Sunday, March 31, 2013


~ a poem ~

I wish we were still friends.

The way you kissed me wasn't enough.
Even though, with the first brush of your lips,
my eyes closed.
My arms raised, wrapped around you.
Your fingers found my hair.
My knees buckled.
My body relaxed into your arms.
There existed no other world except your lips.
My lips.
Our kiss.
Even though I lost myself in your embrace,
your kisses weren't enough.

The way you touched me wasn't enough.
Even with your grip on my waist.
Your nails in my flesh.
The sway of my hips
reacting to your fingertips.
My gasps from your bites on my neck.
My moans from your flicks on my clit.
Your tongue. Your licks.
Even though I still yearn
for your hands on my body,
your touch wasn't enough.

The way we fucked wasn't enough.
Even though you felt so right inside me.
More right than any other has.
Your hips tilting,
driving your cock into me.
Your body pressed
against my flesh.
The way you made me cum.
And cum.
And cum.
The way you tortured me,
such sweet misery,
with your fucks.
Still, it wasn't enough.

We weren't just friends.
Whether you'll admit it or not,
we were lovers.
But you didn't love me,
not really.
I couldn't be your friend any longer.
Because I could feel myself
starting to love you.
So there was no way
we could be
just friends.


~ a story ~

I said it as we were leaving. The office was almost deserted. It was a Friday. A payday, no less. And it was Judy's birthday. Everyone loved Judy's parties.

So they all ran home to get ready. To put on their small dresses and tight shirts. To don clothes not appropriate for work.

But I had a project due on Monday. And I wanted to sleep in on Sunday. And Judy's punch had too much kick for my taste.

You were still here, though I didn't know why. Your project had gone well. Your presentation was praised by the partners, and there was talk of a possible promotion for you. You could coast for at least the next month, if not more. You had, after all, slaved away for half a year. Yet you were still here.

When I had gotten my outline to a workable fashion. When my slide show ran without fault. When the graphics were set and the last fact checked. When I was ready to go home, open a bottle of wine, and try to not allow myself to go to Judy's party. When I turned off my light, grabbed my bag, and saw you about to go as well.

"Good night, Joseph."

I gave you the coy smile. The twinkle in the eye smile. I gave you the cute that I normally held onto until a first date.

But we've never gone out on a date. Every time I spoke to you, the chorus in my head screamed, "Ask for my number."

But you never did.

Still, I said it, plain as day, in three little words.

But you didn't kiss me. You didn't throw me down to the floor, or splay me across the conference room table, or drop to your knees while I rested against a cubicle wall.

You strolled behind me as I made my way to the elevator, dreaming of your hands on my body.

Will you ever fuck me?


I heard it in your voice. The lilt, the plea. Heard the words you didn't speak. Your invitation as you left for the evening.

I heard it when you congratulated me on my presentation last week. When you passed me the creamer from the refrigerator this morning. When you held the elevator door for me a few days ago. I hear it all the time.

In your looks each morning and each night. When you didn't even know you were saying it, I bet. I've known what you've not said.

But you never heard it back.

Never noticed the way I brush your hand whenever you hand me the creamer. Never noticed the caress in my voice when I said "Good evening, Eloise." The business card tucked into your jacket. Or that I stayed late many nights so I could see you before you went home.

But tonight, you will notice.

That coy smile. That cute lilt. It's time to end our play, and start the real fun.

Tonight you will hear me, as I always hear you. You will say what you always say, but in the true words of your desire. And I will speak the words you long to hear.

In thirty steps, from your desk to the elevator, that will be the long walk til we both get what we want. When those elevator doors close, we will both speak what has only been said in veiled words.

Our desires will be heard.

Monday, March 25, 2013

Fuck Me, Please

~ erotica ~

The first time I asked you to fuck me was when we first met. You had this bright look in your eyes, a wide smile, and you shook my hand firmly when we were introduced. I found that refreshing. You were treating me as an equal, even though I was the new girl in the office, fresh out of grad school, full of hopes and dreams of saving the world.

It was a Monday afternoon. Karen, the head of HR, was showing me around the office and introducing me to people. You were only the third person I'd met, besides Karen and my cubicle-mate. You made me feel welcome, accepted.

The next time I asked you to fuck me was the very next day. I showed up to work in my nicest suit, the most professional thing I owned, and the most expensive, with a skirt that hugged my thighs and a blouse that was silkier than my sheets. I felt very professional, very adult, walking in that day. But you made me feel like a young girl, my heart a flutter at the sight of you.

I was trying to recall everyone's name, trying to remember faces from the tour Karen gave me. I stumbled often on my second day. But I remembered your name.

As I made my coffee in the break room, hoping the caffeine would kick start my brain, you came in to fill your water bottle. I looked over at you, said, "Good morning Brandon," and you smiled back and said, "Good morning Julie." I loved hearing you say my name.

I often imagine you whispering my name in my ear between kisses on my neck, my cheeks, your arms wrapped tight around me. You moaning my name into my ear as you first enter me. Screaming my name throughout the office as we cum while fucking on the floor under my cubicle.

We easily fell into a daily routine. Every morning I make my coffee, say "Good morning Brandon" to you as you fill your water bottle and say "Good morning Julie" to me, and silently, desperately, I ask you to "fuck me, please". But you never hear me.


My favorite, and worst, part of my day are the same: saying "Good morning" to you.

Since the first day I met you, and saw a blind optimism, a hope that you could do more than anyone ever had before, I took joy in just the sight of your sweetness.

But my joy was laced with an edge of caution. Too often I've met girls like you, fresh from grad school, with hope that, day-by-day, grew dimmer. Most didn't last past a year. I don't want to see you falter, don't want to see the glimmer in your eyes diminish.

Because a part of me wants your gaze, your joy, to be about me. I want your happiness to be given to me in a dark corner of the office, when everyone else is gone. Your blouse opened, skirt pushed up to your waist. I want to hear your hurried breathing with your back pushed against the cement wall of the lonely back stairwell, which no one ever uses. I want to kiss in your happiness, breathe in your hope, and give you back joy and ecstasy in kind. I want to be the reason you smile each morning.

Each morning, when I say "Good morning Julie", and I see your belief that you are doing something right, something good, a part of me wonders, dare I say hopes, that one day your joy will be because of me.

All I ever wish is that one day you will look at me while making your coffee, with a smile on your face and in your eyes, say, "Good morning, Brandon" , but add a "fuck me, please" to our daily routine.

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Three to the Third

I may never forget his birthday.

I love numbers, always have, and as soon as he told me his birthday, I smiled and said, "Oh, cool; three to the third." He smiled at the nerdy way my brain had branded the date into my memory.

Now, having not seen or spoken to him in months, it dawned on me about a week or two ago that his birthday was soon approaching.

I've kept myself from contacting him. No texts. No calls. Every day I think about it, either in a passing moment or in the struggle of an addict trying not to get just one more fix. But now, the irony of a text to him on his special day just seems fitting.

I don't know if I'll do it. Something in me wants to if for no other reason than it is the perfect excuse. No other day of the year lends itself to my self-destructive tendency to keep this man in my life. And considering how shitty my special day was, why the fuck not inject a thought into his brain?

But the logical side of me, the part of me that wants to protect myself from myself, is resistant, realizing the harm it could bring, the further damage I could inflict upon myself.

What would I get out of such a message? Opening the Pandora's box of contacting him. Placing myself back on his hook. Splaying my wants and needs out again, knowing most likely he will not fulfill them.

Something in my brain sees this as how it should be. The constant unknowing, hoping for what can never be, what he will never want or allow. Something in my brain nudges me to act in ways I know will not be in my self interest, ways that will do more harm than good. Because my brain believes he will change. My brain believes it can be different, he can be different.

My brain believes things I know, more likely than not, will never be true.

So I try to tell my brain to shut up, which Doc insists is not the way to tame my urges.

Then I try to listen to the voice behind my thoughts, which Doc encourages. I listen to her, the little girl who just wants to be loved. The little girl who believes if she just does this or says that he will want her, he will change for her. The little girl who wants the attention, the approval, the care he never gave.

I hold her. I caress her hair. And I tell her everything will be alright. I tell her I love her, no matter what.

So whether or not I send that text on the 27th, whether or not I open up Pandora's box again, I try to continue to love myself despite myself, whatever consequences my swirly brain's decisions elicit.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

A Little Motivation

So I was in my car, driving from a gig to my house, listening to NPR the other day. I was only a minute or two away from home when a local news segment came on. The feature: decision day for medical school students. This was the day when they all learned at what hospital they'd be working.

One of the students featured was a woman who had changed careers mid-life. At the age of thirty-five, she transitioned from a career in theatre to attempting a career in medicine. In the years since she started medical school, she'd gotten married and had children; she had an entirely new life.

As I listened to this small news story on my way home from the job I am trying to transition out of, I started crying. Right there, in my car, over a small news story, tears trickled down my face. I was grateful I was most of the way home. I pulled into my driveway and pulled myself back together.

There it was. There I was. There was where I could be. A person with a similar background as me had already done what I am just starting, the long road to a career in medicine.

I've been pretty up front with how scary and nervous making this whole process is for me. There are a number of hurdles I need to jump through before I can even apply for medical school. At least two years of community college. Studying for and taking the MCATs. Figuring out how I'm going to pay for all the learning I will need. All the while I know I will have to stay in my job, make sacrifices with my time, with my friends, with my family, and, sadly, with the many kinky adventures you read about here.

But this one little news story of how someone else, someone I don't know yet who is somewhat similar to me, that one news story is what I needed to hear.

I'm sure, in the years to come, during the struggle, during the not-so-fun times, I will remember those five minutes on my radio. I will remember that someone like me, someone who didn't come to medicine early, made it there anyway.

Sometimes you just need a little motivation, a little reminder, a glimmer of hope along the way.

CCon Fantasy

~ erotica ~

The beginnings of this story happened while I was in bed at CatalystCon, awake Sunday morning, even though I didn't want to be, horny beyond reprieve, trying to find a way to calm my passion filled body and mind. Enjoy...


He hovered behind me, the heat of his body increasing the wetness of my sex. Leaning down, he hooked a finger into the skirt of my dress and slowly pulled up. Over my thighs. Over my ass. Passing by my non-existant panties. Finally resting at the cleft of my waist, where he stopped, and squeezed my pelvic bone. The instinctual sway of my hips came, and I deliciously, inadvertently, brushed my ass against his cock, which had since grown hard and thick below his towel.

I smelled the musk of his bath wash, felt the slight dampness of his skin through my dress. I had hoped to slip quietly out of his room before he finished bathing. I didn't want to make a big deal out of his kind gesture the evening before, didn't want to make the morning awkward, didn't want to reveal how much I wanted more than just kind gestures from him.

His hands traveled up over the cloth of my dress, caressing each curve as he traversed my body. This time he slipped his hands down from above, deftly unhooking my bra, but also unsecuring its straps. He slipped the undergarment from beneath my dress, and whispered into my ear, "You will not wear this today." I bit my lip, feeling a twinge of excitement in my loins from his words.

Bent over the bed, hands planted on the mattress, I expected, no hoped, no dreamed, no desired...

Fuck, I wanted him to fuck me from behind. I wanted his hand planted on my back pushing me down. I wanted his other hand in my hair pulling my head up and pounding my pussy senseless.

When I felt his hands against my thighs, encouraging my legs open, my newest fantasy seemed like it would soon be a reality.

But, instead, he knelt down, turned around, and sat on the floor, his back against the bed, positioning his face just away from my pussy lips, his mouth ready to taste my folds. He hooked his arms around my thighs and pulled my crotch towards his mouth.

First, I felt the kiss of his lips, and then came the flick of his tongue over my clit. I was grateful for the bed's support. My knees buckled from the pleasure, resting on each side of his head as he continued to devour me.

"Please, oh God, please. Please let me fuck your face. Please, please. Please may I fuck your face?"

He stopped eating my cunt, tilted his head up, caught my eye, and said more than I had hoped for in such few words.

"Don't ask; just do."

His mouth and tongue returned to my throbbing lips. I used my hips to rock against his face, circles and tilts gyrating my sex against his mouth. His eating grew more fervent, his nails sinking into my flesh, holding on tight to my thighs as he plunged himself into enjoying my sex.

I gripped the sheets, threw my head back, and screamed my ecstasy as my first orgasm riped through my body. And then another. And then another.

I fucked his face til my thighs ached, til my muscles shoke, til my pussy was sore, til my clit pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat, til my skin was drenched in his spit and my cum.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013


I kept checking the time between my feverish typing of tweets.

11:10am. 11:18am. 11:23am. 11:38am.

Each instance I checked the time was a reminder of what soon awaited me; a gorgeous man and his hotel bed.

When the presentation ended, I dashed from my seat into the hallway. After a quick cursory glance and no sight of him, I hurried towards the elevator.

Floor 3.

Getting off, I speed-walked down the hall, pulled out the key card he happened to have given me the night before, and opened his door. He was there, in his bed, already naked, sheets up to his chest.

"Did you take a nap?"

I smiled and feverishly disrobed. Down to just my boots, I told a fun little antidote about another instance where I fumbled with my leather because of sex.

Completely naked, I sat on his bed, a huge grin on my face. He pulled down his covers, revealing his already hard cock, as well as a bag of condoms. He placed the prophylactics on the end table.

I paused our advancing intentions for an STI testing and barriers conversation, as well as mentioning a few of the things I love done to me while fucking (biting, hair pulling, fisting). All the while, I kept seeing the flick of his dick in his lap taunting me. I made sure not to lick my lips; we only had ten minutes.

We both gave satisfactory answers, as well as little tidbits of information (as much as you can impart in three minutes).

And then I said, "Hi." And he said, "Hi." And we were kissing.

He'd been lying back, so I loomed above him, my loose hair falling beside our faces. His mouth soon found my nipples. I let out my first sigh, and realized I'd forgotten to warn him about how vocal I am. He didn't seem to mind as he continued to bite and suck on my nipples.

Reaching down, he stroked my pussy lips and played with my clit; another sigh.

Getting up, he repositioned himself behind me. Grabbing my ankles, he tried to pull me down the bed. His hands slipped, so I tried to turn around and move. He pushed my hips back around and pulled me into position; doggy style, my favorite.

His hand found my cunt again; my sighs returned. I felt him reach over to the end table, and then I heard the ripe of the condom.

As soon as he entered me, my sighs turned into moans. His hands gripped my hips, thrusting forward as I pushed back. My arms stretched out towards the headboard as my face sunk into the bed. My fingers struggled for purchase, wanting to take hold of something, anything, needing to claw and squeeze the sheets, the pillows. I screamed my ecstasy into the mattress.

And then there was a hand on the back of my head. He pulled the pillows away from my mouth and pushed my face into the mattress. My screams not muffled enough, he pulled my hair, repositioned my head, and pushed my face harder into the bed. I moaned while struggling to breathe until he released his pressure.

He pulled out, and then I felt his fingers again. Only a few at first, dancing against my clit and one playing inside of me. And then another. I pushed back still, fucking whatever phallus he chose to give me. But I wanted more, much more.

"More fingers, please, " I breathlessly gasped.
"More fingers, please." I raised my voice.
"I can't hear you."
"More fingers, please...!" The desperation in my plea was absolutely pathetic.
"Because you asked so nicely..."

"Oh, fuck! Thank you," I moaned as save one of his digits played inside me. My hips responded in kind as I bucked back vigorously. He played with my clit, stroked my insides, and massaged my G-spot; he knew exactly what to do.

Soon I felt a delicious warmth bubbling up inside me, ready to burst forth. And the obscenities came. And I screamed his name, telling him I was cuming. He grabbed my hair and held my head up as my orgasm surged throughout my body, across my abdomen, down into my legs, and tingling up my torso. I screamed and cried, "Wraith, oh God Wraith" as my cum overtook me.

As we hurriedly put our clothes back on, breath barely enough in my rush to put myself back together, he mused, "I want more time with you."

"I know," I sighed, smiling, trying to grab all my things as we scurried to get to our next class.

More than ten minutes with Wraith would have to wait for another day.

I'm Down

- I'm horny and you're hot. I'd love a quickie in your hotel room after this class session, if you're interested...
- I'm down for that.


He was kind enough to offer me the extra bed in his hotel room Saturday night. I accepted, knowing his gesture would save me nearly two hours of driving Sunday morning.

Still, other thoughts loomed in the back of my mind.

He was attractive. I'd known of him, but only just met him that day. I was pleased to learn his online persona was not a facade; I liked him from the start.

As we got ready for bed, previously laughing and talking about a wide range of nothing important, exhaustion soon hit my bones. I was fast asleep.

I woke up early, too early, Sunday morning. I could've slept another hour or more, but my body would not allow it.

Worse still, there was a stirring in my loins. I could hear his breathing, could make out the shape of his body through the dim light in our room. I rolled over, tried to look away, tried to not think about the yearning growing inside me.

Wake up. Please, wake up. God, I want you to fuck me.

He continued his slumber.

My crotch grew warm. I flipped over, laying on my belly, and began squeezing my legs together. I tilted my hips towards the bed. I gripped my sheets, hoping I could somehow do what I'd never accomplished before. History was a true predictor; even with my efforts, having no sex toys in my possession proved too difficult a hurdle to surpass. I could not cum.

I pulled out my phone as a distraction. I typed out my fantasy, what I wished he'd do to me. It helped a little. I listened to my music, tried to soothe my longing.

I wanted nothing more than to not notice the beautiful body in the bed next to mine. The lips I wanted against my lips. The hands I wanted caressing my skin. The breath I wanted on my neck. The body I wanted all over me.

My alarm sounded. He stirred. I softly coaxed him to snooze. I'd set my alarm early, wanting to bathe before classes; he'd showered the night before. He rolled over, and soon I heard his breathing again.

I disrobed, piling my clothes by the foot of my bed. I peeked over; he was turned away.

The heat of the shower was comforting, a warm waterfall against my tired frame. Clean and awake, I pulled out the few toilettries I'd thought to bring, just in case, the day before. I sat on my bed naked, turned away from him. He faced me now, but still he slept.

As I gently eased moisturizer over my skin, I imagined him glimpsing my body. Imagined each caress I gave myself as a path for his eyes to follow. Imagined his desire growing as mine had. The throbbing in my pussy lingered.

My skin smoothe and soft, I stood and retrieved my clothes from the closet. It was my stretch gray dress with the mesh cutouts. I'd tossed it into my bag, intending to wear it the previous evening. Now it would be my Sunday attire. As I secured my bra behind my back, the alarm on his watch sounded.

He awoke. And saw me naked, himself also sans-clothing. There was no fanfare; he simply got ready for his day.

We ate breakfast at a casual dining place two blocks away, then parted for our desired classes.

Yet all I could think about, as I feverishly Tweeted during my first class, was being near him, against him. The wanting in my body never subsided, never decreased.

So, as the second class was about to start, I decided to be bold.

I sent him a text message...

Friday, March 15, 2013


You're the reason why we're here.

I knew, when I participated in the documentary, that it had the potential to reach people. I had hoped it would. I suspected not many people would see it, but I thought if at least some people viewed it, it would be a good start at acceptance from the wider world. That's really all I expected, a good start.

Leading up to the premiere, I was nervous. How much would the episode show of what was filmed? How would the kink community accept the work Gray and I had done? How would the viewing audience perceive the interactions between Gray and myself? Would they get it? Of course they were going to judge us (because that is what people do), but would their conclusions be a fair assessment of what was shown?

As the evening grew near, I was eased at times by the random messages I got from friends who had, to my utter shock, seen the commercials for the show. In my mind, I never thought about that part. Who, among my friend groups, watches that network? Apparently quite a few people.

And not just people in the kink community. One coworker, female and a mother, happened to mention it one day while we were at work. She was excited for me (You're going to be on television!), even as my nerves grew.

As the show aired, I was pleased when multiple friends sent their love via Twitter. The show was a hit.

Afterwards more messages came in through FetLife. Messages from people I'd never met but had somehow found me anyway. Everyone was thankful for the way Gray and I portrayed kink to a main stream audience. Everyone was complimentary. Nothing negative ever spoken.

And then came Winter Fire.

I suspected going in, since the event was to occur close to the premiere, that I would get noticed. I made a joke of it, deciding that my badge line would be, "Yup, that was me."

And, sure enough, multiple times a day during the event someone came up to me, whether an old friend or an unfamiliar attendee, and thanked me for my participation in the show.

And then there was this one woman. I don't remember what day of the event it was, but I think it was Saturday, just before dinner. I was on the Mezzanine, chatting with a friend, when she came up to me.

"Hi. I just wanted to thank you for your participation in the show. And I wanted to let you know you're the reason why my husband and I are here. We Google-d kink, and found this event, and here we are, so thank you."

I was flabbergasted.

I had hoped being on the show would make a difference. I had hoped it would help some people open up their minds about kink, maybe come closer to the understanding that it is just a variant of sexuality and not something to be demonized. I had hoped that maybe others, those who were curious, those who didn't know there is a safe space for them, would find their way to the community.

And there, standing in front of me, was all I had hoped for.

The cherry on top: the couple was black. More persons of color, more diversity in the community, just because I talked in front of a camera and spent time with a friend.

I had no idea what I did for a few days last year would have such a profound influence on others. It is awe inspiring and humbling. I could not be happier for the small impact I made.

Fuck You Knowledge

I get sad.

It's not for any real medical reason, but every time the seasons change I go into a funk. My general mood drops to bleh, and I find myself not wanting to do anything but plant my ass on the couch, alternating between watching NetFlix and sleep.

I know the things I should be doing to combat this (exercise, writing, actually getting normal sleep each night), but the life I have set up for myself combats my needs. I work, at times, insane hours making it difficult for me to create a regular sleep pattern. Being tired makes it hard (very hard) to write, and with so little time I prioritize sleep over a run. Plus I once tried to run when I was super tired. I just ended up walking for more than half of it, and not even at a fast pace. Basically my body yelled at me, saying WhatTheFuck, GoToBed! I've listened ever since.

When it goes from Summer to Fall or, in my current circumstance, from Winter to Spring, I am reminded of the passage of time. I am reminded that half a year has gone by. Another six months of my life lived. And, no matter how amazing the days were, another six months I will never have again.

I am afraid of death. I am afraid to die. [Yes, this is another heavy blog. Deal.]

So, spoiler alert:

There is this part at the end of The Green Mile where the main character is narrating over the images on screen, and he's talking about how he knows he will someday die, but it will be a long time for him to wait, because if the Michael Clark Duncan character can make a mouse live however many years, how long does that mean he, a grown man, will last.

I get what the guy is saying; I understand the scariness of seeing your friends and family die around you. I understand his existence will be depressing... for him.

But I can see the flip side of that, too. I can see the years of watching the changes in the world. I can see the possibilities for innovation, evolution, change. I can only imagine all the things I will miss out when I am gone, because some day I will not be here.

I don't believe in heaven or hell. I believe, when you die, that's it. Like going to sleep, but never waking up. You rest.

Maybe, possibly, my brain will fire a neuron that will flow through my glia, but my consciousness will experience it as an ever lasting memory. Hopefully, if this is what they mean by heaven or hell, it is joyful or comforting. Even for the worst of us, I hope that.

If not, give me rest.

I understand the appeal of vampires, staying young and living forever. At a sacrifice, yes, but is the alternative a blessing or the ultimate curse? No one knows, until you know.

I read a quote recently, and I know I am about to butcher it, but it said roughly this: Humans are the only animal that tells time, and yet a dog does not need a watch to know when it is time to eat or go outside. Humans are blessed with knowledge, yet it is their curse, for since they are the only animal who knows time, they are also the only ones who are keenly aware that it is running out.

In 4.5 billion years, the Earth will be gobbled up by the Sun when it becomes a red giant star. 4.5 billion years left on this planet. Granted, we will probably kill ourselves out by then, but... 4.5 billion years.

And I get 80+, if I'm lucky.

Fuck you knowledge.

Monday, March 11, 2013


There is this guy I occasionally work with.

He's not the most attractive man. Not particularly muscular or athletic in any way. He doesn't have a face you'd think of as handsome per say.

It's his eyes; the knowing behind them. And his demeanor; it's always obvious who's in charge.

Every time I work with, without fail, the thoughts come.

Recently I was standing in a hallway waiting for a freight elevator to return to the floor. I leaned against the wall, my arms behind me, my hands resting at the small of my back, my hips just a bit forward.

I knew he would be on that elevator when it returned. Instantly my mind painted the scene.

The doors opening. He'd see me, be looking at me already, right in my eyes, as the doors parted. He step straight towards me, pin me against the wall, gripping my arms. He'd lean down (He's much taller than me) and have this sinister look on his face. I wouldn't know if he was sizing me up or just debating what he wanted to do first.

He'd kiss me, taking the embrace rather than sharing a moment of pleasure. His nails would dig a little harder into skin. He'd bite my lip, pull on the skin as he stared at me dead in my eyes, daring me to react. I wouldn't flinch, wouldn't whimper. Not yet.

He'd unbuckle my belt, slip his hand in. Then I'd whimper.

My lip free, I'd instinctively close my eyes, lose myself in the dance of his fingers on my clit, his digits so close to my pussy. One long slow caress of my wet lips.

And then he'd bring his hand up, right to my face. I'd open my eyes, and lick my essence off of his fingers. I would demonstrate for him what I hoped would be in my future, another of his appendages in my mouth. My tongue licking the way I knew men loved. Rolling my tongue ring all over, flicking it across the tip of his finger.

He'd grip my hair, punishment for my brattiness. The resolve would return to my face. He'd take hold of my chin, tilt my head up. His eyes burning through me.

"Get to work," he'd say. And I would enjoy my labor.

Every time I come home from a gig where he is on it, without fail, my panties are soaked.

Saturday, March 9, 2013


~ a story ~

I knew it wasn't him.

He wasn't due in town for another month, his job taking him far away from me to places he never spoke of and people I didn't know.

I could see, even in the shadow of the column by his seat, an almost familiar chin, almost familiar cheekbones, an almost familiar profile.

For a breath, I imagined my joyous surprise, imagined calling out to him, his glancing up, our eyes meeting, and the mad dash to each other.  I imagined the impassioned embrace, the loss of care, the smell and taste of him, the feeling of his arms once more.

But, as the escalator slowly brought him more into view, and moved me slowly away from him, I could see it wasn't the man I missed in my bed. It wasn't the face I woke up to on lazy Sunday mornings, sunlight drifting into our room through the smallest of slits in our blinds. It wasn't my Wesley, as much as I wanted it to be.


As she came into to view, I thought for a moment that it could've been her.

For a moment, I didn't note how wrong the hair was. Red, yes, but not as vibrant, not as alive as hers was.

For a moment, I didn't see how much shorter she was, how even in tall boots her height didn't quite match.

Even her skin I ignored; it was tanned, unlike the pale milky color of the one I longed for, my sister, my heart.

For a split second I could've run, dashed towards her, encircled my arms around this woman, believing she was real, she was alive, embracing my sister, crying out, "Claudette, sweet Claudette.  Beautiful, young, perfect Claudette!  You are not lost.  You are not hurt, mutilated, and buried in a box in a quiet meadow near our home.  You are here.  You are alive.  My love, my sister, my heart!"

But the millisecond passed, and the woman walked away, and I remembered it all over again.


Every day I see them, the people I long for most in the strangers that pass me by.  Every day I hope, in bit and pieces of time, for what I know cannot be.

My dreams are haunting me.

Thursday, March 7, 2013


"Your blogs have been pretty intense lately."

Yeah, about that...

I realize as of late that my entries have been heavy. Life, contemplating my place in this world, how I got here and where I'm going, heavy. And I realize that is not what one would instantly expect from this blog.

Don't get me wrong, and I will just say this to be blunt: I'm gonna write whatever the fuck I want here. That has been my goal from the start, and if that ever changes I don't know if I'll blog anymore.

Still, I don't want to give people the wrong impression. My life is pretty fucking good. Occasionally I'll have these moments when it is actually pretty fucking awesome. Not perfect, but definitely awesome.

Case and point (and bringing the sexy back, as it were), there was definitely a good hour and a half at Winter Fire where I was absolutely winning.

I had arranged a playdate with Shay Saturday evening. In the lobby of the hotel, we discussed what we wanted from our scene. She was interested in fire play and positions training. That sounded great to me, my only stipulation being I was not in the mood for penetrative play.

Heading down to the dungeon, we found a massage table by the far wall and setup. My friend Alice came by to watch and practice her fire play, to which both Shay and I consented.

We started our scene with me just in my black wrap dress. Shay was pleasantly surprised at how accessible it made me as she took the single piece of cloth off to reveal my nakedness beneath the fabric.

Shay inspected my body as she ran me through several poses. She wanted my feet in specific configurations, as well as my hands. There were variations between service poses versus more sexual poses. It all rung my service/submissive bells quite well.

As Shay went through the poses, she constantly rubbed all over my body both with her hands and her boots. I was incredibly turned on by the end of her instructions and quizzing.

Transitioning to the table, she had me start on my stomach. Though we had had a brief fire play encounter during the opening ritual, this felt more connected and definitely more intense.

Shay traced lines of flame over my body, down my back, my legs, gliding the curve of my ass. The warmth was intoxicating. Alice practiced with Shay's supervision. I moaned from both their touches.

And then Shay got mean. Instead of softly swiping the line of flame, she began smacking my skin. "What? I have to make sure it's out." I yelped and cackled through the pain.

Flipping me face up, Shay again danced fire across my skin. Bringing out her cups, she tried her darnedest to make my skin look like I was attacked by an octopus: no luck.

She smacked my nipples with her fire wands, and then smacked my nipples with her hands, again "making sure the fire was out". She danced flame down my legs and over my cunt (talk about a mind fuck).

Back on my stomach, she pulled out a spritz bottle and blew balls of flame in the air. The heat came in bursts, warming my body.

Shay again went for my ass. No more hair and no more dead skin as a barrier, her smacks to the extinguished flame were stingy tortures. Soon I could take no more heat on my cheeks. Happy with her torments, Shay decided we'd had enough pyro pleasantries.

She helped me from the massage table, making sure I stood up without tipping over. Running through the positions again, I remembered them well. I love rising to the occasion and all.

Shay brought me back to standing and aftercare ensued.

As we were finishing up, Stefanos ventured over. With another set of eyes to watch me to as I came back down to earth, Shay went about gathering her things and cleaning up our area.

"You look like you were set on fire," said my pinch supervision.
"I was," I said, smiley floaty happy.

Stefanos was in the dungeon awaiting his next playdate. He came closer to me, brought his leg in between my thighs, and asked, "We're suppose to have a playdate, aren't we?" He lifted his leg up and down, massaging his leather chap against my crotch.

"Yes, we are.  We still need to schedule it." I let my hands and chest rest on his body, trying to not lose my wits in the moment.
"What did you have in mind for it?"
"I was thinking we'd try me sucking your cock and then you fisting me."
"You want to try it or you want to do it?"
"I want to suck your cock and then you fist me."
"Fisting, you say. You want to schedule that?"

Stefanos raised his hands to my arms, softly pushed me back to the table I had just occupied with Shay for fireplay (the same table she was in the process of cleaning) and encouraged me to sit on it. I did so, lying back as before.

"Fisting, hmm?"

He reached over to the safer sex supplies on a nearby table, gloved up his hands, and poured four packets of lube onto one.

Standing by my crotch, he looked over my body, locking eyes with me.

"Fisting, yes we can schedule that. How about right now?"

Stefanos rubbed his excess lube onto my crotch, at which point Shay returned.

"Hey baby. What's up?"
"Oh, just your normal spontaneous fisting."
"Really, cause poetic said she's not in the mood for penetration."
"It's good! We're good!" I exclaimed.

I quickly rattled off something about how I wasn't in the mood before but I was certainly in the mood for what was about to happen.

Thinking while horny, I asked Shay to snag a chuck to put under me before we got too far into my "aftercare". Slipping it under my hips, Shay happily joined in on the fun.

By then, Stefanos already had multiple fingers in me. "I'm just doing want the pussy wants," he explained to Shay. Truer words were never spoken.

[For those of you who are counting, this makes the second time I've been randomly fisted as aftercare (the first being when I met Ava Amnesia at Summer Camp 2011). Did I mention my life doesn't suck? Yup, winning.]

Stefanos, having two hands gloved, put his second hand to use when he asked, "Poetic, do you like a thumb up your ass when you're fisted?" Is there any other answer to that quesiton than, "Yes."

As Stefanos stimulated two of my holes, Shay asked if I liked vibrators on my clit when I'm fisted. I mumbled something about liking them but they were not necessary, though I enjoyed clit stimulation. Shay, being ever so kind, fulfilled this desire. Hopping up onto the massage table, she reached over my body and massaged my clit while her husband was almost to the point of being full inside me.

As per my usual, I was quite communicative with both Shay and Stefanos during my "aftecare". Soon the magical moment came when I told Stefanos, who by now had four fingers in, to push. He did, and slipped his full fist into my cunt.

And then I was gone. Lots of gibberish ensued, including some of the hottest dirty talk I have ever experienced. Shay (Did I mention she is super hot with a sexy sexy brain?) started talking dirty to me, asking me if I liked having Stefanos' fist in my cunt. Of course I moaned my pleasure at having his fist in my cunt, how I was a dirty whore, how great it felt when Shay rubbed my clit, how full my pussy felt with his hand inside me.

By now Stefanos had inserted a second finger into my ass as he also worked inside my cunt.

At one point I was so excited I lifted my pelvis up, bridging my body, as I fucked his hand. And somewhere there is a picture of this very moment (I know because I saw it on a projector screen in the Atrium the next night).

I'm fairly certain at some point a crowd of onlookers formed, but with so much stimulation going on my attention was absolutely not on the individuals who wanted to watch the show.

Needless to say, that hour and a half was so many different levels of awesome. I couldn't tell you how many times I came. I can't quite articulate how mind blowing it is to have two amazingly hot people all about you and your pleasure. And the feeling of having my pussy be so full and pleased... I really do love fisting.

Saturday night at Winter Fire was absolutely full of win.


I've been asking myself that question a lot lately, mostly because of a friend's influence, although Doc has been encouraging it as well.

In regards to my theatrical career, there is one person who I believe owes most of the credit for my current circumstance: Mr. David Kriebs. He was the Production Manager for the Performing Arts Center at my college, and, on the first day of my first college Theatre Tech class, he uttered a sentence I will never forget: "We eat."

It was his pithy explanation of being a techie. We get jobs. We don't wait for callbacks. We don't hem and haw over whether or not the casting director liked us. We work.

And, for the first time, I thought about theatre as a viable career. Nevermind that I loved to act, would later learn I had a knack for directing, and had been writing since age seven. With Kriebs' one line, a seed had been planted. I could work as a techie for a living.

It doesn't really matter that I didn't drop my Math major for another year. I was already heading down the path, already set in the life I would live.

  "The question to ask, before you chuck it all to go raise horses in the desert or climb trees for a living, is: why? Take a look at where you are, because on some level there was something about being there that you wanted. Some quality about it reflects some desire within yourself, and that's why you made things the way they are...

It's important to know what parts of our lives are subsidized by the habits and environments we cultivate. Because change is gonna happen regardless; it's probably a good idea to only help it along when you're sure it's worth the risk." - Gray, from The Danger of Desire, Love.Life.Practice.

The problem, though, is that I sat up a false narrative in my mind with David's sage words. Techie equals job, pay, making a living. Acting equals maybe job, maybe pay, hard living.

I never gave myself the chance to be an actor, never gave myself the chance to explore that desire I had to be on stage, in the limelight, baring my soul for the world. Funny enough, my fears about relationships mirror my fears about being an actor: letting people in, letting people see me, raw, unfiltered, and their judgement that was sure to come.

Now, being a freelance tech, there are many reasons why I have kept this job. A big allure is the freedom. I'm never stuck at a desk, never bound by a steady nine to five life. FOMO, fear of missing out, haunts me at times. This job makes it less a likelihood. I won't lose my job no matter how much time I take off.

But now, thinking about a life I am pursuing where I know I will be sacrificing so much freedom, so many events I would normally attend, doesn't scare me. What scares me now is the thought of what I could've been if I had tried a little harder, made different decisions.

When it comes to medicine, there was something more insidious in my aversion of that path. It was my family, their influence, that pushed me astray. Two prominent female figures in my life, my mother and my cousin Ella, led me away from that dream.

I was in my early teens when once Ella asked me, point blank, "How would you feel if someone died on your table?" I didn't have an answer to her question. In my mind, that meant I was not capable of being a doctor, because surely others had thought of this and knew how they would react, knew that they could handle it. I didn't know how I would react, if I could take it, if it would break me. I still don't.

But then there was the subtle nudge of my mother. Her example of being less than. Once, when I was young, mentioning wanting to be a doctor, thinking about following in my father's footsteps, and her asking me to not say that. Somehow insinuating it wasn't "right", whatever that is. I don't know if my mother was ashamed of her life, of her role that she played as the loving mistress, but I suspect whatever reservations she had she unknowingly tried to pass onto me.

And now I'm here, in a job that pays my bills but I do not love, knowing I could be more.

Now I am starting a journey of trying to be something else, something closer to what I imagined when I was younger, something closer to what I hope will be better for those around me and the world as a whole. Because soon I'll be 30. And then 40. And then 50. And in the precious time I have on this earth, I want to be doing something I love rather than something I'm good at or something that is just safe.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

The Un-Boyfriend

I stopped looking. I stopped trying. 

I have barely touched my OKCupid profile, answered messages, or tried to hookup with anyone since meeting OKC boy.

It came to me last night, as I snuggled up in bed, reading a blog before my eyelids shut for the evening: OKC boy is the perfect un-boyfriend.

We have had three "dates". The first was our initial meeting at a nearby Starbucks. I realized a few things from that two hours of chatting. 1- He's hot. 2- He's geektastic. 3- He has an avoidant attachment style, just like me.

Our second "date" involved him visiting my house. He was late (minus five points), but then set out to explain his tardiness as we sat and drank in my living room. His excuse seemed plausible enough.

And then we fucked for three hours. That part was rather pleasant. Oh, who am I kidding. It was awesome. Turns out (shocker) my sexual appetite is greater than his. I wanted to keep fucking after round number four, but he was spent and had other plans for his evening.

Our third "date" actually involved leaving my house. We ate pancakes at a local diner and chatted... before coming back to my home to fuck for a few hours. Once again, the sex was great. And then he left.

I have created the perfect and worst possible situation for myself. I am, on occasion, screwing an incredibly intelligent, attractive, goal oriented guy... who is not interested in a relationship right now.

"Let's see where things go" in answer to my "I'd like us to be more than friends" was a gentle way of him letting me know all I could expect was sex and laughs. I'm grateful for his half-assed answer.

But now I find myself in the very situation I don't want to be in, and yet am drawn towards.

I've learned from my time with Doc that what is happening, what I'm doing, is hitting all of my anxious avoidant buttons. I was so very nervous when I slipped in my hope as we chatted, naked on a futon bed in the basement. When I heard his answer, I got the hint. Later, when he casually mentioned how focused he was on his career and that he used OKC just for hooking up, I really got the hint.

Since then I've barely thought about him other than when are we going to fuck again.  But I also haven't worked towards finding anyone else.  I've switched from being anxious about what could be with him to being avoidant to the issue at hand: this is not a real relationship.

I've put myself in a place I don't want, again. My emotional energy is going towards someone who is not going to give it back. In a not-at-all-surprising way, I have recreated the situation I saw as love in my house, a mostly absent male figure occasionally dropping in for moments and then leaving.

Why does this keep happening?


1- I'm drawn to distant male figures, either emotionally distant, physically distant, or both.

2- My parents' example taught me that that was what loves was, longing for the person who isn't there, taking in the bits of them that they allow you to have, and believing that is okay. (Hint: IT IS NOT OKAY!)

3- Even though it is what I rage against, sometimes I think it's what I want. Not really want, but what I know. What I'm used to. It's hard for me to change unless a situation gets to be unbearable. And here I find myself with a hot intelligent not-an-asshole boy ready to fuck me about once every few weeks.

But this is not what I want from a relationship. However, it is what I know, where I'm comfortable, how I've lived much of my adult sexual life. Everything in me wants to change this, wants more than just fucking (though I still want the fucking).

I want the chest feelings with the pants feelings. I want a warm body in my bed at night to snuggle me to sleep, and a pillow to nudge my head against when I wake up in the morning. I want a partner to open up to about how scared I am for my mother, how nervous I am about going back to school, how much stuff I want to do with my writing and presenting. I want someone on my side rather than just in between my legs.

I don't want to be alone anymore. I don't want an un-boyfriend. I want a boyfriend.

But how will I ever get what I want when it's so easy (even when it's hard) to just stay here.

(Cue tears...)



/end crying
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