That's all I want to give up today.
My mouth.
My shoulders, clavicle, breastbone.
String of pearls.
Strands of hair tickling naked skin of my back, my nape.
Thin black strap about to fall off my shoulder.
Smooth skin bare and exposed, awaiting bites and kisses and ravishing.
Am I trying to tease?
Am I trying to elicit a response?
Is it all my fault when I give you pieces of me
and then complain when fantasies are projected onto these 2 images?
Yes, it's all my fault.
If I don't eroticize myself, who will?
Respond however you wish.
Or not.
I'll still be here.

This week has been emotionally exhausting.
Overdose on the Self-Examination.

My house is one of the ones totally shafted by NorthPoint/Telocity.
So no DSL for the DJ this weekend, and who knows when next?
So all communique will have to be multi-tasked into the work day.
Which is tough because it's so busy.
Usually I write and/or respond to email late at night or very early in the morning.

Have a wonderful weekend, wherever you are.

***All blogspot hosted sites will be unavailable Thursday (today), 0329, from 4 p.m. PST to approx. 10 p.m. PST.
See Blogger.com for details.

I need to see a professional to get some help on how to eradicate this persecution complex.
Because it sets off my defense mechanisms which are terrible and swift.
Combined with my newly awakened rage, it's an unmanageable combination.
But when I think about going to a therapist, I don't believe they would say anything I don't already understand about myself.

Therapist: Let's look at the root of why you feel persecuted.

DJ: Because of guilt issues.

T: Guilty about what?

DJ: Infidelity.

T: Why do you feel the need to be unfaithful?

DJ: Because I'm not getting what I want from my relationship.

T: Why can't you get what you want?

DJ: Because I don't know how to ask for it, I don't think I should have to ask for it, I don't think he can give it to me.

T: Then why do you stay in this unfulfilling relationship?

DJ: Because it's not completely unfulfilling. It satisfies me on many levels, just not all of them. I also have a lot of levels of need. I also no longer believe that there is One Man out there who can satisfy all my desires.

T: How would you expect someone to know, or understand, much less fulfill all these "levels of need" if you can't even communicate them yourself?

DJ: (Silence. Pause) I don't know. Intuition, experience? Destiny? I know it's unfair. I know I'm to blame.

T: Let's not place blame here.

DJ: Okay.

T: Would you be able to articulate it to me, what you want I mean? From your relationship?

Long pause.

DJ: It's a lot of things. Things which are rendered ridiculous when you itemize them or try to make them tangible.

T: Well, conceptually then, what do you feel is lacking in your current relationship? You speak in your writings about maximizing your inner freak. What does that mean to you? What is this inner freak? How do you wish to maximize it?

DJ: Can't you just read and infer, surmise, psychoanalyze?

T: I'd rather hear it from you in the most honest and simplest terms.

DJ: I can't, I don't know how to just say it, say what I want. I can say and talk about what you want, or what he wants or what someone else wants.

T: Do you know what you want?

DJ: Sort of?

T: Do you know what you don't want?

DJ: I don't want to be ignored. I want to be asked if there's something he's not doing for me.

T: To relieve you of the responsibility of telling him yourself?

DJ: Yes. I want him to pay attention, intuit, surprise, innovate, not just "learn the ropes" and memorize my "acts" as he likes to call it. I don't want a relationship based on Pavlovian training. I want him to pick up on my cues, cruise the same wavelength with me, talk to me. I am a 100% sentient being and I need constant stimulation for growth.

T: And have you tried telling him this?

DJ: Yes.

T: And the outcome?

DJ: He has his defense mechanisms too. And when I open up, he calls it being needy. When I tell him the root of my frustrations, he says I can't let go of the past and let bygones be bygones. When I tell him I don't feel wanted, he says he doesn't think like a typical guy, is not libido driven and I should be grateful for that. Should I be? He also says he's not interested in sex when things are bad between us. Then I tell him things are bad between us because we're not having sex.

T: Was your sex life ever satisfying to you?

DJ: Once. He got into my fantasies, played them out with me. Used to touch me all the time, even in "inappropriate situations". Now he says he loves me too much to "defile" me. What if I like being defiled once in a while?

T: So what changed is that his love for you went beyond physical lust?

DJ: I guess so.

T: Do you ever initiate role playing or anything like that with him anymore?

DJ: It's changed. Our sex is affectionate, to me, it's professional. There are too many roadblocks in my synapses now.
It's not for me. It's for Us. It's for Him.

T: Do you continue to orgasm when you have sex with him?

DJ: Yeah. I know how to get it from him, for myself. But he doesn't "give" them to me. Does that make sense?

T: Do you think there's any hope for change?

DJ: At this point, not really. I'm just maintaining the status quo, getting what I need, giving what is expected of me. Protecting everyone's feelings.

T: What about your feelings?

DJ: What about them?

T: Who takes care of them, makes them their #1 priority?

DJ: I don't think that's anyone's job.

T: Because it's your job?

Pause.

DJ: If it is my job, then I'm doing it. Thus the dissociation. The multiplicity. The secret lives to fulfill desires which I guess are secret.

T: Why do you feel the need to keep your desires a secret? Is there anything you feel ashamed about with regard to what you want?

Pause.

DJ: I'm mostly ashamed that I can't ask for it. Not with my true voice. Not to the person with whom I've been sharing my life and my future for almost 3 years.

T: Do you feel you deserve it, to get what you want and need?

DJ: Yes and no.

T: Why no?

DJ: Because I'm a coward.
Because I can't ask for it.
And if I can't ask for it, then I don't deserve it.
I'm aware that I can make things happen.
I guess I feel that I have to punish myself (pseudo-ascetism) or starve myself because I am angry at myself for my cowardice.

T: So you go after what you want, in secret, armed with a more powerful and single-minded alternate personality, this Dopamine Junkie?

DJ: Yes. Because the real me is too scared.

T: Scared of what?

DJ: Scared of the truth I intuit from Hugo -- that he doesn't get me, and might never get me. Scared that he's the One because he holds down so much of my life for me, I can see the future with him. Successful young couple, homeowners, children.
He's always said that once he makes enough money, that he'd support me so I could just write and sing at nightclubs and own a restaurant or a shoe boutique or anything I really want to do.

T: That's quite a carrot to dangle in front of you.

DJ: Isn't it though?

T: These things you say Hugo does for you -- the stability, the damage control, the professional couple on the marriage trajectory, the "normal" life, his support of your artistic endeavors -- aren't these all things you can do for yourself?

DJ: Yes, I know. I know they are. But not necessarily things (work) I want to do for myself. Not if someone can provide them for me.

T: What about the intangibles? The love, the passion, the stimulation, the growth, the journey together?
Will you forego all of that because you're too lazy? Because you don't have enough "energy" for "upheaval"?
Because you prefer the safety of your "status quo"?

DJ: My status quo is changing.

T: Yes, it sounds like it from your recent actions and decisions.

DJ: So what do I do? What can I do? How can I make my life to be what I want it to be?

T: Mmmm.

_end stream of consciousness_

Sometimes I feel I have this strange responsibility to provide quality smut filled content.

"The sex isn't good anymore."

And so we drift away. To other porn sites, to our respective others, to our silent voyeuristic fantasies.
To our lives and our lovers. To real as opposed to virtual kisses and caresses. Which is as it should be.

**See Blogger.com for message on maintenance heads-up.
In case you look for me and I'm not here again.

Twice today my machine has crashed as I was writing today's blog.
Technically difficulties! But you don't care, do you?
You don't want to see me sweating.

Dreams:
_of the perfect shoes, teeth biting into my ankle, and a hand on my inner thigh.
_of a steely soft and hard voice whispering nasty thoughts in my ear.
_of a slow languid ride, two bodies sheened in sweat, softly, smoothly, rhythmically to Maxwell's (Untitled)How Does it Feel?

Do you dream of me as I dream of myself sometimes?
An amorphous pleasure giving glowing smooth malleable tender form, hovering over, curling under, splayed before, you.
I have no face but eyes, my only voice in moans, red mouth, cheek, wash of gloss black inky ribbons of hair. A sensual blur.

Dinner with Ex-Boy last night:
my darling ex-boy who so often peppers my blogs with fond reminiscence.
I sit beside him, wistful at his lovely mouth and his new tongue stud I never got to enjoy.
Always attuned to my sex vibes, he is at attention. I flex but send him on his way.
Sense memory of our wonderful physical compatibility overwhelms me and I will want to cry at my body's keening remembrance.

Embracing him I feel the tension that will always be there.
But I don't want him anymore, my memories animate and imbue him with a spirit that he cannot provide on his own.

It was always a struggle between Hugo and Ex-Boy.
Who was the better man? Who handled me the best?

Ex Boy soothes and calms me with his goldenboy presence.
We listen to Bjork together, smoke bowls and close our eyes, hold hands and think of more innocent times, hear again the waves crashing on the beach. We are made of water, flowing always, sometimes tempestuous, sometimes gentle, always moving.

He knows my powers. He knows my pain. He once was the one who gently fucked me back to life.

But I'm not who I used to be. Neither is he.

So I'm still dreaming of the man to smooth me out forever.

Jeff Buckley, Everybody here wants you:
(I met him when he played in-store at the HMV in Toronto back in '94. If I'd known he'd had this song in him then, I would have surely jumped his bones)
>
Such a thing of wonder in this crowd, I'm a stranger in this town, you're free with me.
And our eyes locked in downcast love, I sit here proud, Even now you're undressed in your dreams with me.
I'm only here for this moment. I know everybody here wants you.
I know everybody here thinks he needs you. I'll be waiting right here just to show you.
>

How quickly I slip through space to space, each space inhabiting me with its sensations, images, memories.
The secret passageways I'm walking through right now are where I exist, where I thrive.

I realized today that only within the written medium am I ordered.
Otherwise, unrecorded I am an unmanageable flux.
In other words, when I don't write I am wild and lost.

silky brown skin warm with sleep.
full of flying dreams and waking up with a full tank of horny.
i am told i snore.
men must say "no, it is charming."
cute that I snore?
Highly unlikely.

Hugo rises and moves very fast in the mornings when he is here.
Very little lingering. At this point, although I love him, I just wait
for him to leave.

Make coffee. Log on for weather.
Literotica.com for masturbation material.
15 minutes to get myself off (or less). 20 minutes to blog.
Hop in shower. Arrange hair and face. Dress. Drink coffee.
Pack the pockets and the purse. Catch the bus. Zone out with music on MUNI.
Think thoughts that make my head knock back into the window.
Surreptitiously ogle bodies behind sunglasses.

It seems that the big rip off with this life is that you can only live
out one life, one at a time, in a linear fashion.
Only one cake at a time. Not a cake, and eat it too, and then some more cake.
But I like all kinds of cake.

How about MultiTasking as a way, as a philosophy of life?

Sometimes I think that it's been crickets and tumbleweeds because I am
not providing the same titillating smut, the same dangling carrot of my desperate freak
waiting to be scooped by my Dream One. I have let the veil drop,
overmuch, and now there is no shadow of my naked body tantalizingly offered,
suspended in possibility.

In my correspondence perhaps it was surprising that I am real, candid,
not dripping with innuendo. Maybe my honesty was not appreciated.
I cannot be another CL slut desperate for attention, for email, to take
advantage of lonely men out there for my own personal gain. I have
asked no one to take me to champagne at the Bubble Lounge. I pay for my
own meals, my own drinks. I do not take advantage of my anonymity, my
projected fantasy self, and this medium to lead anyone on.

My correspondence is not out of casual regard.
I have extended a trust to you that I cannot even extend to my love, my friends, my family.
You see, I will not prevaricate here.
I will not take advantage of this beautiful and fragile project of exposure. I can't.

Oh the generous offers are appreciated in their thought and kindness.
But welcome to the woman of my generation.
We don't seek out men for financial stability. At least I don't.

Yes, even I have some kind of moral standards. But I will readily
admit, in more desperate and cash-strapped moments my mind flickers
fleetingly on the the offers of shoe sprees (if I were a weaker woman -
sigh!), trip to Japan, weekends in secluded cabins, corsets (this one sooo
tempting - I have always wanted a corset).

But then I think, why would a total stranger want to give anything to
me? What does he want or expect in return?
I know my gratitude would not be enough.

Let's drop it. It's just chatter I was thinking about this morning.

I'm tired and run down. I look it.
If I were with ex-boy still, though. . . .
How he'd wake up next to my sleep warmed body and already be hard.
Turn me on my tummy to press his hands against the small of my back
where it ached the most. Cover my back, shoulders, neck with kisses.
Stroking my sides.
Eliciting moans.

- feel better? that feel good?

- mm. yes.

Very casually he gets up to get a towel to place beneath me where I lay.
Very casually I am drawn like a magnet to the head of his cock, where I
have a little breakfast in bed. Very quickly after working my mouth on
his shaft, his balls and his spongetip he is pulsing in my mouth. Very
naturally he picks me up by my waist and sets me to sit on him.

- ride me little girl.

And the little motor starts to rev.
Dopamine Junkie action figure with super fuck bunny action goes to
work.

Yeah, I'm on my period. But it makes the fucking hotter, wetter and deeper.
I am insanely sensitive and every stroke brings out little stars in my head.
Something inside me is so relaxed that his cock reaches deeper than usual.

Wasn't meant to be, sigh sigh sigh. But how nice it was.

7.10 a.m. Time for my shower I guess.

No time to cum this morning.
Guess it's chocolate for breakfast then.

this weekend:
march madness meets menstrual monster.
not a good couple.

thoughts:

does a woman know when her man's dick has been
tampered with? does a man know when his woman's pussy
has been tampered with? snoop dogg and dre seem to
think so.

if he thinks this is enough, then is he a fool?
if I think that there is more than this, am I a fool?

the split is so clean.
lick it clean.
licking the split makes me want to cum.

something good is in my synapse.

ASU on the tv outside and I am locked in my room in
another efficient self induced orgasm.

I want nothing to hurt me. I will not allow myself to
be hurt. I am tenderized by the self-flagellation,
here in the private darkness of my room with my eyes
fixed on the light of a candle.

I feel frozen. I want to cry. But I am hard, steeled, ruthless inside.

I can't explain sex anymore. It's not really what I'm after.

It's that focused beam of energy that I feed off of,
the vibration on my lips as they go numb, the arch of
my body that makes my eyes roll upwards too, that
brain chemical released, that sweetness and soothing
and slippery balm refrescante sensazione of the
molding of bodies to make a fit.

I've been alive inside, quietly awakening, me and Kate
Chopin, journeying to the East of the Universe to
follow my hero's arc. Living a thousand simultaneous
lives to awaken all my senses.

My uterus is doing it's thing this week.
Mmm. I hurt all over. In a tender way that
I keep doped up so I can function without
being a monster.

But thinking today of lurid Caligula style images on the MUNI.
Thinking of little explosions of sparkly stars erupting in a shower as my cum spot in my synapse gets jolted with pure delicious energy.

I was a slave in search of a Master.
I just needed to submit to an inexorable power.
I wanted someone to "authorize", to take the decision,
and subsequently, the consequences, out of my hands.
Draw me to the inevitable, give me a hand in releasing
myself from resistance.

You read me.
You fantasize along with me.
You project onto me, relate to me,
live vicariously through my denial, my struggle, my duplicity.
If it takes a self-destructive nature to live this way,
at least I believe in the Phoenix that rises from the ashes.

Risen from the rubble, as I have before, sooty and singed but renewed and
fortified by the fire that heats my inner metal. Or mettle.
I know I'm going to get burned.
I know I won't be able to control everything forever.
I'm afraid.
In an exhilirated way.
Frightened as if in a haunted house.
Scared shitless by how volatile everything in my life has become,
and how exhausted I am sometimes in my efforts to keep
the explosions effectively dormant.

I have empath abilities, this is probably my most "attractive" feature.
And the most dangerous.
For others and myself.
Shape shifting, molding, conforming.
I don't really consider it pretense because all those qualities exist within me.

It just takes the proper pheromone, stimulus, to bring them to the surface.
But I am in flux all the time. So I don't know who or what I am, really.
Except a sum of parts.
I'm not the only hero with a thousand faces.

But eyes, piercing through eyes, probing deeply, traveling through your chambers,
searching the grid for your energy voids, your energy pockets.
Looking for places I can feed, and you can feed on me.
And what I find is reflected in my eyes.
This is why I can fill my gaze up with a wall of love and affection.
And why I am searching for someone, something who eyes can pierce through my invisible shields,
through my layers of whirling amorphous multiplicity, and search my grid.
Someone who's eyes will finally reflect my innermost desire.
Not just for sex.
But for energy, fulfillment, depth.
Like in TRON. Where they find that source/pool of pure energy and cup it in their hands and drink it?

Faltering. Wavering. Frightened. Chickenshit.
Self Loathing!!!!

Even here, in my relative anonymity, I feel I have released some pure essence of myself to
unknown factors. I think about how small is the City, all the potentially dangerous degrees of separation.
I think about who recognizes me, who is watching me, the eyes I don't see.

Neurosis. Paranoia.
Guilt. Remorse.
Self-Recrimination.

(Keep it in the box baby.
With all the other Useless Societal Programming,
all the Freud trash, all the judeo-christian guilt b.s.)

Help Foucault!

Here is the thing I built up.
And here is the thing I want to destroy.
Parts of myself that collect pain and fashion a keen bladed sword.
I slash myself to bits.
Or bites.
Or bytes.
Small dissociated pieces.
A meal consisting of food that's compartmentalized in a shiny red lip lacquered bento box.
Food on your plate that doesn't touch!
I will never be convinced that I am loveable in my entirety.

Time for this month's downward spiral.
See you when I hit the bottom.

I am energy and that is all.
Energy feels good.
Atoms bouncing off of other atoms.

This morning I was called a drug again.
If I am the drug that makes addicts out of men,
then as the drug, what am I addicted to?

Being used? Roll me up and smoke me then.

But today I am running on just a little sleep, coffee, excedrin, coca cola.
And I can't speak.. Words are heavy and I want to cry.

My head hurts, I'm tired and I am a carefully standing still statue of composure with a maelstrom whirling inside.

Sun Manic Clouds Depressive
Wish sometimes I was still on meds.
Wishing to disappear. Wishing to run away.
Wishing for another chance at another life far away from this one.
Wishing for a farm somewhere I could escape to and write.
Wishing for a digital video camera so I could make digi movies.
Wishing for someone to tell me that there are psychadelic mushrooms for sale somewhere.
Wishing I could painlessly amputate.
Wishing I could find beautiful ankle strap sandals.
Wishing I could find a job that didn't break my spirit.
Wishing I could show someone all the faces of me and not have to hide what I think people can't handle.
Because you only hurt people when you tell them something about yourself that they will never be able to understand.

Fistful of pennies and a big ugly fountain next door with no water in it..
Can't find any dandelions or stars to wish on.

I feel self-destructive. I can't eat or sleep.
But no one knows that at home.
No one knows that at work.
Friends, family and Hugo are all safely reassured that I am fine.

Am I behaving oddly, I wonder?

My movements, my actions are calculated, methodical, perfunctory so as not to betray my turmoil.
Someone please drill a hole in my skull to let the steam out.

Or maybe I'd feel better after a good bleeding?
Oh wait, that's next week.

Crickets and tumbleweed out there I guess, except for a few die hard dope junkie junkies.
I am a voice talking in the dark. Throaty whispers.
I feel like a ghost.

Despite major proletarian related vibekillers, I am happy today. It's spring. I'm wearing a dress!
I feel productive and gracious.
That's RARE.

See that smile on the screen? That's also what I'm wearing today.

If you're out there, are you okay?

I want to hear about the other freak maximization processes in progress.
I want to know that I'm not alone in a lonely tower.

Recent conversation with oft-mentioned ex-boy today.
I had sent him an excerpt (G-rated) of what I've written about him.
I didn't know what kind of response I wanted to evoke from him.

ex-boy: its well written
ex-boy: of course
ex-boy: and the sentiment is undeniable
ex-boy: fact based emotional writing
ex-boy: you omitted x rated stuff?
ex-boy: or just stuff not about me?
dj: x-rated stuff
ex-boy: curiosity....
ex-boy: but I can resist
dj: ll cool j
dj: little white panties
ex-boy: yikes
dj: other things
dj: dirty dirty things
dj: our past makes other men hard
ex-boy: I'm sure
dj: @ least someone benefits!
dj: anyway
dj: someday you'll read the whole tale
dj: and want me again.
dj: haha
ex-boy: really?
dj: really what?
ex-boy: I want you again sometimes
dj: :dripping with sarcasm: Riiight.
dj: That should have said Dripping
dj: I don't know where that smiley face comes from
ex-boy: no sarcasm
ex-boy: lots of things make me think about it
ex-boy: horny thoughts
ex-boy: good times thoughts
dj: bookstores?
ex-boy: sometimes
dj: stealth bombers?
dj: dandelions?
ex-boy: now that you mention it
dj: ll cool j?
ex-boy: yup
ex-boy: sometimes its just remember
ex-boy: sometimes its remember and want
dj: yeah that's about right.
dj: remember and want and then sweet twinge and then heavy sigh
ex-boy: usually stop short of heavy sigh
ex-boy: not my style I think
dj: what do you do instead of heavy sigh then? where does the memory end?
ex-boy: I dont know
ex-boy: maybe i have short attention span and just move on
dj: ha. boys.
ex-boy: I guess there is a sigh there sometimes
ex-boy: esp. when the memory leads to physical action
dj: out of your whole time pie, I am the 2% "other" slice, now.
ex-boy: no, I think that you are the 2% "you" time
ex-boy: you still have your own slot
dj: SO! You admit it is only 2%!
ex-boy: ya
ex-boy: but work and sleep add up to about 85
ex-boy: leaving a measly 15 to be divvied amongst all others
ex-boy: and on average week, New Girl takes about 10 12 of that
ex-boy: making you one of the most valued relationships
dj: how about, in your "thinking" pie?
ex-boy: same stats can be applied
dj: nuh-uh
ex-boy: thinking while pleasing on the other hand....
dj: thinking is not the same as living pie
ex-boy: : )
dj: wait. wha-ha?
ex-boy: it is for me
ex-boy: is bad to tell you that I think about you while masterbating?
dj: no I guess it's not bad.
dj: but would you tell me what you think about?
dj: just a tidbit?
dj: a crumb?
dj: a scooby snack?
ex-boy: well
ex-boy: you
ex-boy: skin
ex-boy: curves
ex-boy: eyes
ex-boy: panties
ex-boy: mostly skin I think
ex-boy: by eyes, I mean certain looks
ex-boy: the I'm gunna eat you looks
ex-boy: the innocent me looks
ex-boy: you know?
dj: I miss the I'm gonna eat you looks from you.
dj: at clubs and parties.
dj: I remember the first time I decided I really wanted to suck you
dj: was at a party
ex-boy: I think I remember
dj: I wanted to pour honey on you
ex-boy: ya I remember
dj: hey you remember too! we didn't lose those brain cells!
ex-boy: not all of them
dj: hey
dj: please don't ever worry that I'm out to get you back, ok?
ex-boy: I wouldn't
dj: k
dj: I just remember and want too
dj: and Want was a big thing between us
ex-boy: ya, just hope that I don't get too horny and seduce you one day
dj: (i hope i hope i hope)

I'm tired of being a seducer. I want to be seduced.
It's so much easier to be seduced by Someone Familiar.

FYI: The dopamine junkie inbox is now at a different email address. Please make a note of it if you wish to continue correspondence with me. For the new address, click on Feed the Kitty.

Because I always must be honest in this magic mirror,
I will say this was a weekend where the dopamine
junkie recessed.

A lovely weekend for Hugo and I, at play here in the
spring City sunshine. I felt pure, solid, present.
But when I try to ask myself how this grounded feeling
came to be, I don't believe I can say it is because I
am now content, that I have "gone back to sleep" or
given up the dream of the maximized inner freak.

Either I have steeped myself stronger in denial that
ever before, or the bento box dissociation of
personality has enabled a fuller self.

But it is selfish. I do not see the sense anymore of
the ascetism (ah, but you call it ascetism, DJ, but
your inability to communicate your desires effectively
is not the same as ascetism!) or the martyrous
compromise/sacrifice of self in the attempt to satisfy
some singular ideal.

I watched the movie Pi this evening. Something inside
me keened as I watched the protagonist drive himself
mad with the search, the computation of his magic
number.

I want to understand my heart. I want to understand
my desires. I want to explain why I am the way I am.
I want to be an unabashed human experiment/example.

Sometimes I wish my intellectual heroes had the
occasion to intersect with these thoughts of mine,
that on another plane I am having a lovely dinner
party; Nietzsche is there, and Joseph Campbell too,
Hermann Hesse and Anais Nin, John Fowles, Josephine
Hart, Milan Kundera, Bjork. I wouldn't even want
their words necessarily, or their guidance. Just a
hug.

I wouldn't want to be Salvador Dali's friend, I just
want to be the confectioner of his favorite bon bons.

Suddenly though, I have an urge to go out and purchase
something silky and black.

Wear my little black step in mules with the pretty
heel. Leave my hair down. Redden my mouth.

Seems simple enough. That's as far as I go in the
sexy uniform department.

I do alright nude. And I don't do too badly in just a tshirt and sweats.

But in my little black uniform, black silky fabric
grazing lightly over curves, smooth silky skin
beneath, a pretty heel, hair and red lips -- I can be
anyone.

Red toenails. Exposed Instep and Ankle. Naked calf and
thigh. The submission of shoulders. Inky black
ribbons of hair. Fingers to shoulders, smooth naked
skin. Swell of breast above black fabric. Thrust of
nipple beneath.

I could be anyone. I could be anywhere.

I am sibilance.

Soft
Sweet
Succulent
Seductive
Smooth
Sharp
Shaved
Saucy
Sadistic
Slave
Stiletto
Silent
Sucking

SWITCH.

A strange inner calm has descended upon me. Another S
word. Serene.

(What was that? Was that Resolve?)

How wonderful though, to be a woman, to be able to
blame our frailty, to be endowed with the
"prerogative" to "change our minds"?

This weekend was idyllic, halcyonic perhaps.
Que sera sera.

On another note, since I am on a Female positive tip
-- this is Maximum Horny week.

Any man who ever had a LTR must have experienced that
pre-menstrual horny cycle. A wise man controls the
monster by feeding his woman chocolate, and feeding
the kitty, who will be miauling in heat . . one
ex-boy was so attuned to this cycle that long after we
broke up, he was still on the same "heat cycle" as me.

His premenstrual treatment won huge points. He
massaged my back and my hands, left chocolate around,
smoked bowls with me and kept the voracious kitty well
fed, purring and content, leaving me so sated the
Crazies and the Cramps didn't stand a chance.

We also fucked on my period. Sometimes it was the
only thing that relieved my back and headaches. And
we both agreed that during this time he achieved the
deepest and most satisfying penetration. He'd have
gone for the red wings but I wasn't into it then. But
I gave the best head in return for this treatment,
going for his spongetip in the truck and taking him in
my mouth with guiltless fervor.

Lesson: He served my needs, and I went to lengths to
please him. I never felt as if the scales were
unbalanced -- I felt we were feeding, not feeding off
of, each other. Alas, we had our time together and
then we had to let go. Obviously he means a great
deal to me, I still love him. Probably all the more
because we let each other go voluntarily. It was just
time and we both knew it. I'm not sad about it. I'm
grateful. Our bodies served each other very well, and
our spirits mingled and danced for a time.

His birthday is coming up. I have become a guest to
his life. He has become a ghost to mine. But we'll
spend time. I'm still allotted a few choice days
within the year where we will sup together, chill in
the truck which held a million memories, be still,
listen to music which always sounds better when we're
together, and be happy and sad for these brief moments
of quiet contentment which we afford ourselves as a
treat from our now divergent paths.

Morsels of bittersweet chocolate memories melting,
lingering on my tongue.

He was also the first boy to make me cum with his
mouth. He knew my pussy very well, what I responded
to, was very attuned to my moans.

I always guided the pressure and direction with my
hands on his head, and he followed.

Hot breath on kitty, kisses and small bites on my
inner thighs. Closed mouth kisses on my mound to get
my hips pumping at his face. One thumb lightly
grazing my seeping slit. Brush of his lips on me, as
if by accident. Smiling as he gets my breath ragged,
my eyes desperate, and my body undulating, pumping at
the air.

Always gentle with kitty. Never harsh or mean. Never
rough. He made out with my kitty like he tongued my
mouth -- soft, deep, sucking, soft bites.

And didn't go for my clit until he was ready to make
me cum. Mmm.

And would get up to make me kiss his cock, stroke it
in my mouth, before resting himself between my legs
again. And what was even better is that I knew he
liked it -- he would grind himself against the
floor/bed/whatever while he would lick me. 2 fingers
at the most, inserting into me palm up, cum come cum
come on.

Gah. My orgasm would not be one big explosion but a
series of seizures he would bring me to, the whole
time he does not stop sucking on me, only decreasing
the pressure, being respectful of my highly sensitized
clit.

He didn't want me overstimulated, overly exhausted or
too sensitive or tender.

Because he wasn't finished with me yet.

The sweetness of fucking we perfected together we
share now with different partners.

As a girlfriend told me -- sweet little memories.
that's all love boils down to.

The rage is back and I can't seem to control it.
The rage I spent my whole life trying to let go.
I find it creeping back up on me, lashing out.

I can only apologize. And shrug in an insane and existentialist Gallic fashion.
But in a sense, it's that rage that gives me strength. And teeth for biting.

Curious that a man of any size, of any age, of any social stature, only acts a man when he is:

a) with other men
b) in a fight
c) doing something sports related
d) fucking

Otherwise, with a woman, ultimately I find that a grown man wants to curl up like a huge baby in my arms. With his face to my breasts, to suck on my tits until he falls asleep.

Great. Another bitter early night with Hugo.
He came over after work and I asked if he wanted to take a shower with me. Without looking up from the telly he says:

- Do you want me to?

Fuck it, I thought.

- It's alright, I said, I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do.

He doesn't answer, captivated by the television.

My God, I think. He doesn't want me, not even soapy and naked in the shower.

In the shower I exfoliate and oil myself. I shave to keep the kitty bald. I walk out steaming, smooth and tender.

Will he want me now?

I walk to my room, he looks up and says -- hey little one, are you clean?

- yes I'm nice and clean.

- Good, he says.

I look at him, thinking he might follow me into my room, hoping.

I hear him change the channel. Fuck me.

Is this what marriage is like?

In a sense I am thankful he doesn't hardly touch me anymore. In a sense I don't care. I would be more angry and bitter about this but fuck it.

I'm not a wife, and I'm not a nun and the dopamine junkie has been keeping delicious company and the kitty has been feeding.

No one out there is the arbiter of karmic justice.
Consequence - just another bend in the road.
I know I am an intentional agent.
I know the ripples I make in the universe will touch each other sometime.

I feel as if I'm walking on another plane, a cord loosely connecting me to earth, the smile of my beloved nailing me to the ground, bringing me back to a stable center. And above it all, I am travelling, searching the grid. I can't help it. His love makes me solid when I am plasmic.

And each time I feel his rejection, something inside me gets a little more sorrowful, a little less guilty, and the split widens.

Shhh....please hush and be quiet. I don't like to be disturbed while I'm dissociating.
Ahh. Sweet dissociation. Wonderful Multiplicity.

Last night I slept naked. He slept in sweats and a t-shirt.

This morning he awoke early to get ready for work, I awake too.
I am in a foul tempered "didn't get my cum" mood.

- What's wrong with you? he says, pulling on his shoes, fastening his watch.

- Nothing, I say, just tired.

He gives me a long curious look. We've had many morning like this. And he doesn't like to "deal with me."

- I gotta go. I'm running late. Do you still want me to come back tonight?

I don't answer, my eyes closed, feigning sleep.

It's the cycle of being hurt. For all the times I've been hurt, for all the times he's hurt me -- I reclaim "something of my own anyhow". I have a right to reset the equilibrium, no matter how fucked up and chickenshit my methods are.

The ballad of the abused has come back to haunt me.
But I clap my hands over my ears, I don't want to hear it. I feign sleep, I don't want to see it.

I run. I hide. I love myself, I loathe myself. I want to be free, but I have comfort and hope in lockdown.

Oh the contradiction. I hate him for not being able to see inside me. But I am grateful too.

Duplicity and denial, tools for suspension.

I once wished to eschew any secret life for this man.
Because I wanted him to breathe me in.
It makes me sad, and cold inside.
Once upon a time, he knew me on the inside, fell in love with me,
loved all these dazzling shiny things whirling around in my brain.

It's all become stale, dull, fuzzy, and outgrown. Like a childhood memory I can't bear to let go.

Yes. That's my mouth smiling. And that's all I'm going to give up.
Soup is cooking in my head. Look for me tomorrow morning.

Twilight and I am in another world.
tiger stripes from the blinds on naked skin.
voices from the outside.
paintings on the wall.
the sound of my own moaning and gasping.

"what about what you want?"

Kitty is being coaxed out to play.

I wonder suddenly why I am here.
Why I have totally dissociated the remorse.
Why I have allowed myself to reduce my whole universe
at this moment to the sensation of having my clit
slowly, lusciously, softly but insistently, sucked.

Why? or How?

Hedonists rejoice. My pleasure center has taken over.
The split is clean. I lick the blade.

Stress, issues, all external baggage, melting away forming the puddle beneath me soaking the sheets.
I do not really know who I am. I don't want to know.
I don't need to know.

In the mirror I see myself soft, undefined, out of focus.
Pliable. Resilient. Young.

26 and true love has not proved it's truth.
Plenty of marriage material, plenty of adoration, sex, and
phases of being in love, obsession, sport fucking, sex
games that ruin friendships, unrequited passion and
extreme fantasies for/of male authority figures,
selected celebrities and cartoon characters, Lolita
complex, asian fetish complex, some bdsm -- 26 years
and no definitive answers, just plenty of options.
Not a complaint.

I've been fortunate I guess. I "bloomed" kind of late,
was a pristine pricktease all throughout high school,
lost my virginity at 18, was monogamous until I got to
college at 21. Even then I chose my partners -- unwittingly,
or perhaps only subconsciously, for their potential
contributions to the gene pool of an offspring.

Just in case.

I have dated grade A pricks who only showed their beautiful and soft sides with me, who offered me
plenty of security and dependability and stamina -- young male muscle cars for me to drive.
With healthy engines.

Cock sucking wasn't something I learned to enjoy until
I was about 21. A guy I worked with. 6 ft. 5. To this
day the tallest man I have ever slept with. Not a
monstrous cock, but smooth and not too wide and easily
erectable, luscious spongetip, well proportioned to
his body.

Me -- remember I am still only barely 5 ft tall
(although these days I wear space boots, boots or
platforms for a few extra inches) -- at the time I was
barely 115 lbs -- he was easily over 200 lbs.

Ed. Note: DJ, what's up with you and the Big Meaty
Men?

When he fucked me he would toss me around, pick me up
and bounce me on him, pin me to the wall, or simply
sit back and let me ride him like a wild bunny.

Why I enjoyed fellating this young man:

a) shape, size, etc. of his dick
b) newfound sexual freedom
c) he went weak and helpless when I sucked him
d) I could crawl between his legs in the morning, or
at night, and he would caress my head while I sucked
on him like a blind baby animal
e) the way he talked to me while my mouth was on him
really wet my brainhole

However, he was the first One to violate the "You're
gonna tell me before you cum right?" verbal contract.
I would suck on him until my jaw hurt. He'd play with
me while I did this. Talking to me the whole time.
Then he stopped talking, and felt the pulsing in my
mouth. First boy to ever bust a nut down my throat.

I was so surprised of course I ended up swallowing it
all. And when he finally took his hands from my head,
he had a big grin on his face. I got up and pinched
him hard on his inner thigh. As he squealed I drew
myself up, indignant.

- I thought you said you were going to tell me
before!!!? I said.

He was laughing so hard I could hardly keep my mad
face on.

- I'm sorry, I couldn't help it -- it felt too good.
He quirks a brow. Why? Didn't you like it? Hmm?

He was stroking my breasts and kissing my neck.

- Hmm? You took my load all the way down your throat,
like a good girl.

Me, I'm shivering again. He knew my spots; the
undersides of my tits, my flanks, the back of my neck,
my shoulders, the backs of my knees, my inner thighs.

- Nnnmmph. Mmmm.
Just me, gasping and moaning.

- Are you mad? he asked as he pulled me on to him,
shifting me, sliding under me so he could lick me
while I rode his face. He was licking me. Are you mad?

- Noo.. I'm not . . mad.

Beautiful picture of Dopamine. Mmm.

Last night.
Boyfriend came over late night styles.
Drunk from drinkin'.
Me, I'm passed out from THC saturation.

He's horny. As his "right" he begins to fondle my sleeping body.
I'm half asleep. I swat him away, I can smell the beers on/in him. That disgusts me.

He's probing me. And finding that I'm not very wet.
Soon my tshirt and boxers (I know, dj is not an overly huge fan of lingerie) are eased off and he is pressing his naked body onto me.

My brainhole is dry. Basically I'm just letting him do what he wants, not really wanting it myself.

Girlfriends do that. Wives do that. Resign themselves to sex. Not really eager for it at all.

I'm being finger fucked, it's good but I'd rather sleep. But I know he won't stop.

He's taken off his clothes and is pressing his spongetip against me.

- What are you doing? I finally say groggily. I'm not even wet.

Will he lick me? Will he eat me?

He runs his fingers over my slit, finds some wetness there.

- You're wet, he says.

No kisses for kitty. And I had just shaved her bare, anointed her with baby oil.

It's dark, I don't really want to, he smells like beer and I'm not that turned on.

He fits himself inside me and starts to work his dick in. I get a little more wet with each stroke.

Then how odd, I wasn't really enjoying myself until I grasped the situation. . and twisted it.

In the dark he was so big and I felt small. . he had come into my bed drunk to fuck me.

All I could feel was his girth pistoning out of my little hole, which was getting wetter and wetter.

I dreamt of being taken. And there I was, beneath him, taking it.
He was a drunken frat boy, my professor, my stepdaddy, my dirty uncle . . .and he didn't have to say a word.

I never opened my eyes. He tried to kiss me but I didn't want his tongue, he tasted of beer and smoke.

But he put it to me. And pumped me till I came.

It wasn't loving or sweet or gentle. It wasn't even hot and steamy. It was being fucked to sleep, in my sleep.
There's a connection missing now in sex with him. Something he can't get to in my head.
Maybe because I don't know what he wants. Maybe because all he wants is me on my back.
Maybe I should ask him. But I'm afraid he might just say "I just want you."
And that won't be enough of an answer.

This morning the pendulum took a mighty swing in the "not great" direction.
Work and home environments are exploding out of my control.
So to control, and to protect, what is mine alone, my safe haven, I am running away once again.

And here I am. The readership smaller than ever.
But at least I feel I am writing to/for a select group of trusted strangers.
Trusted strangers. To whom I confess, purge, and explain.
To whom I can transmit my choicest packets and not fear judgement.

Responses in my inbox are the daily hugs of support and acceptance that I will never get from friends or family.
These brief connections with kindred souls, collaborators in secret seething fantasies and desires --
something I will never achieve in the light of day.
Balm to my wounded mind.
Letting my freak out of the box to play.
Getting some fresh air into the cell.

Thank you. Thank you.
I am humbled.
Uplifted.
Supported.
Amazed.
Gratified.
Edified.
Villified.
Mollified.
Tantalized.
Tempted.
W(h)etted.
Abetted.

Thank you for enabling my freak maximization project.

Events from this past weekend evaporated in a smoke filled haze.
My break, my split, I sharpened it's edge this weekend.
Lives safely compartmentalized. Desires in their proper place.
I guess this is the way it has to be for right now.
For the second weekend in a row, Hugo and I have been at it -- the relationship on the chopping/butcher block.
Waiting for me to swing the axe.

- Just tell me to go and I'll leave. Call me when you're ready to talk to me again -- this week, next week.
Whenever you're ready. Please just tell me to go.

My mind is whirling. I think of the potential freedom this declaration would afford me.
I think of all the marvelous trouble I could get in to.
I think of the 200 lbs, 6 ft. grown man in front of me, crying.
Who would build a house for me with his bare hands.
Who won't let up on making me diversify.
Who loves me in my darkest moods.
Who sleeps peacefully one hour away from here, trusting me completely.
Shall I tell him to leave?
Gain the freedom, at least temporarily, that I crave so much?

- Please don't leave. I say, in a hard low voice. You'll only reinforce my abandonment issues.
- You're so cold, he says, it's unbelievable.
- It's not coldness, I say, why do you want me weak and vulnerable? Do you not respect that I have pride? I thought my strength is what you wanted from me when we first met.
- I guess it's different when I'm up against it, he says softly.
- There's so much you have no idea about. You have no idea what's going on in my head. I say.
- NO ONE DOES! He cries. No one sees anything unless you want them to!

Which is true. I can stare deeply, unflinchingly into his blue eyes and fill their depths with love and affection.
So he does not see the other worlds, my doppelgangers, who live inside.
With their own rules and moral codes.
Yes, I want to be exposed. I want to be seen. That's why I write.

- I wish I could express to you how much pain I hold inside because of you, I say. I wish I could communicate it to you somehow, in words you would not feel you had to be defensive to.
- Did I really make you this way, he asked? Have I truly affected you so that you are this hard, this cold?
- You're not the only one. But you're the one factor I had control over. I let you in. I wanted you. I wanted to be vulnerable with you.

And it's true. I wanted to give him everything inside me. As naive and romantic and idealistic as that sounds. I wanted him to consume all the pain with his love. Our love.

What do you mean when you said "you were first broken" DJ?
I don't even know. I'm 26 and I am a survivor of mistreatment by men at many turns.
And yet I still love men. But I have shields and defenses, especially developed to keep me from being harmed again. Why do women become duplicitous and manipulative? Survival skills.
We'll see, with my experiment, if there can exist a healthy duplicity. If multiplicity is a viable justification, excuse.

In the end I feel as if I cleaned up some, that somehow progress had been made.

Saturday, 03.10.2001
I stared at my face in the mirror for a long time this weekend. My shell.

My shell is an appealing enough package. I know it's the essence inside me that is what men want.
Very few of my sexual experiences with men have been purely physical. In the sense that there's an intellectual, mental quality, a sentience to fucking me that makes it important that they hear my voice, want to know what I am thinking, want to see the reaction on my face.

I know sex can be so much more than a bump and grind experience, more than humping. . .

Sex works things out on a primal level of satisfaction.

Sometimes I need to resist, to be controlled, to be seduced, coerced, handled.
For both men and women, I think this makes the yielding, the succumbing, so much more sweet.
And having the control being taken away allows me to abandon myself, to the moment, to the movement, to the sensation.

Abandon yourself to pleasure. Not just when you're on ecstasy.

But one night, out with friends, meeting someone you vibe with.

Abandon to the new scent of the opposite sex.
Fixate on a new pair of lips.
Massage someone else's hands.
Lightly stroke a forearm.
and Breathe.
and Breathe together.
With a stranger.

3.9.2001
Inquiries about my other site abound.
And my apologies, if I gave you that URL I would be totally exposed, shell and all.
If I could send it to you as a streaming website and the url would evaporate after one
viewing, I would.
It's just another little site -- not updated every day, and there's nothing much DIRTY
about it.
I reserve all of that for right here.

What with all these crazy layoffs going on, I guess I should be working harder, better,
faster, harder, yes yes yes!

So if I seem reticent today, I promise, dear reader(s) that I shall return after this
weekend as prolific as ever.
I've been living it, you see, and not just writing about it.
And my mind is turned a little to mush by all the kissing.
I guess if I wanted to stay sharp I would be abstaining.
Like a Jesuit priest.

I feel limber and flexible and supple and worked out. . . .
And something inside me is gaining resolve.
I'm not sure what kind. But some kind of resolve.

In the background, LL is Doin it, too:

LL Cool J
You talk a good one shorty now you're makin me sweat
How a live nigga like it girl?
[LeShaun]
Nice and wet
We get it To The Break of Dawn, damn you're large
How a big girl like it Daddy?
[LL Cool J]
Nice and hard
Safe sexin it, flexin it, gettin that affectionate
Chewin it, oohin it, all while we're doin it

I used to listen to this song over and over on the drive down to L.A. from school with
my (then) boyfriend.
We'd hang out on clouds in the truck, and I'd play this song so loud, over and over.
My thighs spread wide for him and the truckers to see.
I'd cum along with the girl in the song.
He'd reach over while my head was in his lap, I had him in my mouth,
he'd reach over my ass to stroke my kitty. . .
Driving down the I-5.
I'd sit up and look over at him and he'd look over at me with hot hot eyes.
Then he changes lanes quickly, pulls off at some random off-ramp. . .
We drive around till we get to a dark cul-de-sac.

Reclines my seat.
Says one word:

Open.

And I obey, letting my thighs fall open. I am not wearing any underwear.
Hot breath on my thighs. He inhales me.
Spreads me with his fingers.
And presses his lips against tender sweet flesh already soaking wet,
licking and sucking softly, plunging 2 fingers, palm up,
into a sweet little hole which constricts around him.
Inside me his fingers beckon, come, cum, come.
Sucking me softly, licking me methodically, come, cum, come on.

In the truck, in a darkened cul de sac
I was overcum
by LL Cool J
and his insistent mouth

To this day I cannot listen to that song without getting wet.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 10:45 AM


3.8.2001
Everything was kind of alright this morning.
Stony MUNI facade. No rain. Good thing because I've lost my umbrella yet again.
Aphex Twin Girl Boy Song, coffee, got my towel and my goodies together for going to
Osento tonight.
Then my bubble got burst.
I get to work. Osento out. Girlfriend had to resched. Boo.
Then here at work, staff meeting.
We're moving, again, back to the old office full of people who hated me for not
"hanging out".
Staff meeting talks about taking personality profiles like it's a revolutionary new idea.
I am totally misanthropic today.
Personality profile:
Subject does not get along well with others.
Displays signs of anti-social and psychotic behavior.
Works best when left alone.

I'm also moving back into Cubeland. No more cushy little office with a door.
Back on CL once I mentioned that I was Realer than Real Deal Holyfield.
Anyone who's hung out long enough, who's met me, knows it's true.

I don't try to represent myself as something I am not.
You see, I do that so much already in real life.

I saw my man last night. He loves me more than ever.
Although he didn't break me off because he was too tired.
His 6 ft 200 lbs body cuddled up to me like a baby, squeezing me tight.
Why am I with him still?
When he loves me like that, I feel sweeter, purified, fortified.
He gives me Redemption and doesn't even know it.
If he knew, I'd be damned for sure.

Last night in the midst of sleep he threw an arm around me and groggily said:
Have I told you today that you're terrific?

My eyes fly open to the darkened room.
He sleeps. My heart is pounding.

Is it too late, I ask myself? Is it too late to hear those words? Too late to go back? Go
back to sleep?
Try to forget?

All sobered up and consumed today by a dark cloud.

***

Thank you for a new phrase.

"Immanentizing the eschaton" refers to the heretical idea that the eschaton is in fact a
state of being, accessible at any time, rather than some chronological event.
"Immanentize the Eschaton": Catholic term for the sin of most heretic groups who
attempt to either create heaven of hell in this world instead of waiting for it in the next.
The Gnostics are a prime example of people guilty of attempting to Immanetize the
Eschaton.

***

I was alive on Tuesday night. I didn't write yesterday though.
Tuesday is stale now, but I try not to censor or edit myself:

Anyone else spend part of their Tuesday night watching Tron?

Spring is coming and the nymphs are coming out of their coccoons.
Girlfriends left and right. Breaking it off with their men.
Smells like graduation. I was never one to go with the crowd, though.

But all the reasons in all the conversations with all these brave selfish women echo the
secret whispers of my own discontent.
Wrong word. Not discontent. Restlessness.
I've been mated for awhile, but I'm still a doe out here in the woods.
Sniffing and being sniffed.

(Space Paranoids! - Tron)

I've been much too heavy in writing lately.
I wish sometimes I still smoked cigarettes.
I would like to just sit and think, inhale and exhale, stare into space, tabula-rasa style.
Read. Be quiet and comfortable with silence.
Daydream. And my daydreams are rich.
As you know.

Did I invent my own complexity? When what I want, really, is simple? Embarassingly
simple?
50% Dirty
50% Sweet

60% Intellectual Stimulation
40% Physical Stimulation

100% Pure Vibe

Not just a dopamine junkie. But an information junkie.
And I need input all the time.
I need input all the time.
I need input all the time.
Fresh input.
Choice packets.
Someone, something to wring out my hypothalamus.

I rarely include links on this site, I reserve that kind of brain dump for my other site, but
I couldn't resist these ones:

Feel21 Pheromones for Men
Underwear for boys. Mm.
Toys for Babes - Hot Babes
Erotica customized for you!
Big Red Riding Hood
Breastee - For the Woman who has everything

- End of Line -
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 11:33 AM


shhh. . .i'm making soup in my head and it's not ready yet.
sad a little because my plans to go to Osento tonight fell through.
Download of choice and fresh packets at 2 p.m.

posted by Dopamine Junkie at 9:33 AM


3.6.2001
Average weight of the human head according to "the Internet" - 8 lbs.
Mine feels at least 15 or more. Must be all that junk I carry around in there.
Or maybe it's the dissonance that weighs so much.

And now my life has become an experiment.
In my own endurance.
In karmic justice.
In duplicity.

If you're out there and contemplating "crossing the line", I strongly urge you to
reconsider.
There's a pathetic dignity to honesty, to purity. The noblesse of the martyrs. The sleep
of the innocent and the righteous.
Can you handle it? Walking the tightrope? Masking your eyes? Throwing up
smokescreens? Feeling the 20 lb head hit the pillow at night, trying to smoke it all
away?

If I were braver, would I just fly away?

At first I felt the world of DJ was borne out of deep seated repressed sexual desire.
My one outlet to express sensuality, sexuality, uninhibited fantasies.

Then it took on a life of it's own. I breathed life into it, and received responses that
breathed life into me.
And it wasn't all about sex anymore.

New dimensions. I found that my sexual desire was not purely physical, that what I
sought was a connection more profound.
Now I can see what you must have always seen --
even while I never mentioned the L-word as my goal and ultimate desire,
that without it, sex would be one dimensional, ethereal, ephemeral.

Freaky one night stands. Fulfilling someone else's fantasy more than my own.
This would leave me only with the empty and deflated feeling, soiled underwear in my
purse,
sticky and stale smell of sex on my skin, hollow eyes, and a mouth too tired to smile.
I'm too young to feel so jaded, so cynical, so hopeless.
Sexual power is easy, so easy. For me, fulfillment of someone else's desire is so much
easier than fulfilling my own.

Web refuge, internet cubbyhole, virtual confessional, fur-lined cage papered with
desires, lonely tower.
The trite tale of the lonely dominatrix.

Sex can bring people together.
Sex can be isolating too.

Give to me Give to me.
Bring me something soul lover.
Something I didn't know I wanted, but that I always needed.

What I offer in return is on the altar.
Or the auction block.
Or the butcher block.

Dopamine Junkie, still wandering the earth, still looking for a safe harbor, invisible tears
behind tough exterior, tired tired tired of this carefully crafted illusion that is my normal
life. Wishing to run away and hide. Or disappear.

Or find a home for my heart.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 4:44 PM


"She repeated to herself, "I have a lover! I have a lover!" and the thought gave her a
delicious thrill, as though she were beginning a second puberty. At last she was going
to possess the joys of love, that fever of happiness she had despaired of ever
knowing. She was entering a marvelous realm in which everything would be passion,
ecstasy and rapture; she was surrounded by vast expanses of bluish space, summits
of intense feeling sparkled before her eyes, and everyday life appeared far below in
the shadows between these peaks."

Emma Bovary, Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert

****

I'm living in a parallel universe of my own creation. I am my own doppelganger.
I am myself at all times. (Thank you Nietzsche) I was born alone, I die alone, and my
loyalties are ultimately to myself only.
My life, my experiences are my responsibility and I will not cheat myself of them when
they present themselves to me.
26 and still vibrant. No kids, no ring on my finger, no reason to be a martyr for love.
Even if that means defying societal programming of fidelity and trust.
Passion is ruthless.

Kitty is purring contentedly. Guess why.

****
Conversation between me and ex-boy:

me I feel old and used up like something that was tasted and discarded, left behind by
men who "loved me"

boy not even

boy I was trying to find a good metaphor but all of them came out sounding really bad

me well if all my ex-loves find me irritating and ridiculous - yet meaningful - what does
that say about me?

boy I don't think you are irritating or ridiculous

boy you are more like a drug habit, going back for a taste is dangerous

me oh great

boy good high tho

me so I'm cool until you want to quit and do something better for your health

boy terrible withdrawls took a long time to go away

boy I wouldn't even say it was unhealthy

boy but it does dominate my time and conciousness

me : ( what about me though? what about the drug that gets cast aside?

boy I always thought there would be someone else who liked it as much/more than me

me it makes me feel bad about myself lately, like there's nothing I could give that
anyone
would want to keep

me do you remember me?

boy mostly dirty stuff mixed with sweetness. That's the drug.

*****

Then I hear the voice of my boy, my partner, my man. Who is kind to me, loves my
yucky and keeps me stabilized. Holds it down for me when I go to extremes.

Because I think I cannot live in Dopamine Junkie's world all the time. I like the (illusion
of?) normalcy,
being a twenty-something Bay Area couple who takes drives up and down the coast.
He pets me and coddles me, takes care of me. Dependable, secure, loving, sweet.
We plan life, future, growth together. Intertwined.

My beloved Hugo, who holds me fast when I am whirling too much.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 11:13 AM


3.5.2001
Oh and one more thing -- I don't really need any more pictures of dicks, thanks.
Some day we'll start a gallery -- the Penii of Craigslist m4w, but for now, they just take
up space in my little (in)box.
In re: auditions, listen, I know it sounds like a totally absurd idea, but the possibility is
out there.
I have interested parties on all sides, women who would love to make a meal of a man.
But I guess what I really should have put down as the #1 priority is VIBE.


posted by Dopamine Junkie at 10:39 AM


Smokescreen up.
I am monstrous.
My monster is amazing.
It's alive, I built it, I control it.
Am I evil? Yes I am.
Layers deeper, but not deep enough.
Still waiting for the man who can strip me to the marrow.
Who can see beyond the smokescreens, who can see past my carefully crafted and
brilliant duplicity.
But maybe that will never happen, because I'll never give it up, give up the pearl
underneath the layers.
It was something terrible that got into into my shell, early on, causing me to secrete
layer after glossy layer of
protective material.

When I first was broken, years ago, the damage was irreparable.
Poison of my innocence seeped into my wounds like a soothing balm.
And no matter how much I wish to be honest, to be pure, to be vulnerable and true . .
if I'm not getting everything that I need, if I believe as I do now that no one man will
ever be able to give me everything I need, then damn it, life is too short and I am
young.
And I want to consume life.

*****

I realized the depth of my need for symbolic punishment the other day. I was late for a
meeting.
I was mortified to be late. Myself, I hate being kept waiting and so I really sweat it
when I think of someone waiting on me. And the torture of the awful thought that the
awaiter might doubt me, might think I wasn't coming, when I was, while I was rushing
as diplomatically and as composedly as possible.

Feeling so awful to meet inscrutable glare which I knew was composed of annoyance.
Feeling contrite.
Head automatically bowed low. . feeling dejected.
Awaiting punishment.

Then the opportunity to repent. To beg for forgiveness, to be given a penance, litany of
kisses. . over and over.

* * *
My blanket apology to any delay in responses to email. I'm not ignoring you. I've been
in the cage and unable to think freely.
I appreciate receiving messages from the outside world. In this lonely tower I have
built for myself, it's nice to know I'm not so alone.
There is no one in my "real life" who knows the Dopamine Junkie -- sometimes I am
overwhelmed with the loneliness, the sadness, and the frustration. So every word of
encouragement is beautiful, and absorbed.

Mmm. The kindness of strangers. Amazing.

* * *

Isn't there a gamer wunderkind out there that can create a video game like "Find Her
Spot?"
Simple enough premise -- A woman lying on a large four poster bed, dressed. As you
find her "spots" she moans and disrobes, one piece of clothing at a time. Find them all,
save the princess, slay the dragon, and she gives it up.

I'd like to buy this game as a present to my man, who has been with me for over 2
years, and who knows little about my spots.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 10:35 AM


3.2.2001
Languid and stretchy on this gloomy day.
Filled with honey. Sticky fingers.

Today I am soft, supple and a live wire.
The sexual magnetism I feel that I am exuding today
is soft, sucking, insistent, strong.

Today I am teenage runaway meets casual friday.
Disheveled, but beneath the unkempt hair and the jeans
I am soft black eyes looking up at you, swollen pout mouth ripe for licking.
And I exfoliated and oiled myself in the shower today.
So beneath the careless clothes and hair I am silky soft.
I would glare suspiciously at anyone who called me gorgeous today.
Maybe I'm not gorgeous, but I am insanely adorably fuckable. Unapologetically.
At least that's how I feel on the inside, and I think it oozes out my pores.
Good for sweet penetration in a soapy slippery shower.

It's been a month and a half since the world of Dopamine Junkie was born.
And in that time the freak has grown in power, glowing, throbbing, flexing, becoming
more and more undeniable.
Strong enough to walk outside.

Dopamine Junkie was spotted outside late last night, in the rain, in the company of
someone taller than she.
Glowing and flushed, she looked so flustered.
And the tall one with the infuriating grin, hand on the small of her back.

Today is filled with the sweetness of slow dripping honey.
The sweet twinge, the gasp of a tongue plunging deep into my mouth, after I have
resisted kisses, and I need to resist the kisses,
even though I want them, I need to resist, to feel the passion increase, to feel the
invasion of a silky insistent tongue, to feel the ravishing, my yielding, the conquering.
To suck on the tongue that's driven into my mouth with sweet force. Plundering kisses.
Licking at my lips. Teeth softly nipping.
The delicate crushing of two mouths.

Nnnnhh.

Scratchy beard against my skin drives me mad.

posted by Dopamine Junkie at 10:21 AM


3.1.2001
It's a beautiful day and I'm going to live outside of the bubble today.
I will write the full report tonight, when I am mellow and soft and supple.

I was thinking though, whilst on the bus today, about 2 things.
Alright, maybe more, but these two are the ones I'm going to pin to the mat:

Thought #1

What if I created a "Finishing School" for boys? Not to be attended until the junior or
senior year of high school. Or university.
I just see all these poor aimless boys who ride the bus. So much potential.
Stand up straight. Don't be so slovenly.
Pluck your eyebrows.
Smile.
Young Boys on their way to Washington High School.
Young and Tender and Ignorant.
Why did I never learn the power of my youth until I was older?
These poor boys need training! And they will be part of a powerful dating force of the
21st century!

Thought #2:

Salome and her dance of the Seven Veils.
Sure she danced, and it was sexy and all, but I just remembered that she also
demanded John the Baptist's head on a plate.

Someone's head has got to roll for the dance to continue.

posted by Dopamine Junkie at 11:34 AM


2.28.2001
Each time I write I take this "thing" a little further. And I am emboldened in my "real
life" to test my limits.
Where will I go from here? For what purpose? What am I getting myself into?
Why do I continue? What do I hope to accomplish?

I do not write to provide jack off material.
I do not write to "fuck with" anyone's head.
(Unless specifically requested)

If you've been reading from the beginning, and watched the evolution of this Beast,
the monstrous "thing", this Frankenstein creature which has given a host body (of
sorts) to my sublime inner freak -- then perhaps you understand that it's not for pure
entertainment purposes - like a phone call to a psychic.

Behind the cyberveil I am every bit as small and unassuming and full of whirling
thoughts as I represent myself to be.

On days like today I feel I've been talking for a very long time, my mouth is getting dry,
and I'm very thirsty.
I want a satisfying cool glass of quenching lemonade.
Or the figurative human equivalent.

I am much more relaxed today. Thanks to the ministrations of a new friend.
Lavendar oil and strong hands, the only pressure I felt was healing pressure and the
strong steady thud of his heartbeat.

A moment of sweet solace, trust, acceptance.

In a world of angry City people, that quiet moment between two strangers was more
intimate than just a grope in a dance club.
And for the dirty minded, no freakiness ensued.

Sometimes it's better to keep the freak on the leash, to experience something far more
profound.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 4:17 PM


2.27.2001
Another letter to my invisible Darling:

I want to feel everything you bring.
I want to feel your energy. Fueling me.
Not just sucking my energy away.
And that doesn't just mean your shell.

Being that I suppose I am a fantasy girl of sorts, despite my disclaimers that I am not a
fantasy girl, I am not the voice you reach at the end of a 976 number or someone you
pay a quarter to talk to. . . . I'm left quite out of the fantasy altogether.

It reminds me of when we used to play that
"if you were stranded on a desert island with one other person and one sex toy, who
and what would they be?"
No one ever chose me as the "person". But lots chose me as the "sex toy".

But what about something to excite me?

Young Mistress seeks Master. To further my education.
I need a Master who is also my slave.

Who gets my brain fuckhole all wet, triggering unstoppable silkiness between my legs.
Gets me salivating, lubricating.

And I know you're out there. Waiting, watching, lurking.
Amused by my (sem)antics.
Pleased by my precocity.

I don't train anymore. Others I mean.
But I talked to a friend. And we may be holding "auditions".
Don't know whether or not I want to take that to CL or not.
I don't want to have to wade through the assholes again.

What we will need:

Unattached or guiltless male
Older than us (we're all 26)
Likes Asian women
Decisive, imaginative, discreet
Can move/feel/dance to hip-hop, R & B, jungle, drum and bass
Knows how to switch
Can pick up the cue because he is attuned and attentive
Pussy connoisseur (loves to smell it, eat it, fill it)
Available for sporadic, mind-blowing booty calls
Does not live with parents
Has living space to play in (I live in a freaking co-op, so no privacy there)
Equipment a plus
Understands safe words
Can chill in non-sexual environment and not be awkward
Knows how to give and receive punishment.
Knows how to give and receive pleasure.
NOT POSSESSIVE.
STAMINA.
A DIRTY MIND.
A DIRTY MOUTH.
Can hang with me, or maybe me and a friend, and maybe another friend, without
blowing his wad too early or losing his erection.

I guess that's just for starters.
But there are hungry girls out there.
Lots of kitties. and titties. and clitties.

What do I mean by auditions? I know it sounds absurd. But this whole blog is absurd.
And having to sneak around to get what you want is absurd.
But if you ever read Ionesco or Albee, you know that absurdity is all good.

My first posting to CL was an experiment.
I moved to this blogspot as an experiment.
Looks like this might be another one.

I haven't chickened out yet, despite my self-loathing remarks of being chickenshit.

Sometimes I just want to writhe on sheets with a hot naked man.
Sometimes I get so turned on, I'm a live wire and thoughts, music, a choice word,
brings me to cumming.


posted by Dopamine Junkie at 5:31 PM


Being small I love crawling onto a big man's lap.
To be cuddled, dandled, diddled, fondled. Crushed.

Two ex-lovers talked about me in my presence. Making fun of me.

- Did she ever call you Daddy?
- Yeah she loves that little girl shit
- And she always wants to lose her virginity!
- She's tight though. Real Tight.
- And noisy! She cums so loud!

Sometimes I can stay wet for a full day. Not even
touching myself.

Being on a man's lap also facilitates dry humping,
which girls love to do, "innocently", enjoying the
feeling of a stiffening cock as they grind their
little bottoms, squirming.

I can also play "chairy" like Chairy from Pee Wee's
Playhouse.

Sitting perfectly upright, legs pressed tightly
together. But when the legs beneath me spread apart,
my legs are also forced apart.

And it is easy for me to be open and fondled. One hand
working on my snatch {!} The other hand fondling my
tits, and my ass squirming obscenely on a "turgid
prick." Teeth sinking into the flesh of my shoulder.
Rasp of a tongue against the sensitive flesh of my
nape.

If I were impaled thus, stretched open and full, I
would want in this fantasy a women to watch us, watch
as I am stuffed and fondled. Watching her salivate
as I am worked out from the inside, deliciously
stroked to helpless gasping as my spot is relentlessly
caressed inside me.

I want that woman to be fascinated by the shaft
disappearing into me. So fascinated by my engorged
plump little clit that she is inexorably drawn closer,
excited by the cries of pleasure and the gyrations,
the bouncing flesh.

I want her hot breath on me. I want her to put her
mouth on me. To softly suck on my clit as my twat is
stretched and pounded.

To feel the combined sensations knock me out, beyond
all cumming.

Until I am left as limp as a rag doll. A real live
naked steaming sated sweaty rag doll.

And then, to be whisked away and bathed.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 10:48 AM


2.26.2001
Self-critique of this blog:

The character Dopamine Junkie, while displaying human frailty, inconsistency and
desire, still lacks a certain depth.
The reader understands that she is a sexually aware and yet repressed young woman
in a long term relationship with a man she loves for reasons other than sex.

Madame Bovary?
Anais Nin?
Edna Pontellier?

"I'm jealous of your thoughts tonight. They're making you a little kinder than usual; but
some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if they were not here with me." She only
looked at him and smiled. His eyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an
arm extended across her, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They
continued silently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed
her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers.

It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really responded. It was a
flaming torch that kindled desire.

- Kate Chopin, the Awakening

DJ: Sex is easy. Pleasure is hard. Ultimate satisfaction takes dedication, determination
and courage.

Critic: DJ is clearly a slave in search of a Master, a Master looking to apprentice, and a
slave to Passion overall.
Her struggle with her inner yearnings are palpable, and the middle class sexual mores
with which she was raised are clearly the invisible bars which keep her caged, even
while she stuggles with Love as an opiate to keep her unfed carnal animal sedated.
She "paints herself into a corner", and locks herself away inside a box "papered with
desires". She is aware of her ability to suppress, to repress. And she is aware that
doing this to herself is exhausting, and that her "rescue squads is exhausted" as Bjork
would say.

But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is
necessarily vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing.
How few of us ever emerge from such beginning!
How many souls perish in its tumult!

The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering,
clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in
abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward
contemplation.

The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea
is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.

- more Kate Chopin, the Awakening

***********

Spend most of the weekend in bed, sleeping, reading and writing.
Thus the literary mood. The foghorns and the crashing of the waves lulled me into a
lackadaisical suspension.
I was feeling a little depressed this weekend. More melancholy I suppose. The weather
creeps into my mood.

I went through a period of depression that lasted a few months and wrecked an entire
quarter of college for me.
Thus the dopamine junkie. Meds helped.

I spent a lot of that time in a catatonic state, crying all the time, ceaselessly, for no
reason in particular.
My young and tender and loving boy did not know what to do with me.
He would listen and wait patiently at my side, waiting for the tears to ebb.

And so it developed that he would hold me to comfort me, cradling me in his arms, on
his lap.
And the sensation of my small warm weeping body would stir him.
He would nuzzle my neck, my ear.
Licking my tears away.

In my catatonic state, I would find solace in the distraction his seduction provided.
Sex is the antidote to death, the affirmation of life.

Slowly, as I sobbed and hiccuped, he would undress himself, he would undress me.
And each kiss he gave me melted me a little more.
And every shudder he drew out of me shook me a little more out of the daze.
And the warmth would spread over me, the blood coursing through me hot, again and
again, he would
coax me out, at least the me who was flooding his relentless tongue.

He wasn't satisfied until I was shaking in his arms.
And when the sobs turned to moans, he penetrated me.
Watching the tears dry and my eyes refocus as he stroked me.
Fucking me back to life.

posted by Dopamine Junkie at 12:06 PM


2.23.2001
The Aural Seduction Mixes by the Dopamine Junkie are under way.
Where is the thick vibe in the City? Where can I go to melt? To dance away the toxins?
It's Friday afternoon and I am listening to Madonna - Justify My Love (XXX remix).
Wanting. . . Needing. . . Waiting. . . .

Oh shit. Today I had 2 lunches, both with 2 gorgeous females. Both who aren't
sassified (as Clarence Carter would say) with their men. About to cut them loose.
About to get back into the ring.

And I feel their urges, those urges are strong, and they're mixed with my own and I
feel like I am breathing in desire.
And that any man who got in my path on a day like today would be my snack.

I am so small too. So tiny and crushable.
Sweet and Sour.
Full of little gasps and sweet little moans.
Soft and tender and sweet meat.

I'm just me underneath all the veils. It's really me.
I'm a girl you'd pass in the elevator.
The kind of girl who smiles back while looking at you right in the eyes.

And I'm confused. As confused of the rest of the passive relationship seekers.
As conflicted as the rest of us who wonder about what's more important - Love or Sex?

It's hard to want to reveal my true self.
Because if you listen, what if you're the One?
If you listen, what if it goes beyond lust?
If I listen, I can't close my eyes to shut out Truth?

Because I know that "all these years" and the beauty of an "evolved love" are too
precious to throw away just to have the sweet taste again of all night long until the
break of dawn exploration of a new bodyscape.

I rarely mention quotes from the Inbox of Desire. . but I have to pass this one on --

Everybody wants to be a porn star until it's time to take their clothes off.

Thank you. You know who you are.

Vox 1: Dopamine Junkie, are you ready to turn your fantasy into reality?
DJ: Baby steps for a babygirl.

Vox 2: You know that Jackson Browne song from Fast Times at Ridgemont High,
Somebody's Baby?
DJ: Yeah
Vox 2: Got to be somebody's baby . . .
DJ: I guess.

This weekend I am going to write, chill and listen to music. Hide from the rain. Write
some more.

Everyone get your cuddle on. It looks mean and nasty outside.


posted by Dopamine Junkie at 4:35 PM


I scanned photos last night. Putting my shell on the web. Instead of just the meat
inside.
I would suppose that it's better to be imaginary and formless and undefined.
Imaginations are usually better than reality.

Looking at myself, I think, well, not drop dead gorgeous, but "pretty" and "cute" are
reasonable adjectives.
As one man put it long ago, "Not strikingly beautiful, but adorably fuckable".
That's one of the best compliments I've ever received.

GRAHAM
. . . . . . I remember reading
somewhere that men learn to love
who they're attracted to, whereas
women become more and more
attracted to the person they love.

- James Spader as Graham in sex, lies and videotape

:Pensive:

posted by Dopamine Junkie at 11:25 AM