and the dishes in the dishwasher, he gathered up the trash and recycling, walked them down the hall, and stuffed it all down the cavernous shoots in the dirty closet.

Last was laundry. Sliding his hamper, he gathered up his clothes, flung this way and that, memories from his past week flooding his mind. He reached for a blue tank top hanging on the metal arm of his futon couch. Wondering if it needed a spin in the wash, because this one seemed mostly clean to him, he brought the cloth to his nose. Inhaling, his body tumbled back to Thursday night, the semi-crowded bar, and the man.

The man was older, much older, to the point where the boy wondered why he found the gentleman attractive at all. The boy usually went for guys around his age, guys who still drank, and occasionally did blow, and would suck his cock in the back alley as casually as shaking hands. But there was something about this man that captured the boy.

The boy had been leaning against the wall, drink in hand, sipping and spying the meat of the night. He was waiting to see who would prowl him. Instead, he set his sights on the man.

The boy hadn't seen him walk in, hadn't noticed him sit at the end of bar, didn't know if he was a regular or a visitor. When he saw the man, quietly staring at him, his breath caught in his throat.

It wasn't a mean or menacing look. It wasn't questioning or calculating. Instead, it felt like the boy had no clothes on. It felt like the man saw right through his skinny jeans and blue tank top. It felt like the man saw him, saw him and wanted him. And, it that moment, the boy wanted the man as well.

He took a breath, swallowed the last of his drink, and began the long walk to the other side of the room. There was no break in the man's stare, no moment where the boy didn't feel his eyes always burrowing into him.

When he finally reached the man, the boy sat next to him, and simply, boldly, asked, "Do you want me?"



"Do you live close?" The idea of the boy bringing this man back to his cluttered apartment was beyond horrifying.

"No. Your place?"

"Downtown. Are you in the mood for an adventure?" The boy was in the mood for whatever the man wanted.

A fifteen minute cab ride, a long trip up an elevator, and about five lifetimes worth of sexual tension later, the boy sat on the nicest couch he'd even seen in the nicest apartment he'd ever seen in a building he could only hope to work in, let alone ever live in.

But now, he didn't know what to do. The man had disappeared, leaving him in the living room with a glass of water and a life's worth of acquired objects to peruse. But the boy didn't want to look at art or trinkets. He wanted the man, just the man.

When his anxiety almost had him running out the door, his bent head shot up from the shock of the man's voice.

"Why are your clothes still on?"

The man had reappeared wearing only a robe. The boy quickly riped off his clothes, the man always watching. When it came to his underwear, however, the boy suddenly felt shy, an emotion that had not crossed his mind since grade school.

The man must have seen his apprehension; he approached the boy, lightly placed his hands on the boy's hips, and slowly slid the fabric down. Now on his knees and at eye level with the boy's cock, the young one felt a heat so powerful he thought it would consume him.

With a firm push, the boy sat back on the couch. A little shocked by the change, his eyes were already wide before the man surrounded his cock with his lips. The boy gasped, and his breathing grew heavy as the man sucked and sucked and sucked.

The boy's hands found the man's hair, softly caressing his head. The man, never missing a beat, continued to blow this boy like no one had before, while simultaneously grabbing the boy's wrists and pinning them to the sides of his thighs. The man's grip was strong, firm.

The man's strokes increased. He took the boy's cock down his throat with the ease of licking a lolly pop. The boy, having never had a blow job this good, found it hard to hold on.

"Fuck. Fuck. I'm coming."

The man stopped. He lifted his head and looked directly into the boy's eyes. The boy didn't understand what was going on. He was so close, so close to the biggest fucking orgasm he had ever had. What had happened?

"Did I...did I do something wrong?"

The man released his hold on the boy's wrists. He stood, towering over the boy sucked up by the couch.

The man dropped his robe. Once again the boy's eyes were wide. This man, whose age could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five, had the body of an Adonis: muscles, abs, clean shaven. It was as if the god himself had appeared before the boy. He didn't know what to say or do, but he knew he wanted more than anything for this beautiful body to be against his.

"Your orgasms are mine. I decide when you cum."

The boy didn't understand, yet he understood. The man was in control. The boy didn't care; whatever this man wanted he would give.

The man gripped the boy's hair. With his free hand, the man stroked his own mostly erect cock. The man then shoved the boy's mouth onto his cock, plunging deep into the boy's throat. The boy happily sucked on the man's dick, happily thrusted his head forward and back, happily took all of him into him. The man's cock was the biggest the boy had ever swallowed, but he had given enough blow jobs by nineteen to never have to worry about a gag reflex.

The man continued to grip the boy's hair, fucking the boy's face. The boy's hands rested on the man's hips, using the feel to help him time the man's strokes. As they grew faster, the boy quietly marveled at the muscles of the side of the man's ass.

As the boy's mouth grew sore, he wondered if he would be able to please the man, wondered if he could withstand the man's pounding the back of his throat much longer. His lips were stretched. His throat had begun to ache. Still, he didn't want his cock anywhere else.

Well, there was one place he wanted it, and he got his wish soon after the thought occurred.

The man abruptly pulled the boy's mouth off his cock. They were both breathing hard, though the man's huffs were nowhere near as loud or as desperate as the boy's. The man looked down, saw the boy was still hard, and gave the slightest of grins.

"Turn over." The boy put one knee on the couch while his opposite foot rested on the floor. He presented his ass to the man, high, open, willing, and ready for the man's cock. The boy heard the tear of the wrapper, but had no clue where the condom came from. After a moment, the boy felt the man's cold fingers on his asshole, spreading the lube and opening his hole up.

And then the boy felt the tip of the man's cock tracing the circle of his anus. His hips instinctively tilted up, trying to capture the head. He wanted so desperately to have the man's cock in him, but somehow the boy knew he was getting teased. The boy remembered the man's was in control. Still, he begged with his hips for the man to enter his ass, and eventually the man did.

The man without warning shoved deeply, deliciously into the boy, filled his ass with the cock the boy had just previously tasted. The boy loved the feel of this dick inside him. The man lingered there, fully in the boy, before he gave another powerful thrust. A pause and a third thrust followed.

The boy ached with the pleasure, ached with lust and passion, ached to be fucked hard. Again the man granted the boys silent wish. He began thrusting in a slow rhythm, gripping the boy's hips. Then his thrusts grew. And grew.

Until finally the man was slamming his cock into the boy, gripping and pulling the boy's hips onto his dick, riding the boy harder than he'd ever felt. The boy panted, pleaded, thanked the man for his fucking. He pushed back his ass. He gripped the couch, trying to keep from falling. His cock, still hard, pulsed with the beat of the man's cock forever pounding him. And the boy could feel it, could feel the orgasm rising.

"I...may I... may I cum? Fuck, may I cum?" The man continued to fuck the boy mercilessly.

"Please. Oh god please. Please may I cum?" The man gripped the boy's hair again, bringing the boy's ear up to the man's lips.

"You want to cum?" The boy heard the sinister tone in the man's voice, heard the control.

"Yes, please."

"You love my dick inside you, pounding you hard, fucking you senseless?"

"Yes, oh god yes. Please don't stop."

"Oh, I won't." With his free hand, the man reached down and gripped the boy's cock, stroking it now to the beat of his thrusts.


"You are such a nelly bottom. You want your cock pulled and your ass fucked, don't you?"


"You love me filling you up, all the way full, don't you?"

"Yes! Please don't stop. Please."


The man pushed the boy's body back down and drove into the boy even harder than before. The power of the man's hips shoved the boy into the couch. All the while the man never stopped stroking the boy's cock.

The boy convulsed as he shot into the man's hand and gripped onto the man's dick with his ass. The man brought his hand full of cum to the boy's face and slathered it all over. The man stuck his fingers in the boy's mouth and the boy licked his own juices off the man's hands. The pure ecstasy of the moment washed over the boy, fucked better, harder than he had ever been fucked before. His body was on fire; the heat consumed him whole.

The man grunted loudly, his final few thrusts shifting the couch a bit. The boy guessed the man had cum too. After his last stroke, the man slowly pulled his cock out of the boy and wiped the last bits of the boy on the boy's sweaty ass.

As the boy laid on the couch, a panting sweaty ball, the man reached down, put his robe back on, and disappeared.

What could have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes later, he reappeared. The boy had finally regained his normal breathing, but still felt the residual warmth of the fuck. But now what?

The man approached, staring at the boy.

"I called you a cab. Don't worry; the fare will be charged to me. He should be here in five minutes."

The man turned to leave the room again.

"Wait!" The boy didn't know what to say, what to do, but he knew he wanted to see the man again. Knew he could not have this be just one night. "Please, I don't want... I... When can I see you again?"

The man turned around, smiling. It was a warm grin, as if the boy's response was both pleasing and unexpected. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, the man pulled out a card. Printed on it was a phone number, no name.

"Call this number in two weeks. I can give you once a month, no more."


"No more."

"Okay." He turned around and walked away.

Somehow the boy made it home. Somehow the boy got up the next day and made it to class. Somehow the boy suffered through work. In all of this he couldn't remember how he had done it. Friday was lost for him. His only thoughts, as he trudged through his day, were of the man.

And now, just a few days later, breathing in the luscious scent of the tank top, the boy's mind was right back to that fancy apartment, that engulfing couch, and the man's cock jammed deep inside him.

And before the boy realized what he was doing, his hand was already down his pants, stroking his cock, as he sat on his futon, sniffing his shirt, remembering his Thursday, and looking forward to his next encounter with the man.

Friday, January 27, 2012

Story Told

On Tuesday night I attended Bare, a storytelling event held at the Black Cat in DC.  Part of the evening included picking a name at random from the "Bare pussy," cocktail napkins submitted by the willing.  My name was in the pussy, but it was not pulled.

Ever since, I've had the story I wanted to tell stuck in my head, begging to be freed.  So, for your listening pleasure, the following is a link to the audio file of me talking about my first night at my first kink event, Dark Odyssey Summer Camp 2010.

My voice is raspy because it's almost 1am and I'm tired as fuck.  Still, I just had to get this out of me.

Story Told

Wednesday, January 25, 2012


Recently I was offered a full time job with a company I like. The work would've been nothing difficult and it would've paid me more than I made in all of 2010 by about five thousand dollars. I turned it down.

For nearly the whole of my professional life, I have worked as a freelancer. I've spent six years in an industry that often chews people up and spits them out. I'm getting to the age where one of three things happen:

1- You accept the fact that you will always be a grunt and just work more to earn more.
2- You get a full time job in another line of work and walk away with the many stories from your days as a freelancer.
3- You move up, advance, or find some other position with a company that does not work your body as hard.

Recently I spoke about how I now have to deal with the challenges of leading more for certain companies. In my industry, I've kind of made it. I believe I made quite a bit more this year than last year, though I'm still waiting on my multiple W-2s to confirm this.

Taking this job would have been smart. It would have been guaranteed work with a set schedule. No surprises, no slow seasons. Just ten hours a day five days a week, 10-99 (no taxes taken out). But I didn't.

The reason why my life is so brilliant currently is the same reason why I couldn't take that job: freedom.

I choose my schedule. Granted it is dependent upon me finding work for the days in which I wish to get paid, but that comes down to hustling. When I want to take a day off, I just say I can't work it. If my friends plan something and I get enough notice ahead of time, I will cancel a gig. I've canceled with every company I currently work for and they still call me back.

Why? Because I'm good at what I do. I show up on time (if not early). I come with not only a degree, but the knowledge I've built up in my six years of experience. Six years of dealing with bullshit. Pushing through when all I want to do is sleep. Being a bleeding heart liberal black woman who still works well with misogynists and nepotists and racists and conservatives.

They trust me enough to toss me keys, tell me the warehouses to visit, pick up their gear, and bring it back. They trust me enough to send me out with a truck full of equipment, a basic idea of what the client wants, a crew of 1-3 people, and belief in my ability to load in, watch over, and break down a show.

With my kink life soaring, with my new found status of social butterfly, I could not accept that job. I already paid for multiple events. I already planned out parts of my year. I set goals. I know what I want for the next eleven months. A full time job was not it.

Just last year I thought I was going to get a stable and secure position in an all together different industry. I submitted an application, along with an extensive resume that included my job history all the way back to college. I interviewed, twice. I went through drug testing. I thought I had it in the bag. Then came a curve ball, and it was over.

And ever since, I've been so happy that it didn't work out. In the allure of the stability, I forgot how much I love my freedom, love that I can lead the life I now have. Love that I can be me without hiding, without (too much) judgement. Love that my life is how I shape it, not fitting into a monotonous mold.

So no full time stable job for me, at least not in 2012. 2013...? Let's see how the next eleven months go.

Bare It All

I was nervous. Speaker after speaker stepped up to the mic and recounted story after amazing story. One man spoke about his first ever visit to a bathhouse in Ireland. Another recounted his brief but wondrous life as a child porn star. A beautiful woman spoke about finding love when she least expected it. A gentleman spun the tale of his first trip to Amsterdam. And a man with a wonderful accent told us about his first ever kink event, and why you should always take the Monday after off.

All of this, plus the opening act, a musical performance by Kimi Lundie, was awesome. At one point my cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing so hard. I had a great time.

But there was one moment where I held my breath. I had put my name in the "bare pussy" for the opportunity to step up to the mic and tell a story.

I knew which tale I would spin: the first night of my very first kink event. I outlined the story previously today, twice, just in case I got lucky. The person picked would get seven minutes to speak. I wanted, oh how I wanted my name to be pulled.

I was the first to submit my name. Unfortunately I was not the last. There were about five names in the bag when Jefferson pulled out a name, not my name. Instead Marcus, his friend, told the story of the first time his chest was shaved. For the vanillas in the audience, it seemed tame enough. As a kinkster, with his talk of cigars and submission along with the shaving, it was full of sexy hotness to me.

I was disappointed my name didn't get picked, but that is pretty much the norm for me in these situations. I very rarely have good luck when it comes to random drawings. Instead, I focused on the show, and enjoyed every minute of it.

The gathering was a resounding hit. The line for the Black Cat was long. The show sold out. People were literally turned away. I look forward to the next installment, which hopefully will be each month. We'll see.

After the show, people mingled in the bar, chatting and laughing. I greeted Jefferson and BLP, met Marcus and Kimi Lundie, as well as other speakers, and had a generally good time. When we all realized we were hungry, a group of about nine of us made our way to Adams Morgan and late night falafels turned out to be just right.

Nourished and tired, the NYC crew were to crash with Marcus at his home. After a quick car and luggage shuffle, and multiple goodbyes, our night had ended at 2am, but not before I secured a Winter Fire get together with Jefferson.

All-in-all, a pretty fucking fantastic night.

[Many thanks to MaryLeo, without whom my cash starved ass would not have made it into the show. I owe her about three drinks, to be paid over the next few Happy Hours, fair trade for such good memories.]

Monday, January 23, 2012

Be Honest

* You want me to be honest?

- Yes. And no bullshit. The word 'rejection' better not cross your lips.

* Hmm... Well, beyond rejection. Beyond failure. Beyond loneliness and heartache, the usuals.

- Yes.

* The thing I fear the most is... the dark.

- The dark?

* The dark.

- Really?

* Yes. In case the power goes out, I keep a flashlight right beside my bed. It's one of those crank ones, so it never runs out of battery. And before you ask, yes, I do sleep with a night light.

- A night light?

* I strung up some Christmas lights in my bedroom. They're plugged into the outlet controlled by the wall switch. It's diffuse, soft; I'm lulled in the dim glow each night. I used to have them strung up all over my apartment, but slowly they burnt out. So now just in my bedroom, the place I need them the most.

- Why the dark?

* Because. Because I don't know what's in it. Because I don't want to know what's in it. Because I don't know what waits for me there. Because I can't see, can't defend myself. Because I can't even run away; what if I'm running right to it, the monster in the dark?  Is it right behind me? Right beside me? It's the most basic, most base, most gut churning "this must stop" fear I have.

- [short pause] Wasn't expecting that. Different.

* I'm special. So what's yours?

- Excuse me?

* What's your greatest fear?

- No no, we're talking about you tonight.

* And why is that?

- This is the getting to know you phase, so I'm getting to know you. What's the happiest day of your life?

* [pause] I don't know.

- Pick a day, above all days, that means the most to you.

* I can't. I just can't.

- Pick one.

* I can't. [pause] Everyday, everyday I can think of, everyday I'm suppose to love is marred by a moment of hurt. I can't pick a day; I haven't had my happiest day yet.

- Okay, then pick a moment. A single moment of happiness.

* [grins, shakes head] No, I don't want to pick that one.

- What one?

* It's too...no.

- Just say it.

* No.

- Say it.

* Fine. [sighs] It was a night with my Ex. We sat on the back patio of our apartment. It was a cool summer evening. Cool, but not cold. Almost perfect. He sat sipping his bourbon. I sipped on a beer. My legs were draped over his lap. He lazily rubbed my thighs. I slumped back and closed my eyes while he looked out on the parking lot watching the last bits of sunlight fade away. We had just had some really great sex, I mean really great sex, after arguing half the day, I don't remember about what. It was that moment that I thought, Yeah, this is it. This is what I want.  Of course that turned out to be bullshit. I was high off the two hours of wild fucking and had no idea we would break up in about a month. But right there, right then, I, we were good. So what's the happiest day of your life?

- [huffs a laugh] Nice try.

More Important

Hanging out with the roommates and their kids was more important than writing. I had spent a little time with the kids before work on Saturday, and had opted to fill my unexpectedly free Saturday night with adult activities. I wanted to spend time with them and the roommates. I wanted to hear their stories and see them laugh and watch their creativity at work. It was a fun morning before they had to go back to their other home.

A hot shower and masturbation were more important than writing. After the roommates and the kids departed, I slipped into a general funk. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with my day. I knew the things I should do, the errands I should run. I knew I wanted to see the best friend, but she wasn't free. I slowly made my way home with a responsible adult plan of action.

But, as soon as I walked in the door, a fundamental fact hit me: I was alone in the house. My other roommate was gone.

The warmth in my abdomen had not subsided since my Friday date with the Gent. If anything, it ebbed and flowed, but seemed to be making it's way higher and higher up the hill of my arousal.

I took a hot fun shower. I danced to my music, singing a little. I washed my hair. I enjoyed the smell of my soap, cleaning off the last few days of scents. At the end, I let the scolding water thump against my back, trying to knead some of the knots out. I made a mental note to sketch the view I had of my folded arms accentuating my cleavage.

Drying off, I remembered I needed to clean my sex toys. The quick chore completed, I prepped my netbook to watch some of the porn N3rddom gave me. I slipped in my WeVibe. I never logged onto my netbook.

My body was in such a state of arousal that even on its low setting the WeVibe quickly raised me to the edge of orgasm. I closed my netbook and began writhing on my bed. The masturbation music for this session was only two songs: "Tell Me A Secret" by Ludacris & Neyo and "Hey Daddy" by Usher. I repeated the first song over and over, with the second getting the last few minutes of fun.

I inserted my blue dildo. I fucked myself, screaming as much and as loud as I wanted. My black dildo, my Lelo vibrator, and then "the lawnmower" followed. I screamed, thanking my Daddy wherever he is, and came over and over again.

Watching football with my brother was more important than writing. I hadn't seen my brother in almost a month even though he lives less than thirty minutes from me. I texted him before my shower, making sure he intended to view the game. He confirmed, and I headed over there after I made myself stop masturbating.

Pollard's assist to Smith's interception. Pitta's TD catch. I don't remember who, but the dive for a TD, football in his outstretched right hand, and the face mask of a defender trying to tackle him in the other. And then Billy Cundiff's missed kick. All I could do was shake my head to that.

Running errands was more important than writing. After I left my brother's place, I swung by Barnes & Noble to return a book. I looked for a new daily planner, and for some odd reason they were out. I went to the grocery store and bought food for my lunches for work for the week. I came home and prepped the food. I folded clothes. I turned on my laptop and it actually booted up. I backed up everything onto my portable hard drive. I put my poster back in the Family Room.

Watching the end of the other football game with DeepEnd was more important than writing. It was getting late and I knew I still needed to blog, but I was hungry. I slipped downstairs for some food. DeepEnd had turned on the living room television, the only TV in the house with a converter box, and was watching the end of the game. I threw some food on a plate, heated it up, and joined him.

The game lasted for fucking ever. Overtime. Multiple opportunities for each team to score. And, of course, the team I rooted for lost.

Processing my emotions was more important than writing. I opened up my netbook, brought up WordPad, and started typing. The words that came were not a blog entry. They were the mind dump I'd been putting off for most of the day. They were my worries, my pain. They were not meant to be read by anyone but me. I didn't cry, but I came close.

I let myself acknowledge my pain and all its causes. I read back what I wrote. I saved the file, closed my netbook, and laid back under the covers.

It was 11pm. I knew I could wake myself up early to try to write. I set my alarm for 6 and 6:30am. I laid down, then remembered to turn on my radio. With music lowly playing, I drifted to sleep.

Sunday, January 22, 2012


My throat is sore.

My good karma must currently be off the charts. By some miracle, my work for this Saturday shrunk, and I found myself with a night off which I spent with the Gent at his place.

I arrived at 7pm. At 1am, he said it was time for me to go, explicitly waiting (without telling me) for an extra fifteen minutes because he dislikes my quarter hour distinctions. I then pointed out the flaw in his plan: I was naked and also needed to pack a few things. He dropped me off at my car at 1:15am, quarter hour added anyway.

I had his cock in my mouth tonight. It was delightful. He pushed me, trying to get me to deep throat him, softly encouraging my efforts. I sunk him in further than I had anyone else to date. I want to learn to deep throat, or, more accurately, I want to be able to control my gag reflex. I want to decide when and if I gag. I'm sure I'll be getting plenty of practice from my friends in the near future.

Only once during the night did I feel my dominance really manifest. I'm not sure how long I worked on his cock, but at a certain point he stopped me and got me to instead go back to working on his chest. I had previously kissed, caressed, and lightly bite his nipples.

However, after his request for me to scratch him while I worked on his cock, I took the leap that he liked pain. I bit, hard, and gripped the muscles of his back, sinking in my finger nails. This seemed to do the trick. He began biting my neck, jerking himself harder, and he soon came.

I was very submissive tonight, spending most of my time in some manner of undress and often the person initiating physical contact. He intentionally did not touch me til he saw fit to start playing.

One memorable moment was towards the beginning. He wanted me to masturbate to a cum. If you read some of my previous blogs, you will learn this is difficult for me. I often need 'assistance', either in the form of someone else's hand or something plugged into a wall. He was insistent. He felt I could do it. Hearing him say this got me hornier.

I was slow to start. He, of course, wanted to watch. He had me lie so he could see my hands at work. I asked if he was allowed to help me. He said he wouldn't touch me. That wasn't the kind of help I had in mind.

His voice is sexy. I can't nail down the specific quality, other than to say it isn't about bass or tone, but more the attitude. His quiet confidence comes across even in his speech.

I asked him to not stop talking; it didn't matter what he spoke about. I actually can't remember what he spoke about as I fingered my clit. By the time I finally reached my hand down, after having switched my hips for some minutes and listening to him, I was beyond wet. We, thankfully, had set a towel down on his sofa as a precaution.

As I began to masturbate, with his voice in my ear, I knew it would not be long before I asked for permission. He, however, made me wait; he wanted me to suffer a little. When he finally gave his consent, I thanked him and yelled my usual obscenities as my body rolled around on his couch. I loved doing this for him, cuming for him.

I came for him many more times tonight. Twice more as I fingered myself. About a half dozen times while bent over his couch, his fingers in my pussy, his free hand spanking me. And a few rolling orgasms as I gave him head while he fingered me.

I was curious if I would have been able to cum just from his asking, whispering, commanding it into my ear. He believed I could've tonight; I was that turned on. But he wanted to wait. He wanted to make me cum with his voice when he wanted. For being a novice, he sometimes shocks me with his spot on answers.

We talked, a lot, again. I got the ten cent tour of his home, which is way cleaner than any home I've ever lived in. There was cold pizza, yoga demos, and a three minute meditation experiment.

His clothes didn't come off til right before his dick came out. I tried to kiss him all night; we still haven't. And his penis did not enter any of my orifices, save my mouth. 

All-in-all, it was a randomly fun night.

Saturday, January 21, 2012


He hates that word. Hates it probably as much as I hate the word 'nice'.

Tonight was my second date with "the Gent".

"You're dangerous; I'm loving it." - my text to him on the way home; 'Toxic' was the first song on my radio.
"Stop Texting. Drive safe.  Good night Mrs. Desires."- his reply.

"I'm knee deep in training." - his text to a friend that I read over his shoulder.
"Am I training you or are you training me?" - my magical question for the evening. (His text was referring to his work.)

"Who do you care about? Your mother? Your father? Your ex?" - me
"Yes." - him, as he cleared off my car.
"Because I care about them more than they care about me."
"Good answer."

It was snowing. Not at the start of our date, but by the time I was driving home there was enough accumulation to make my trek take way longer than my bladder wanted to allow.

I really had to pee. "No one can top you like you can top yourself." - DeepEnd, while I panted and cursed during a recent workout.

I didn't stop driving til I got home, accept once at a shitty traffic light.  The unrelenting pressure on my abdomen, coupled with my heightened state of arousal, made me cum.  I cursed the light, and the Gent. I crept into my house as quietly as I could. I tried to not wake anyone. I hoped I succeeded.

My head, right now, is still swimmy from the alcohol and the orgasms. I came two times in the bar. As I rode his knee, I grabbed his coat, pulled his ear next to my lips, and told him, "You have to tell me to cum." I've been trained well.

I came about a half dozen more times on my ride home. I cursed him and adored him for the cruelty.

We're not going to fuck, but I want to fuck him. He pretends like he's in control. He pretends like he decides. Really, it keeps bouncing back and forth, like an endless tennis match. My dominance is passive aggressive. He likes the games we're playing.

"Are you a happy drunk? A horny drunk?" - him
"I'm happy, horny, handsy.  All the positive drunk qualities." - me

I felt him up. My uninhibited self wanted to feel his arms, the solid muscle of his biceps that I'd been staring at all night. Wanted to rub his back. Wanted to grip his ass. 

He dressed down for the occasion. I dressed up; I had work in a nice corporate office beforehand.  Clingy cleavage top.  Dress pants.  My ankle high Timberland boots.  A jacket.  All of it matte black.  Under my dress pants, I didn't wear underwear. 

He paid for the first two rounds, the drinks we nursed while we played pool. I paid for the last two, the two rounds that each included a shot and a beer.  I got us very...happy.

I love eye contact.  Once as we talked, I grabbed his chin and turned his eyes towards me.  He looked, for only a moment, and then turned away.  I turned his face towards me again.  And again.  And again.  I liked looking into his eyes, trying to guess what was going on in his brain.

I close my eyes when I play.  I close my eyes when I cum.  I let myself get lost in the sensations.  The touch.  The heat.  My chest, my breathing.  I soak it all in, fall into the chasm of my body, never wanting to come up for air.

He adverted his eyes as he bounced his knee against my clit, but I caught him, once, looking at me. I caught him seeing my ecstasy. I wondered what it would be like to see him cum. I wondered if he would later masturbate to my face as I rode his knee while we sat in the crowded bar, and I reveled in the delicious warmth that raced through my abdomen.

He was very poised, very matter-of-fact that I was writhing against his knee in such a public place. Very ho-hum about me wanting to cum for him. He was good at projecting his confidence.

"I want your cock in my mouth."

I was not going to fuck him tonight. Mother Nature, and my need to torture him, had sought fit to  prevent that. But the idea of him filling my mouth did excite me, but only to the point of teasing him. I would not have given him enough to make him cum, though apparently that had never happened to him before. Not yet, that is.  Plans...

I like this boy, this new adventure, this creature that pushes me, enthralls me, that makes it hard and yet so easy.

We played five games of pool tonight. I won, 3-2. More accurately, he lost two, I lost one, he won one, and I won one.

And we did it, again.  Our first encounter lasted 6.5 hours.  This one, 5.25 hours, with no movie as filler.

I wonder what he'll want to do next Friday.

Friday, January 20, 2012


Recently I've had to try to emcompass all that I am as a person into one paragraph. I submitted a short story, "Daddy's Girl" to an erotic anthology (which will let me know if my work has been accepted some time in April).

I also used that paragraph as my staff bio for the upcoming Dark Odyssey event, Winter Fire, which will be occurring in our Nation's Capitol in February during the Presidents' Day weekend.

Now don't fret my dear readers. I am on the Setup and Breakdown crew for Winter Fire. I work before the event starts and after it has ended. I will still have all the time in the world to bite into the meat of the juicy happenings. In fact, I have a list of possible playdates all set, which I sure will translate into many many sexy stories for you to read.

But I digress...

I found it interesting when trying to boil down the vastness that is my life into fifty words (the limit for the anthology). There is just so much to one life that it felt like an impossible task. Obviously, since I sent in the story, I made it happen, but there is no way to fully describe a person in such a small number of words. For goodness sake, there is a whole genre of writing just concerning who people are/were. So, to condense twenty eight years into a paragraph...

For me, it seems almost impossible to describe any life in only fifty words, even a life that lasts for one breath.

Since my bio was for an erotic anthlogy (and a kinky convention), there were obvious things I cut out: any mention of my colorful family life, my job, my shoe size. And there were obvious things to highlight: the fact that I am an "aspiring writer" since I've only been published once, in the sixth grade; it was a limerick; I couldn't tell you where to find it now. I, of course, made mention of my kinks, but there was no way to include all of them; besides, my bio would have then looked more like a singles ad then trying to encapsulate me as a person.

I did the chessy thing, mentioning how people can follow me on Twitter or read my blog, but only for DO; my hard word limit for the anthology made that an impossibility.

Now wouldn't that be meta? Someone reading my bio from the Winter Fire booklet, coming to this blog, and then reading this entry about the bio they read in the booklet that got them here. And now I have a headache.

So, for your viewing pleasure, my bio from my erotic anthology entry. Feel free to give your critiques, or post your own. How would you describe your kinky self in fifty words?

poeticdesires is an aspiring writer who's been exploring kink since she graduated college in 2005, and has been highly active in the east coast kink community for the past year and a half. She is a polyamorous switch and pansexual slut whose kinks include rope, fisting, bootblacking, and cigars.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

No Matter

It was the slightest touch, imperceptable to anyone save the two of them, but it was enough to seal her fate. The electricity in that simple act was apparent, screaming in her every nerve. She loved him, therefore she was lost.

He didn't allow love, didn't want it, didn't need it. He sought discipline, order, obedience. And she gave all of these, asking little for herself. Her only wish, her only goal, was to please him. But now that she had broken his rule, that she had shifted in the slightest way, it was over.

There was love and their was submission. He allowed the deep affection of subjugation. He allowed the attachment, the wanting this position would naturally encourage. But he made it clear, very clear, that if her emotions grew beyond those previously negotiated, if she longed for more, she was not allowed to keep quiet. She was not allowed to push her emotions aside. She must, was required, to tell him.

As per their contract, she politely requested a meeting. He chose coffee at a shop he liked to frequent. Walking through the door, she knew which was his favorite spot: in the corner upstairs by the back windows, with a little table and two chairs, the only two chairs that matched in the entire shop. He would look out on the diplapidated parking lot, at the tall trees, at the cars and trucks and middle class houses, just sitting and thinking. She always wondered what he was thinking.

When she climbed the stairs, he was there, sipping his coffee. Her tea was steaming on the table in front of the chair next to his. She was grateful she didn't have to wait. No gut wrenching worry, no playing out of their conversation over and over til he appeared. To be fair, they both liked to arrive early, always, so his beating her should have been expected. But she was not in her usual state. She anticipated this would be a heart ripping goodbye.

She took off her coat, resting in on the back of her chair. She sat, sipped her tea carefully, and took a deep breath.

"I have fallen for you." He sat, sipping his coffee, looking out the window, no immediate change evident. She was grateful for the warmth of the mug in her hands. Indeed, it helped keep her hands from shaking.

"I asked for this meeting because you made it very clear when we first negotiated our contract that should my feelings ever develop beyond what we agreed to, I had to come to you immediately."


"In the foyer at Stephanie's dinner party two nights ago. I got our coats, helped you with yours, and then put on mine. As I buttoned up, you so delicately brushed a strand of hair from my face. That's when I felt it. I kept my head tilted so that you wouldn't see my eyes, so that I wouldn't have to look into yours. I feared what would happen if you saw how I felt in that moment."

He took a long deep breath.

"Yes, I noted that interaction, not completely understanding why though. Not until now."

Her eyes began to water. Though she knew she could not have prevented the feelings, she felt she had let him down, the only man she wanted so desparately to please. But still her inner strength kept her from allowing her tears to fall. It was time to settle on their fates.

"Sir, as your contracted submissive, under the directives we set forth six months ago, I have to now ask you what you want to do."

He did not answer. He continued to stare out the window. She knew the look on his face. He was thinking, calculating. But what would he decide? He tilted his head back, finished his coffee, and set down the mug. Finally, he looked at her.

She did not recognize the glint in his eye, could not read his face as she had so many times before. This was something different. What was this look? If she had looked up that night in the foyer, she would have seen the same face that now stared at her.

He reached into his leather messenger bag, pulled out a manilla envelope, and place it on the table. She knew it contained their contract.

"Since the terms of our agreement no longer apply..." He pulled out the contract. "I wish to alter them."

Alter them? "Sir? You...you still wish to have me?"

"You thought I would not?"

"But I..."

"Your affections have grown. You came to me almost as soon as you knew. You have followed my instructions to the letter. Why would I release you?"

"I just thought..."

"Besides, you are not the only person whose feelings have...shifted." She quickly inhaled, but then held her breath, taking in the earthquake his statement caused in her. My Sir...he feels it too.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a long thin box. He placed it on the table and slid it to her. Setting down her tea, she slowly picked up the box and opened it. Inside was a necklace with a lock charm. The delicate nature of the metal hid its weight, both in heaviness and meaning.

"Will you accept my offer to be my collared slave?"


"Yes or no?"

"Yes Sir. Yes."

He stood, walked behind her, took the collar from the box, and placed it around her neck.

When did he...? How did he...? How long had he...?

Hearing the click of the lock on the back of her neck finally pushed one single tear from her eyes.

No matter.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Blind Spots

FetFest memory

Every person, no matter how hot or sexy they are, has a blind spot. For me, it's women. I get incredibly nervous trying to flirt or be around women who I find incredibly attractive.

Women are complicated. They have all these emotions. You never know what's going on in their head. They, sometimes, can be a little crazy. And yes, I say all this with the acknowledgement that I am a girl. (Suck it.)

My nervousness can be avoided under a few select circumstances.

1- In the midst of our talking, they point out someone else to whom they are attracted. My brain then switches me into assistance mood. How can I help them in the conquest of this person?
My ease also holds true if they are currently partnered; my brain ignores the existence of poly for these women unless it comes up in conversation. I become the friend, which to me is better than no interaction at all, the only other option my brain sees as possible.

2- If, for some reason, I am overly confident or have nothing to loose, I'm put at ease. This often happens at events when I'm surrounded by friends and high off of a number of scenes or general interactions with folks. If someone has whispered into your ear how much they love eating you out, another battered and bruised you, and a third massaged your scalp til you are floating above cloud 9, it is easy to not care if the pretty girl likes you.

I have practiced and learned how to approach people who catch my eye. I intentionally push myself to be more extroverted. It is my natural state to sink into the background and just watch & listen. As a writer, this has been helpful for my stories. As a young slutty kinkster, I have to work against this inclination.

So...to the meat of it.

Going into FetFest, my biggest blind spot was eating pussy. I mentioned this to a few friends who ended up easing me into the experience.

Outside of Cabin 1/2, Gray sat smoking a cigar and drinking whiskey while hanging out with K2 and TwistedView. I walked over to the cabin after finishing Lochai's Bondage For Sex class. Seeing Gray, I asked if I could sit and place my head on his knee. He agreed, and I disrobed as per usual, using my clothes to sit on.

I relaxed there for about twenty to thirty minutes, just taking sometime to appreciate the moment. Going into Fet, I knew I would not see Gray or interact with him as much as at Rope Camp, so when the opportunity came up to just be next to him for a bit, I had to take it.

After my time by his knee, I knew I still needed to go about my day. In earlier conversations that day, Gray, Glenda from NCSF, and Lochai all seemed to be encouraging me to ponder running for IMsL. I was unsure about the prospect, but thought I should at least go find Sara Vibes, the current title holder, and ask her about it.

In getting ready to go, I happened to mention to Gray that I had not yet eaten pussy. Of all things, it was this that shocked him. I explained how I got nervous around girls.

And I mentioned the one time I almost did eat a lovely red head out, that is until the girl started violently puking up the alcohol she'd consumed and had to rush to the bathroom off and on for three straight hours. The ordeal was a little bit traumatic. So no, the experience hadn't happened yet.

Gray, ever the friend, pointed out my little predicament could be fixed. K2, who had walked inside for a moment, stepped back out. Gray turned to her and asked, quite simply, "Hey K2, do you want to have your pussy eaten?"

She gave her agreement and things just kind of happened from there. To hear the full audio of my experience, because awesome friends do awesome things for each other, here is the LINK to Graydancer's Ropecast episode featuring the recording he made at FetFest. It's the last segment, about two-thirds of the way in. Once again, thank you Gray.

So, with K2 in a camp chair, my hands gloved, K2's legs spread and tied down, and my "It doesn't have look pretty; I'm just trying to eat pussy" line enshrined on Twitter, it was time to begin.

I was nervous, very nervous, but I did have an ace in the hole, so to speak. On the drive down from New York, Murphy and I had had a long conversation about blind spots. His was fisting, which I helped him overcome later. Since mine was eating pussy, he decided to give me pointers. He talked about technique, suggested some tricks, and most importantly, talked about reading your partner. He spoke about how, just like when giving a guy head, you listen for what they like and keep doing that.

Kneeling before K2, Gray's phone recording the experience, I began. I gently warmed her clit with my fingers. Then I bent over and slowly started licking around her clit. K2 spoke up, telling me I could go harder. She then started making noises, informing me what I was doing was right.

However, all of a sudden, I could hear and feel Gray stand up; previously he had just been sitting in a camp chair next to us. He placed his phone on K2's chest, the perfect spot to pick up her moans.

But then he came behind me. He placed his iPad on my back and also knelt down behind me, using me like furniture. To my delight, he then started fingering me. Naturally I started moaning.

"Oh honey, don't forget about me." K2 piped up as my focus momentarily drifted. I had gotten close to orgasming, but not quite. I redoubled my efforts, concentrating more on eating out K2 while still trying to enjoy Gray's hand inside me.

Of course then Gray decided he wanted to spank me, my ass being right there. Murphy, who had just returned to the cabin, suggested Gray use the Konami code. Gray spanked Up Up, spanked Down Down, spanked left, spanked right, spanked left, spanked right, squeezed a boob for B, squeezed my ass for A, and then said "She has the start button," referring to my manipulations of K2's clit.

"Are you a taxi?" Walking by our cabin, someone randomly yelled at K2.

Her response, "Do I look like a fucking taxi?"

This was an...interesting scene.

After a while, TwistedView asked K2 how I was doing. "She's doing a good job, but she's teasing me. I almost get there, but then I don't."

Oh, really?

I started going harder with my mouth, harder with my tongue. I finally slipped two fingers into her pussy and firmly massaged her G-spot. My stronger efforts did the trick. K2 asked TwistedView if she could cum. He gave his permission and her ecstasy rolled through, hard. In fact, she came so hard she later told TwistedView it felt like she had to pee. I'd call that a job well done, and on my first try no less.

We hugged; we both were happy; everyone enjoyed the show.

And as a post script, Murphy, ever the caring Big Bro, sang an impromptu "I Just Ate Snatch" for our entertainment. Good times.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

My NeverEnding Bag

FetFest memory...

On Saturday I attended Lochai's Bondage For Sex class.

For some special/odd reason, my Hello Kitty bag seemed to solve every issue that came up during his presentation.

When I first arrived, I sat in the Barn on a bench and grumbled to myself, "Dammit, when did I get so fucking popular?" I had checked my phone and saw I'd missed a bunch of texts and a phone call from my friends, no doubt in need of their Cabin Bitch.

Lochai, looking over, said, "Well, since you've been cute.  And you're into rope.  And you're a great submissive.  And you're learning a lot."

"Oh, okay."

That shut me up real quick. If I could have blushed, my face would have been bright red. One, I did not realize I had grumbled so loudly. And two, I didn't realize Lochai noticed even a quarter of the shit I did. (Yeah, I really need to get over this ugly duckling bullshit. No matter how much I think it, I do not fade into the background.)

As people filtered in, I pulled out my notebook and buried my face in it, scribbling some notes on my day thus far before class started. Before lunch, Glenda from NCSF casually mentioned how she liked my spirit and suggested I go out for IMsL. Gray, who I happened to be walking with towards the Dining Hall, got bug-eyed and said I would be perfect for it. I noted the interaction, the conversation at lunch, and that I should talk to Sara Vibes, the current title holder, about it.

At the start of Lochai's class, he began with one small question: What is sex?

My answer: An intimate connection.

There were many many answers (oral, vaginal, anal, digital, etc.). For Lochai, it was anything you wanted it to be.

He started with the example of chocolate. Chocolate could be sex, to which, as a lover of hot, milk and dark, I had to agree. Lochai thought he had a piece of the sweetness, but unfortunately he did not. He asked the class if anyone had some.

I piped up, saying I did. Reaching into my Hello Kitty bag, I pulled out my last piece of dark chocolate, the last piece of the bar Gray gave me at Rope Camp. Put it to good use, Lochai.

I handed him the treat. He instructed NaughtyEm to lie on her back and purse her lips. Placing the chocolate on her lips, he then instructed her to not eat it. That was now bondage for sex.

Lochai next talked about how bondage could be physical or emotional. "We're not going to talk for two weeks." An example of emotional bondage, impeding the connection between two people.

Lochai went on to show a bunch of different ties and positions, getting the minds of everyone in the class working. Lochai cared more about us thinking and understanding the theory of bondage for sex rather than specific ties.

He suggested we make our ties simple enough to undo with one hand; this would allow for quick changes or using the other hand to please ourselves. He mentioned crotch ropes and using insert-ables, with a lovely cameo by KnaveKarina. Lochai strove for us to be creative.

However, there was one tie he did mention by name: Gray's Tie Em Up and Fuck Em Harness. Lochai couldn't remember the specific way to tie it, though. Once again, I piped up. He allowed me to show the class the harness, using my own rope on NaughtyEm. I was a giddy giddy Teacher's Pet, happy to have contributed to the class.

But wait, there was more.

After my small demo, Lochai showed how you could achieve a similar effect with webbing.

He then spoke about an easy way to use rope for sex: just use a coil as a dildo. With a demo bottom on the mat and ready, Lochai pulled out a coil, but he needed a condom.

Once again, my Hello Kitty bag came to the rescue. I gave him one. He unwrapped it, but then dropped the condom on the floor.

Did I have another?

I searched through my bag as others looked on their persons' as well. Aha! "Got it." I handed him a second condom. He wrapped the rope and gave it to his demo. She started masturbating with the coil, but needed some assistance.

"Do you have lube?"

"Hold on." Another quick search. "Got it." I handed him the packet of lube. Squeezing the slick substance onto the condom, she returned to her fun, and I smiled ear-to-ear.

And that's why I'm a full service Cabin Bitch.

Monday, January 16, 2012



With his hand on the center of her chest, he firmly pushed her up against the wall. She hit with a loud thud, a smile on her face. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said, her dimples prominent on her cheeks.

His hand remained on her chest; his other was by her head, as he leaned against the wall and into her. His head was bent down. He breathed heavy, as if he were in a fight. And though no one would see them in the comfort of their bedroom, should they have magically glimpsed the interaction, they would have indeed seen he was battling a worthy foe.

He slowly lifted his head, locking his eyes with hers. His intensity was mirrored by her whimsy. "You are just so gentle with me," she chirped, egging him still further.

The hand on her chest slipped up to her throat. He squeezed, slowly taking away her breath. "So...patient...and...nurturing." She forced out the words, then brought her hand up to caress the side of his face. He twisted his head away from the touch.

He released the grip on her throat, instead securing his hand under her jaw. Standing up strong, he slapped her on each cheek once, twice, thrice. Random chunks of her hair, now disheveled, fell across her face at awkward angles. "You make me look so pretty," she softly crooned.

She did look pretty. He had to admit that. But this was not about being pretty or sweet or kind. He wanted to break her, had tried to break her, but never could.

She only antagonized him more with each attempt. She had learned early that the taunts made him angry. She loved his anger, fed off his rage. He wanted her to beg for him. She never had.

Each time, it always ended the same way:

He'd punch her chest. She'd call him her "big strong man." Then she'd caresses his chest. Her thigh would graze his throbbing manhood. She'd bring her lips close to his, but never gave him a kiss. And as she would back away from him, teasing him, the want, the need in his eyes would appear. And she had won.

Though he had lost, he almost always enjoyed the victory lap.

Seeing the look, the need in his eyes, she placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed. As he sunk down to his knees, her other hand lifted her skirt. She wore no underwear. Lifting a leg, she rested her thigh onto his shoulder.

His lips quickly found her clit. Her hands gripped his short dark hair, moving his head, angling his work, fucking his face. One of his hands was allowed, this time, to reach up her skirt and squeeze her ass. The other had two digits bound for her soaking wet pussy.

She rode him hard, sinking down on his hand, and slamming his head into her crotch. Screaming obscenities, she came, and squirted onto his hand and into his mouth while calling him her Good Boy.

And because he found the magic button, because he ate her right, he would now get to fuck her. When he didn't, when it took forever for her to cum, or when his despair made it difficult to please her, she'd merely push him off, let her skirt drop, and go about her day.

The reason why she always won was simple: she stopped herself from caring about anything but her orgasm. From the moment he initiated the challenge to the moment she came, her focus was on her pleasure. His focus was on her pleading, her begging, her submission. When he asked for it, he got it. When he tried to force it, tried to train her, it was she who trained him. And since he'd fucked her hard the last few times he tried to break her, she thought it was going well.

Sunday, January 15, 2012


"You moan like a porn star." - Slut to me

"Oh, they just put on Metallica. I feel sorry for you. That means you're going to get punched." - Murphy to Slut

I recently had a roller coaster of a Friday.

It started off well. I drove SkinnyBitch to work, getting to spend quality time with her in the car. She picked on me a little, as she is wont to do. I laughed it off, enjoying the playful conversation. Heading home, I finished up a blog I had started earlier in the morning and posted the entry before I began to get ready.

I had, shock and awe, a date.

It was a lunch date with a recent friend. We planned it the night before on a whim, so there was little to no pressure going in. We initially met at the theatre where we would later see the movie we'd chosen, Shame.

The movie started at 2:30pm; we met at noon. Wandering around, we stopped by a store to buy a hat, and then found ourselves at a Starbucks. I got my hot chocolate, the impetus for choosing Starbucks, and they purchased lemon pound cake because apparently it is their addiction.

We sat and talked for some time before transitioning to lunch. We swung by a touristy restaurant, chatted more over our meal, and then headed to the movie.

I will not go into a full review of the film, but I will say I enjoyed it for a few different reasons. 1- There was as much said in silence and stares as there was in words and actions. 2- The cinematography brought a level of intimacy between myself and the characters that was both painful and beautiful. 3- The story centers around a sex addict; there is a lot of sex. But the moment that most turned me on, though, involved no fucking. It involved the main character sitting at a bar, a woman waiting for her drink, and him describing how much he wanted to eat her pussy. Just words, his voice, and the look on his face. I get warm thinking about it even now.

After the movie, we wandered a bit more. We hit up a bookstore, then tried the Starbucks again, but it was full. We settled on a quite casual dining place, took the spot in the back corner, and talked more.

Our interactions last 6.5 hours. It was...interesting.

After exchanging hugs, I jumped into my car and sped away. I had a party to go to.

Arriving at home, I quickly ran upstairs to use the restroom and then came back down to chat with my roommates. And thus, the quick moving crash began. DeepEnd and SkinnyBitch were to leave the next day. DeepEnd had a family emergency. We talked about schedules, the puppy shuffle, and their flight plans.

I only had about thirty minutes before I needed to be out the door again. I found some carbs to down, since I had not eaten dinner, and changed into a quick cute outfit. I packed my toy bag and headed out.

On the way to pick up Slut, and on the drive to the party, I felt deflated. I wondered if I should have still gone. I wondered if it would have been better if I stayed home with them. I felt like shit. But I didn't tell Slut or bother DeepEnd or SkinnyBitch. I drove to the party, I smiled for the people in attendance, and I hoped I would feel better.

The small show put on was quite fun. I found myself smiling before I even knew I had. Unfortunately, not only was I battling an understandable funk, I was also tired. I found myself yawning a lot.

After the small show, the space opened up for play. Murphy setup by a hard point. Slut was the first he strung up. I took on my Cabin Bitch-ly duties and assisted, feeding him rope as needed.

As I watched them interact, I could not help but smile. I loved the way they connected, played with each other. I remembered why I wanted to come to the party in the first place: to be with my friends. Watching them, helping them, made me feel better.

As Murphy cycled through his multiple ties of multiple people, all the while with me feeding him rope, I also chatted with folks. I gave away a Moo card. I saw an old work acquaintance from back when I was in college. My mood rose.

And, later, Murphy made me fly. I giggled a lot, dropping into a whimsical headspace. As he tied, I was curious about what harness style he would use. I paid attention as best as I could while endorphins raced through me, and planned to try to replicate his work later.

As I came back down to Earth and he removed the lines, I asked him for some advice. I wanted a rope reading list. I have many rigger friends, from who I've learned a lot, but I have not yet taken the time to read as much as I'd like to about the subject. He gave me a list of about five books (one of which I purchased recently for an incredibly affordable price).

After my time in rope, I gave my hugs goodbye. It was late, I was sleepy, and I still needed to drive home. Slut stayed with Murphy, as I suspected she would, and I made my way back to base.

As I slipped into bed, a full day behind me, the mixed emotions of it all lulled me to a brief, but deep, sleep.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Don't Pretend


- You like my ass. Don't pretend like you don't. I know you think it's hot.

* True. Your ass is quite impressive.

- And you want to fuck me. Don't pretend like you don't. I see the way you look at me when you think I don't notice you staring.

* True again.

- Good. At least I know you're not a liar.

* Did you think I was a liar before?

- No, but I reserved the right in my mind to see if my first impression was incorrect.

* So you tested me?

- No, I asked a question and you answered it.

* And that's not testing because...?

- If you had lied, I would've given you another chance.

* What would the other question have been?

- Didn't think that far out. But I did decide one question wasn't enough.

* I see.

- And just so that you know, we're not going to fuck.

* Excuse me?

- We're not going to fuck.

*Is that like today, in the next hour?

- We're not going to fuck, ever.

* Hmm, and why is that?

- Because you want to fuck me. And as much as I'd love to fuck you, and I'm sure you'd love it more, I'm not going to just because you want to.

* So you're depriving yourself just despite me? That seems petty, and hurting yourself in the process.

- Hmm, petty? Maybe. But I see it more as denying you what you want until you beg for it, and then denying you again. It's like torture, sexy sexy torture. And as for hurting me, I am not in want of people to fuck, as I am sure neither are you.

* True. Quite true. So really this is closer to a thought exercise.

- Maybe. Actually I like the way that sounds. I especially love the delicious warmth racing through me just now.

* Are you cuming?

- No, though I have before just from fantasizing. No, it's the anticipation, the build up, the tension. The carrot dangling on a stick. Because, really, do you ever want to eat it? Everything tastes better before it's in your mouth.

* You did it again.

- I know. That one was on purpose.

Friday, January 13, 2012

Random Facts


I like being fucked, a lot, and well. Random Fact: In the top drawer of the small storage container beside my bed I keep a box of condoms, a box of latex gloves, and a jar of lube. If you want something, best prepare for it.

Daddy likes fucking me, a lot, and well. He especially likes fucking me at my apartment. Random Fact: My place is on his way home, only a five minute drive from his job. On my days off, Daddy loves dropping by during his lunch hour and eating my pussy as his meal. The best lunch visits are when I've been lazy, having stayed in bed and snoozed for hours, when he walks in the room. The sleepy dreamy feeling of his tongue playing with my clit, his soft lips caressing mine, and his teeth lightly nibbling about is overwhelming.

Daddy loves my pussy. He loves to eat it, beat it, fuck it, and fist it. Random Fact: Daddy prefers fisting me to fucking me. Though both he and I love it when he bangs the shit out of me, Daddy still loves fisting me more. There is, of course, his Dom-ly desire to watch me squirm, knowing he's the one causing me to wiggle. But he also has greater control, easily dictating when I cum, and, when he is feeling in a bendy mood, he can jam his cock down my throat while still wrecking havoc in my cunt. Fisting 69's are the best.

I love to suck my Daddy's cock. Random Fact: Sucking his cock is more intimate to me than fucking him. My Daddy's cock is so pretty. I always take a quick moment to admire it before enveloping my mouth around it. My tongue running up and down the shaft. My lips kissing and caressing it. My mouth so full of him. And when I gag, heaven.

Daddy once asked me what my ideal fucking session would entail. I told him it wouldn't be a session; it would be an entire day. Random Fact: I am a slut, a big one. I love to do a lot of sexy, kinky things. Daddy eventually fulfilled my fantasy, though it did not actually encompass an entire day. It took about six hours.

I wanted it all, everything on the menu. Random Fact: It's easier for me to tell you what I don't like than for me to tell you what I do. I wanted sensual foreplay. I wanted him to bind me, beat me, spank me, cane me. I wanted the rough body work with punches and slaps all over my flesh. I wanted many many bruises to remember the day by.

I wanted service, to give unto him, to feel like I earned the treat of his touch, his attention, his cock.

And I wanted to screw in every way we knew and loved. I wanted it in my ass. I wanted it in my pussy. I wanted to worship his cock. I literally wanted it all.

And he gave it to me.

His final flourish, though, still lingers in my mind:

"I've allowed you to cum, my Good Girl. In fact, I've allowed you to cum multiple times. Now it's my turn." Pulling his cock from my cunt, he ripped off the condom and shoved himself fully into my mouth. I gagged and came again in an instant as he began fucking my face.

By the end we were sweaty, thirsty, hungry, and exhausted. And we planned to do it again... next year.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Mr. Pitiful


He sat at the bar, an empty glass in front of him, another in his hand. He sipped his bourbon slowly, slowly for him at least, and tried not to think of her.

He knew this was a mistake. Drinking was for remembering, not forgetting. Trying to drown his sorrow would only in fact make them worse.

But it was Sunday. It was their day. So he sat at his same place at the bar, sipping his bourbon and remembering.

They'd met a few years ago. Her eyes caught him. Her body enticed him. He was hooked. She looked on him with carnal eyes, like a predator stalking its prey. Now, as he thought back on this, it seemed ironic. His long time submissive had hunted him down and captured his heart.

Sunday was their special day. Each had busy lives, too busy to do all they wanted, but they always had Sunday.

She'd clean, primp herself especially the way he liked it, smelling of sweetness and looking even more sugary. Her short skirt, her two pony tails secured high up in her head, her little ankle socks with lacy frills, and her black and white saddle shoes. Just the thought had his manhood strain against his jeans.

He'd prepared himself especially for her, too. His leather boots, shined to a brilliant luster. His leather chaps, smooth and supple to the touch. His leather jacket, embroidered with a screeching devil on the back, dark red and hellacious. His pressed white dress shirt and tie. She loved ties, especially when he'd take it off, wrap it around her neck, and cinch it down tight, too tight.

He longingly remembered the beatings, the begging. Oh, how he loved the begging, hearing her plead, "Sir, sir. Please sir. Please oh please may I cum. Oh please may I come." The silky sweetness of her voice tempted him to always say yes, but he never broke. He chose when she came; her begging would make no difference to the time, only give more fury to his thrusts as he fucked her.

He especially loved fucking her when she floated in the air, strung up by his aromatic raw hemp which scratched against her skin. No limbs were free. All she could do was hang, a floating fuck toy for his pleasure. After he'd beaten her red, and spanked her silly, he'd fuck her til he was exhausted.

Both were sweaty messes by the end of their time on Sundays. Both yearned to do more the next week. But once, it was only he that readied one Sunday. Only he that waited at his door for hours. Only he who worried where she was, what was wrong. And then only he who happened to open the door, see the letter on his porch, read it, and descend into a depth of hatred and heartache.

He carried the letter in his back pocket. It was worn with time, constant folds and unfolds. He pulled it out now and read it once more. Read the flippant dismal. Read the relaxed way she threw him out like garbage. Read the words from the person he thought loved him.

He craned his head back, downed the rest of his bourbon, and signaled to the bartender for his check.

And then he turned to his left, saw a woman walk in, and knew he was done. She looked so much like his love, so much like the woman he drank for, yearned for. It wasn't her, and yet it was her. Her face, when it was innocent and wanting. Her manner, when she was submissive and pleasing. And her eyes, when all she desired was him.

And in that moment, he fell in love with a woman he just saw, a woman he had not yet met, and pitied himself still more.

She gave a small smile, sat down beside him, and asked the bartender for a bourbon. The man told the bartender to put it on his tab.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

She Saw, He Saw

Walking into the tavern, she saw him almost instantly. His tall and brood frame stood out often, especially among groups. He looked relaxed, at ease, possibly tipsy. He drank and spoke animatedly to their friends. She walked over to the bar and ordered a drink.

He saw her as soon as she entered. To him she seemed to breeze in, glide across the sticky wooden floor, and lightly land at the bar. If there were cares in her world, they were far far away. He envied her ease in the aspects of her life that he glimpsed on their weekly encounters at the tavern.

She peaked over and saw him leaning against the wall, a pretty girl so close to his frame. The girl was young and smiling, seemingly happy for the attention of this big strong man, this handsome individual that decided to talk to her. She saw the girl bat her eyes, toss her hair, and sip her drink slowly. She saw what she could and would never do, never be. She returned to her conversation.

His eyes found her across the bar, sitting on a couch, talking to a group of their friends. Her face was animated, possibly telling a story, maybe recounting one of her many adventures. She had so many to tell. She wasn't like the vapid young girl who captured his current attention, if you can call practicing flirting on an easy mark attention. He admired her gumption, her constant efforts to push herself, to take risks. She had seen more, done more in her two years since breaking free of social constraints than he had even dared in his ten years free of his old repressive beliefs. She was everything he dreamed he could be, but never dared try. How he envied and loved her for this.

As she paid her tab, she saw him sitting, alone at a table, fiddling on his phone. It was late; most of the regular crowd was gone. This was fairly normal; both she and he tended to be one of the last to leave. As she tipped the bartender, she weighed whether she should approach him, whether she should try to strike up a conversation so late in the night. He was surely tired; she was exhausted from her long day. But the idea of spending just ten minutes with him made her heart sing. However her decision was made for her when she saw the young girl return from the ladies' room, sit next to him, and drape her leg over his lap. She gripped her purse a little tighter and briskly walked out the door.

He loved the arch of her back when she leaned against the bar and stood slightly on her tippy toes to get the bartender's attention. It was late, so she must have been cashing out. In his mind, he ran through the things he might say to her. What new and kinky things had she gotten into? Did she have any plans for the upcoming hotel event? Would she be interested in playing with him? The thought of her naked flesh offered up to his powerful hands more than excited both his mind and body. As she finished, he mentally prepared himself to approach. But just as he would get up, the vapid girl returned. He hadn't even realized she was still there. She sat next to him, asking what he had in mind for the rest of his evening, and draped her leg over his lap. He calmly, sweetly began turning the girl down, trying to explain he had just met her and he did not take the leap to the bedroom so quickly. He wanted her gone, but meant her no harm. When he felt she got the picture, when the girl understood she would not have him that night, the one he wanted was almost out the door. He saw the final few strands of her hair trial behind as she left.

First Day Back

I woke up to an alarm today, a day which will not be full of fun.

Unlike previous years, I have come to a point in my career (wow, I can call it that now) that I get work during our slow season. Not a huge amount; I won't be swamped like I will be March through June, but enough to get by. I'm experimenting this month with not tapping into my savings and seeing if I can, miracle of all miracles, pay all my bills without touching the little bit I stashed away when times were good.

But, unfortunately, that brings me to today, this morning, at 7:25am right now. I'm writing, I'm tired, and all I want to do is go back to sleep.

I cannot stand the first day back; I never have. My body got into a rhythm of waking up by my roommate's knock on my door. I'd drop her off at work, read a book in my car for an hour (I'm quirky; just accept it), exercise, eat lunch, write, chat with the other roomie who gets home early, and then pick up my first roomie from work or meet her at a Happy Hour.

This pattern would be all well and good if I made any money during the day. But, since I don't have a five figure book deal that includes a share of the profits from units sold... Nope, I'm not Stephen King yet, so this routine, though lovely, was fleeting.

There are somethings I feel now that I felt back when I had to go back to school after Winter Break: a stiffness in my neck from stress, the intoxicating allure of my bed, my emotional temper tantrum after I hit the snooze button for the fifth time.

However I endure. I guess the shitty part of all this is I'm not making much money today, about $80 before taxes. It's simple menial work, but it's work. And it's $80 more than I had yesterday. And I'll make another $80 tomorrow, and another $80 on Thursday. And, after having lived through five years of this business and having years where I did not get any work during the slow season, I really can't say no to it now, as low paying as it may be. At least I'll finish before midnight, which I will not be able to say in a month.
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