Archive for May 31, 2013

Let’s try some self-definition

earnest – adj. characterized by a serious and intent mental state.

honest – adj. free from fraud or deception.

authentic – adj. worthy of acceptance or belief as based on fact.

Am I earnest? I don’t like that description. It rubs me the wrong way. Earnest brings to my mind well-meaning do-gooders trying to convince the world that they have it right. It’s reminiscent of Edward Norton’s character in Moonrise Kingdom, or the missionaries in Book of Mormon. So righteous, and so completely missing the point. Earnestness must prove itself. It must convince others that its way is the best way. It never, ever doubts itself, never laughs at its mistakes, never admits that it’s in over its head.

Honesty is a little better. Honesty takes the good with the bad and doesn’t need to please anyone. But honesty is slippery. She might hurt you with the truth, so sometimes she stays quiet. Sometimes she only shows half of herself, keeping the juicy bits hidden. She is sly, she is double edged, and she will bite. You have to keep your eye on honesty.

Authenticity, now, knows how to stand alone. Authenticity simply is. It’s been judged already and it passed. Authenticity is genuine. It invites you in, regardless of who you are and shares a bit of its reality with you. It shows its cracks and ugliness alongside its beauty. When you experience it, you know it.

Me? I’m trying for authenticity. That’s why I’m here, up in the attic, sharing my thoughts with you strangers. I want to share the bad and the good. I want to make you laugh and cry and feel something new. I write with reference to you, not to prove something, but to express a new truth about myself. I want to laugh about it, I really fucking want to, but I have a bunch of muck to wade through first. I want to show Mark that I can be fun and smart and hot all at once. And I want him to feel that way, too.

Here’s a little snippet

On Monday, we’re at a friend’s house for a barbecue. The moms are in the kitchen making food. My friend turns to me and confides that she noticed my daughter’s underwear showing through her leggings.

Do I know? Yes, of course I do. Have I told her before not to wear those pants without a skirt over? Yep. Today I chose not to fight it out. I do mention to my daughter that my friend noticed, that it’s just not okay to let other kids’ dads see your undies.

Then I remember that the polka dots on my own bra are showing through my tight t-shirt. Yes, I chose the combination on purpose. I’m practicing, remember?

I am such a fucking hypocrite. I don’t want to be. But I do think that she needs to learn to be a good girl first.

So, did my friend notice the irony? If so, she didn’t admit it. She’s a good girl, through and through.


She likes to wear black lace panties, and sometimes a bra or tank top. Sometimes not.

She plays the music loud. She likes dance club music or angry grunge from way back when.

She reads, she writes, thinks, draws. She reads dirty smut until she’s wet, and then she makes herself come, with fingers on her clit, usually.

She is strung taught as a tightrope, waiting. Waiting. She readies herself for him.

She wants nothing more than to slip a tiny black dress on and slip out for an adventure with him. Even the thought of it wrenches her heart and brings tingles to her skin. She wants, more than anything, to be out. She needs to show her hotness to him, to demonstrate her new wanting. She wants eyes on her, burning her, ripping her open.

She wants to see her desire reflected in his eyes, but in the absence of that, she is left glaring at her mirrored image, bent back on itself and infinitely multiplied.

She is ready. She wants to know and be known. She wants to be promiscuous for him. She wants wear his approval on a chain around her neck. Her proof.


Don’t read this

If you want to show me how much you like me, ignore me. Please. Like me? Don’t high-five me. Don’t nod, or wink. Well, don’t ever wink at anyone. Ever.

If you admire my writing, don’t compliment it. Your silence will show me. If I give you a compliment, don’t return it.

Think I’m smart? Like how I frame an argument? Well, then call me crazy. Nothing makes me feel more intelligent than having to defend my sanity.

Want to show me how much you love me? Don’t say a word. Don’t you dare hug me. Kissing is off limits.

Am I naked before you, wet, and begging for your cock? Deny me. Then I’ll know how hot you think I am.

Oh, and have I given you a gift? Don’t say thanks. Don’t send me a card. How else will I really know that you liked it?

Did you ever make me a promise? Well, please break it. Accidentally forget about it or purposely lie to me. Go ahead.

Make me feel unspecial.

Just kidding.

After I come

After I come, I usually laugh. Mark noticed it a few months ago, when I made a series of recordings of my orgasms. (Yes, you read that right. Maybe one day I’ll work up the nerve and get his okay to post one on here.) After I come, I am usually exhilarated and brimming with happiness. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been that way.

What about the happiness itself? What’s that like? Well, it’s layered. One layer, the base, is physical pleasure. Pleasure like energy in different intensities, from the soft new light of a sunrise to the sharp stab of a lightning bolt, coursing through my body. Then a layer of thought. Here I am stripped down, and my mind is clear. Here I am me. My thoughts arrive whole, regenerated, uninterrupted. Here contemplation is freedom. Then a layer of feeling. Feeling you next to me, feeling the air on my skin, feeling the stillness of my body itself. For a few minutes, I am both solidly in my body and somehow separated from it at the same time. My awareness of the duality makes me smile ironically.

After I come, the layers arrive one by one, then blend and blur together, softening until I slowly come back to reality, ready for more.

**Readers, I got the idea for this piece from some other blog. It stuck in my mind, but I can’t remember the name of the blog now. I wish I could give credit where credit is due.

I admit it

Not knowing your face, your body, your touch makes you everywhere and nowhere at once. I have to hunt for you like I search for God, accepting the silence as my proof.

A vignette

She’s wearing a super short skirt in a gorgeous flowered print, and a red sweater. The sweater and the skirt don’t quite match but her outfit is so fucking hot. She’s everywhere on the dance floor, moving, posing. She loves our eyes on her. She runs her hands through her short blond hair and stares meaningfully into her boyfriend’s eyes. She’s intimidatingly tall, but I want to dance with her anyway, to brush against her red sweater and capture her energy. Yet tonight I’m yours, and I satisfy myself with decorating you at our table, laughing with friends.

Dresses and decisions

It’s almost time to get ready. I have a decision to make. You only barely weighed in yesterday, so now it’s up to me.

I’m finding it tough, without your guidance. I like to please you.

The wrap dress with the blue splotches or my new little black dress with white stripes? The blue would match your shirt nicely. It’s cute, but I don’t think it’s hot.

The stripes? Definitely hot. But sadly, it’s cold out today. I’ll have to wear tights and a sweater with it.

See? I just can’t decide. I need outside reference that nothing else, not even the mirror, nothing but you can give.

Will you help me, please?

Scene on a balcony

I’ve been toying with the idea of a balcony for weeks now. It’s wrought iron, black, old. Curved like a woman’s hip. It’s one of many on a building in some European city. Flowers hang from its corners. It’s beautiful, but what is about to take place here is not.

She’s dressed as he asked, short black skirt, tight tank top, no bra or panties, shoes left inside. Her hair is up, off her neck. It’s a warm night, and she’s hot. She’s been hot for hours, and sweat beads on her neck and runs to her chest. She’s ready for him, but waiting. Waiting so long, every minute feels like a year.

She grabs the top of the railing with both hands, leans over. Below, she can see people walking in and out of the building, returning from dinner. The sun is almost set, casting heavy shadows on the street and the balcony. She glimpses him approaching from down the street, his reflective sunglasses catching the last of the sun. Her heart pounds.

She’s wet already, and now she reaches down and puts two fingers in her pussy, preparing herself as he asked. She moans. She waits, and moves her fingers steadily. Her knees shake, but she steadies herself against the railing, gripping tighter with her free hand, facing the street.

From the open door, he emerges, smiling to himself. He’s removed his sunglasses, and he pauses near the door to watch her. He clears his throat approvingly, but she doesn’t look at him. Several minutes pass, and she’s moaning, but all he does is watch and rub his cock through his jeans.

Does he even want her? So amused is the look on his face, not bothered in the least. Not struggling to contain himself like she is. He is so separate from her desire that it’s almost impossible to imagine that he directed the whole scene.

Then, suddenly. Swiftly. He steps forward. He unzipped his jeans without her noticing, in her complete distraction. He presses her against the railing. Hard. His body is against hers, and he yanks down the straps of her top with both hands to expose her breasts, slick with sweat. He cups them, and pinches both nipples, hard. She yelps and opens her eyes. She’s dizzy with her need for him, and she tilts forward over the railing a little. At the same moment, he reaches between her legs, pulls her hand aside and shoves three fingers inside her. His fingers, so much larger than hers, hurt. But the pain is pleasure for her, and she feels her orgasm approaching. She leans even farther over the edge of the railing, pressing herself into his hand, coming hard, hard, on his hand. She cries out. The pleasure shoots through her body like electric current radiating from her center down her arms and legs.

He wastes no time. He pulls out his fingers, yanks up her skirt, and shoves his cock inside her. With his other hand he pulls her by the hair, holding her upright again, pressing her even harder to the railing as he fucks her. She cannot contains herself, and is crying out in the now semidarkness, drawing attention from another balcony and the street below. She doesn’t even notice; she has lost sense of time and place. The whole time, he is silent but for his deep breathing. He rocks harder and faster into her, and she grinds back against him, using the railing for resistance. Her hands, where they grip, are marked with red impressions.

When he comes, he lets out a loud moan, “Mmmmm.” She laughs, finally, to hear his voice, and comes again herself. This time the pleasure spreads softly inside her body. A few moments pass, and he turns her around, smiling for real. “Hi,” he says, kissing her, pulling her straps back up, putting her back together. “Hi,” she says, still breathless. They notice some watchers on that neighboring balcony, and wave before stepping back inside, laughing.


Your instructions

I missed you last night, but I hope that you were enjoying yourself. You didn’t seem impressed with your destination yesterday, so I am glad that you are returning to me tonight.

Think about me on the plane, okay? Think about what we would (maybe) be doing if we were on that plane together. We’ve only ever kissed on a plane, even on our honeymoon (why?) but maybe this time we would do more. If I were there (not the kids). I can think of a lot of ideas.

I’ll be waiting at home for you.