You are currently browsing the monthly archive for October, 2008.
The past week has been the most mentally destabilising for a long time and my judgement and self awareness are creeping home wearily from their hiding places. The line between reality and altered perceptions became too blurred to understand, interpret rationally or be reasonable about anything, and I could almost see the edges of my sanity crumbling.
With some relief comes the realisation of how much damage I need to repair amid my rage of self-centredness. Jekyll has been spared largely by avoidance and I’ve limited our communication to brief e-mails bleating excuses of being busy. We might catch up this weekend so I can steal some of his positive energy. He is a gem and I have been thinking he deserves a more noble and honourable person than the one I have been.
ArmyDude and I caught up briefly to talk face to face. He knew from my paranoia-fuelled jibes that I was out of sorts a couple of days before I realised the demons had taken vacant possession of my personality. Every time he asked the heartfelt, “Are you all right?” I’d tear up and ask for an easier and gentler question to answer. He sent a message later that he’s had periods of self-destructive behaviour to the point of considering suicide; kindred spirits can come from the most amazing places sometimes. I said I refused to meet him at his house because I was tempted to ask him to hurt me – he replied that he would have refused because it was for the wrong reasons. He has more integrity than I have given him credit for and we need to have a long talk when I can remember just why it seemed important to crucify his character at the time.
A challenge has been hearing gossip about his supposedly lax work habits and predilection of sending text messages during work hours rather than working — playing the double agent and ignoring bitching (and having a small laugh that I’m the textee) is one of the unspoken reasons to avoid an office relationship. Breaking up can be easy but listening to character assassinations without being able to defend or agree is a mind fuck without ending.
He and Jekyll have mentioned looking for a woman for FMF threesomes. I am happy to participate if an opportunity with the right person arises but I don’t have the energy to find or meet new people — acting my way through daily life has been energy sapping enough without meeting strangers and being evaluated for my fuckability. I did see a profile of one couple with a bodacious vixen who took my fancy instantly but her husband must have a very, very good personality. I wish I had the cheek to ask if I could borrow her for a day if I promise to send her home undamaged. (Just what is the etiquette with couples when levels of attraction are at polar opposites? A package deal, can be split into components like a surround sound stereo, all or nothing?)
The Drummer has been the recipient of snappishness and avoidance behaviour. He’s ridden it out with stoicism, especially considering I haven’t said much more than I’ve been out of sorts. I shouldn’t hide from him but wallowing is easier than explaining.
Others were left by the wayside including my friend whose birthday I missed. I need to call him when I’m less highly strung and have a reasonable explanation that probably doesn’t include flipping out and hiding in a toilet.
I have been comfort eating and ignoring exercise and need to pay better attention to my body and self respect.
The lanky angel-demon mentioned a couple of posts ago sent a few meaningless messages and seems to have moved onto the next shiny thing in his gaze, thank goodness. I don’t know what was going on in my head even thinking about another hazard-frought situation.
Mr Buzzy died during an aggressive attempt to bring on sleep a few nights ago. I wonder if my broken vibrators (I think I have five dead units sitting in the drawer) can be taken back to a shop for recycling or returned to their manufacturers with emotion-filled letters of complaint. A vibrator might last months or years, but on a cost per use – or, heaven forbid, cost per minute – basis, the industry really is fucked in making so many gaudy plastic and silicon cocks that are fit only for a gigantic fake penis landfill site. One day when humans are extinct, the next super-species will dig amongst our ruins and find mounds of discarded dick substitutes with leaking batteries and DNA samples of tears of frustration.
I need rough sex to make me forget the world and some restful sleeps without nightmares – lots of both. And a new vibrator that doesn’t break when the going gets tough. And a rewind button so I don’t have to remember what I need to fix. Accountability is the right thing but a shitload harder than running away and leaving people by the wayside.
I have been in bed for 12 hours and slept only six. It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had for at least a fortnight, almost enough to get up and exist.
I could have masturbated to tempt sleep but the reward seems so far away. I know exercise is beneficial but I haven’t left the house all weekend. The closed doors are protecting those outside from the cyclone.
I know someone I have been wanting to meet is in town but I can’t wish this self upon him. I also know it’s patronising to make decisions on behalf of others but my urge to cosset from a distance is stronger.
I haven’t told The Drummer that M1 contacted me and confessed in a roundabout way that he has feelings. I can’t begin to fathom where this admission came from after months without contact. I could not have made myself clearer at the start and thought our drifting apart mutual. I have handled it and feel bitter for having been given his problem.
I had what seems to be an anxiety attack; I haven’t experienced a vomit-in-the-throat social paralysis like this before. I couldn’t find the venue of a friend’s birthday gathering and, so soon after M1’s assault on my psyche, I hit overload when I couldn’t find the place or anyone I knew. I fled to the nearest shopping centre amongst the comforting familiarity and lull of strangers going about their domestic business, and hid in the public toilets until I felt capable of driving home.
I don’t know if my stabs at ArmyDude are based on reality or if I have been pursuing reasons to lash out and alienate him. I just don’t know. There’s too much to fix to use text messages and he will need to wait until I can talk, elucidate, not cry. I have fucked up if his intentions have been sincere but I can’t tell the real reality from my reality.
I postponed a catch-up with Jekyll, citing fatigue. That much is true. I would suffocate in his blanket of inexhaustible energy and care.
I am a ghost. I am here but somewhere else.
The other night –when my commensense was taken hostage by destructive, devil-may-care brain cells — I re-activated my online dating account. My outer premise was to check the shared profile text had identity-changing differences to my personal account’s alter ego.
I know I could have logged into the shared account and simply searched for the other me. However, I logged in as me and the meat market launched at my inbox like I was the last Wii box for sale on Christmas Eve. Ah, fuck it, I replied quickly to a message from a man born in the decade before me and located a trifling 10 minutes away. I awaited his response and bet myself that we work for the same organisation (it’s by no means the only place in town but my gut feel for people *too* close to home became compass-sharp after ArmyDude flashed my profile photo past me).
I win. Same workplace though in different areas and our paths don’t cross. We even share the male/female variations of the same christian name. We message-danced a hokey-pokey: poke the left toe in and realise this is crazy, and take it out. Put the right toe in and know full well the more we chat, the more likely we are to meet. The angel on my shoulder who whispered to slow down and think this through was suffocated by the tempestuous devil.
In the morning we re-acquainted ourselves with a flurry of messages. By lunchtime I again thought, fuck it, let’s try to meet and assuage our pesky curiosity before the weekend. I sent a message saying where I’d be in 15 minutes and if he was also free we could co-ordinate a fly-by and keep walking.
All I knew is that he was tall and had brown hair. I sauntered to my start position, fired off a message describing my appearance and he did the same. Near the rendezvous point I was intercepted by colleagues attending to lunchtime errands; they were pre-weekend chatty and I was politely trying to shoo them away. I thought my devil might spear their backsides to urge them from the scene of my next workplace crime.
I broke free and headed down some stairs to the appointed place as a Thoroughbred-limbed, cherub-lipped, young, oh so young, man-boy glided up the steps. Our heads turned as we passed and a lightning bolt grin of recognition struck at the same moment. I delighted at his innocent dark curls contrasting with his all-knowing, deep black eyes of a spy movie villain. The rules of gravity and time didn’t stop and we continued our diverging journeys to turn around for a second first meeting.
I waited on the landing, feigning work-related business as he had a hurried conversation with someone he bumped into upstairs. We turned and expertly acted the scene of happening upon each other accidentally.
“Is this weird?” I asked in a hushed voice as we strode casually towards the car park.
“Yes,” he replied. He added that he knew too many people nearby and didn’t feel comfortable. I bade him a good weekend and trotted to the office.
After the adrenalin rush wore off I wasn’t inclined towards more games and sent a message praising his gorgeousness but I feel so very old. He replied quickly but neutrally. I asked his thoughts and he replied that he “needed more thinking time to make a decision ha ha ha.”
Ha ha ha means what? It’s obvious I’m irresistibly edible and he wants to ravage me, or never in a million years under the pain of torture? He hasn’t contacted me since and I’m becoming thankful he’s leaned towards the latter.
In the past I have marvelled at visit numbers quoted by keepers of sexing-it-up blogs and pondered the modest undulations on my statistics. Too insular? Poor writer? Don’t comment enough on others’ blogs? Too scared to go photo crazy? Boring life? Insert other reasons here.
However, today I’m eternally fucking grateful for a small and valued coterie; I can purge this tale in safety without a chorus line braying I told you so or I saw that one coming from a mile away.
The upside is I have learned how to introduce a degree of reality when the secret, all-consuming utopia created with a lover is becoming a little too perfect. Let me impart my new wisdom.
Create a shared account and profile on an online dating site to search for a third man or woman with all good intentions, and watch the seams of perfection fray quicker than a pair of old jeans.
Stop shaking your heads at my naiveté.
Here’s how. See your lover leave work at lunchtime the day after posting an ad because he is fixated with the landslide of views and messages. Hello, that time could be spent with me, the human, the flesh and blood person!
Log in when he can drag himself from the computer and check the profiles of those he’s sent smiles to. A 15-year-older cross dresser, scary-looking vampire couples in too-tight black and whore-red latex, a gang bang organiser. Log off and step away. I remember saying I was a fusspot, not a fuckpot.
And, to finish lesson one of this week’s exercise in stupidity: read the messages he’s sent to other women. Feel stabs of jealousy-driven pain when his words of endearment for me are used on others. Engage the green-eyed monster to stamp her feet and shout, “But I’m ‘Sweetness’, not that trumped-up trollop who is probably a man using a woman’s photo.”
That hurt. I’m not as special as I thought (and I know deep down this reality check is a good thing, but I’m still allowed to feel offended for a while).
What on earth was I thinking? I was horny and we were getting excited discussing combinations and permutations and amalgamations, but we exist on stolen moments as it is. I don’t mind sharing his body but I’m rather furious at the thought of sharing his time. Our time.
I re-iterate the sentiment in my last post about ArmyDude that I would let him do anything to me, but I need to add a caveat of ‘except go hunting together’. I have no fucking idea how to control my new carousel of emotions or decide the outcome I want, but I’m smiling – at the moment it’s a tightly-clenched grimace with fits of maniacal laughter at the situations I get myself into, but I’m smiling.
Learning life’s lessons by doing before thinking? I has it, too.
I am not sleeping well and assembling thoughts into paragraphs is like surfing in glue. Here, have an executive summary.
Jekyll has a new office with a large, L-shaped beechwood desk.
The table top is a little too high for me to be bent over it and taken from behind.
However, his dick is flush with the bench when he stands before the desk.
I rolled on my back and wrapped my legs around his neck.
He held my hips and I grasped the edge of the desk for support.
The sitemaps and plans on the desk crinkled and were tinged with sweat and my juices.
The view for both of us was spectacular, especially when he spread my legs like an open pair of scissors.
But I closed my eyes when he asked me to masturbate before him — hello again, my quirky insecurity.
He gets so turned staring into my eyes when watching me frig that I become more self conscious.
Two men at a time, two dicks in my mouth, a fist inside my body, whips and is whipped but falls into a shy mushy heap when asked to bring self-pleasure from under the covers to daylight.
Silly girl I am.
Hypocritical, too — I’d cease to exist if the men in my life stopped wanking for my visual stimulation.
Less than two minutes after we finished, we heard footsteps from the weekend security patrol.
The privacy panel starts from knee-height and we couldn’t scramble for our pants in case the guard saw movement through the clear segment of glass.
We turned into half-naked statues and didn’t breathe until the creak of footsteps faded.
Pants on and door open to dilute the reek of sex in the enclosed space.
Vowed we won’t be so reckless again.
Yeah, right.
ArmyDude and I exchanged a few surface-level e-mails that turned into a heart-to-heart cleansing.
I am frustrated. He is confused. I miss him when I can’t have him. He craves me. I am scared I might be feeling more than I can allow myself. He withdraws when he feels himself becoming too close to me. I said I can’t walk away just yet, and if I feel too much, I’ll wear the pain inside and never comprise his situation. He agrees, and won’t give up either.
We bonded again in the store room. No matter the tangles we were assembled in, I had a hand always clasping his or gripping his shoulder. I couldn’t let go. He couldn’t stop kissing me. I held the drapes of my long skirt as he pulled down my underwear and kissed me there as well. We licked my juices from his fingers. I devoured him with my lips. We shared his taste when he was spent.
I remember thinking, “I would let you do anything to me,” but can’t recall if the words escaped or I clutched them to my chest.
One of my least-admirable traits is my lack of ability to appreciate smooth periods of life and to maintain a positive eye on the horizon during rough times. Combined with my impatience and periodic bouts of brain wobble when depression rolls in, I’m a fucking nightmare inside my head a fair amount of the time.
Army Dude was nearly erased from my life today. I want him too much and I can’t have him enough, and catching unexpected glimpses of him around the workplace without being allowed to touch was almost the last blow. I can’t compartmentalise him, I can’t switch off my longing and I can’t store my desire on the shelf until it’s ready to be used again.
We are stuck in another cycle of derailed plans and I remember journalling the same kind of shit fairly recently. I wish I could fuck joyously and skip away into the night without needing to feel something on a deeper level, but I can’t. I want more, need more, and sometimes have to pay the heavier emotional price incurred by playing for higher rewards.
Today I was going to talk to him about ending things, but this morning we passed each other briefly and grinned like children who have found enough coins on the street to buy a bag of lollies.
I don’t know. We’ll try working together on this a bit longer while I sort out how I’m going to handle the wrenching knot in my stomach.
The Drummer’s libido appears to have returned from its migration of a month ago. He spoke surprising words of promise on the way home from work, our pants fell soon after opening the front door and we spent some ‘welcome back’ time rolling around on the bed in the late afternoon sun.
He is glad – simply and purely glad – that a vital element of his identity has returned. I am pleased, too, but the elusive causes are threatening to kill me with curiosity. ‘Why?’ and ‘why not?’ are my favourite questions and I almost stamp my feet in frustration when answers aren’t forthcoming.
This has been the first lull in his hair-trigger sexual response in almost a decade together (god, the times I spent in the past feigning sleep and excuses to avoid marathon hammerings — how I have changed). I have tried to be nearby and available on the surface, but gripping protectively to my chest the script of avid observer. What’s going on? When will it end? What will break the cycle?
Perhaps his malaise was a combination of job stress, medication, weariness from a lack of success with online dating and an acknowledgement of the ageing process. I am none the wiser and he doesn’t have any new insights. It just is, and it just was. [Postscript: he can always sense when I am ovulating – while I don't know why his sex drive left, his comeback could be as simple as the evolutionary drive to fuck during my fertile phase.]
The difference in our psyches was obvious when we were sliding in the easy and compatible manner of long-term partners. I was lost in comfort-sex reverie, thinking about how he wouldn’t recognise me if he saw the sexually re-invented me in action with Jekyll or ArmyDude; at the same moment he interrupted my contemplation and asked what their dicks were like.
Come on brain, this is something the adulterers don’t have to deal with – ha!
I said, “Ooh, I don’t know. I regard men in their overall form and sense, rather than beginning with an appendage. Any dick is just a tool unless wielded skilfully and enthusiastically.”
He squinted and nodded vaguely, so I added, “Their dicks are nice; both are smaller than yours but they feel good. Really good.”
He smiled, and I think found peace that I was being looked after during his physical absence – not only sexually, but like a precious package marked ‘handle with care’ that has been delivered in perfect condition. He returned to enjoying his erection and my wettest place; my body settled happily into our tempo as I cast new thoughts about my live-affirming joy for Jekyll and almost insanity-causing desire for ArmyDude.
Fragmented thoughts and messages have been melding into a sequence of events ArmyDude might enjoy. Or not. I took some of his hints, used them to conjure bigger and nastier ideas and received a quiet “Wow” in response. My dark frame of mind shall interpret his feedback as permission to keep plotting.
I will disrobe before him and remove each piece of his clothing painstakingly, stopping to kiss where my fingers brush his bare skin. I will need to resist the dangerously soft and guilty moments that will tell me to stop and manoeuvre him inside my body rather than fuck with his head.
I think my leather collar will be too tight for his neck; need to search for an aesthetically-pleasing alternative that won’t abrade his skin. His belt, perhaps.
Break.
And thank him softly for wearing a symbol of temporary ownership.
Repair.
He is curious about watersports as the giver or receiver. Why deliberate over a choice when I can introduce him to both with a little twist? In his shower stall we will watch as the liquid heat of his body streams down his thighs. When spent, he will kneel and I will splash his torso with the contents of my bladder until our noses crinkle from the concentrated odour of our waste.
Break.
I will cleanse his soiled body with warm water and soap and generous scruffing with a towel until he is dry and restored. Lead him to the bed, lavish him with kisses and adoring words praising his courage.
Repair.
When his blood is again awash with excitement, I will strap on the artificial penis and penetrate him with the larger dildo of his daydreams. When he bucks in tune with my pelvis, I will lug the whatever-it’s-going-to-be around his neck, arching his spine and restricting his freedom of breath. My need to lash out will overtake his want for a fucking. I will own his body as a continuation of mine and use it to purge my sins.
Break.
Uncouple and slide underneath him, kissing more and talking and restoring his erection with my wet mouth. Ask how he wants to come and reward his bravery in telling me his secrets and letting me throw my inner rage at him.
Repair.
Hurt with care.
I need to see him soon.
Depressed people are the best actors in life. He’ll never know how much I needed this.
