2.20.2001
Feeling beaten down and a little soft and wistful.
Writing to an unknown Darling:
Darling,
I've been listening to the new Sade album:
. . .
i've been torn apart so
many times
i've been hurt so many
times before
so i'm counting on you now
. . . . .
girl you are rich
even with nothing
you know tenderness
comes from pain
it's amazing how you love
and love is kind
and love can give
and get no gain
it's down a rugged road
you've come
though you had every reason you didn't come undone
. . . .
So I'vc been feeling a little tender lately.
Love is such a strange thing.
Never really sure how to tell if it's real, if it's right, if it's the end.
Never really sure how to tell when it's worth it, worth the compromise, worth the
sacrifice.
. . . . .
I've also been listening to Bjork - 5 Years:
I'm so bored with cowards
who say they want
but they can't handle
. . . . .
Song lyrics pierce through all the rest of the babble. Early adolescent music echoing in
my memory. Painful memory.
. . . . . .
Darling I have so much to say, so much to show you, to whisper to you, to sing to you.
To murmur to you with my lips pressed against your skin.
I want to walk with you in dreams again.
I want those simple mornings of quiet and contentment.
I want to dance all night with you and watch you peel sweaty clothes away from your
skin.
I want to see your face with your eyes closed in pleasure. Pleasure I give to you.
Smile with you watching a sunset.
_end of tenderhearted dopamine junkie_
Now back to your regularly scheduled dose of fantasy and cynicism.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 4:02 PM
When I woke up this morning from a nightmare that my mother had died, I knew it was
going to be a shitty day.
When I woke up this morning and my boyfriend was already angry at me, I knew it was
going to be an even shittier day.
When I got into work only to find that my promotion/raise had been frozen until April
due to company-wide layoffs,
I just shut my door to my office and bawled like a child.
Not even my little fantasy world can bring me out of this muck today.
What do men do when they feel like this? What can I do to not cry about this?
I'm counting my blessings. I'm trying to get a grip on perspective. I'm trying to breathe
in and breathe out.
I'm trying to find my happy place. I'm trying to keep my cool, laugh it off, put on a
happy face.
What the hell else can I do?
I remember that Stepford Wives movie, and one of the daughters twitching on the
ground in an apparent malfunction in her programming:
"I am such a lucky girl. I am such a lucky girl. I am such a lucky girl."
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 11:05 AM
2.18.2001
I am displeased with the world today.
I will be walking the streets with a scowl.
I also feel that my security has been compromised and so I will be deleting this website
altogether,
and moving to a new url. I would very much like to continue writing, if not for anyone
but myself.
I suppose anyone who is still interested in reading can email me and I will send you
the new url.
All the old posts will be there, as well as what I've been writing now.
At work, at home, and here in this little cubbyhole, I am on a rampage.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 11:36 PM
Thank heaven, for little girls,
they grow up in the most delightful way . . . .
Maurice Chevalier made pedophilia charming and acceptable with a French
accent. I wonder what he did with that cane. I bet it wasn't just for walking
around.
It's energy-consuming to be "pathologically sexy".
I can see how some people get tired of the games that they themselves invent.
There's Roman Polanski's film Bitter Moon. Oscar and Mimi - the May December romance
- from the first glimmer to sexual obsession, up to the height of sensuality, then
through the descent and the forced fantasy, the shredding of the veil, to betrayal,
hatred, bitterness, cruelty.
"Where is that little piggy?"
"Have you been playing with your zizi while I've been away?"
Even the most charming eyes lose their twinkle.
And like Viagra, after a while, having a perpetual hard-on gets stale.
After you've seen it all, does it get boring?
Sometimes I'm jaded. One of those "cynical" people.
But it's not that. I think I'm just an old soul.
But it's interesting -- is this why age feeds on youth?
To vicariously experience the reawakening?
To lead another, less experienced one, through the awakening to pleasure.
Feeding off the generated sexual energy, an newly tapped oil well.
Greedy for flesh, tender and fresh.
Looking at the young meat, the way I do, imagining the clothes melting
away from the taut and rounded young curves.
What must the skin be like beneath those clothes?
Would her legs feel silky smooth in the night, wrapped around my waist?
And what does her yielding shoulder taste like, the one beneath my hand?
Young woman standing in front of you, yielding silently to your inspection.
Hoping her reactions to your touch do not give her away.
But to you, a seasoned veteran, you miss nothing.
Not the slightest twitch or shiver, stifled moan or choked gasp.
Not the kitten tongue darting out between the parted lips to moisten.
Not the slightest change in breathing.
In the center of stillness in a silent room.
The power of experience pervades the room.
As does the sweetness of submission.
Pleasure echoes. Pain echoes. Power echoes.
A transference of energy is about to take place.
Deliberate. Primal. Symbiotic.
Perhaps it is the rain and the empty house I am in.
Perhaps it is the shudders that course through me, from the cold gusts from the open
window. Perhaps it is the sensation of my bare feet on the carpet.
But I have a channel open, a frequency, to the room inside where this scene is being
played out.
It is being played out whether or not my physical body chooses to act it out.
But that doesn't mean I don't feel the sudden shock of pain as my erect nipples are
being pinched.
It doesn't mean I can't feel the hot and terrible commands being whispered in my ear.
It doesn't mean that beneath the sweat that I know is running down my body in
rivulets, I can't
smell my own arousal.
It doesn't mean that I can't feel the scraping of a fingernail drawing goosebumps
on the backs of my arms.
That I can't feel the tensing in my buttocks before the strap.
That I'm not watching too.
Breathe in, Breathe Out.
Slippery intermingling of tongues.
Kitty aching all the time.
Kitty needing something to suckle, to pacify her hot wet little mouth.
Kitty needing to be possessed.
Once a lover told me that he loved to hear my voice on the phone because the timbre
of my voice triggered a sense memory in his cock - so when I would talk to him at night
he said he could feel a vibration in his cock - as if I was moaning while I had him in my
throat.
Something is on fire in this room.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 11:15 PM
2.16.2001
Dropping the veil from sexuality is a vibekiller.
Watching HBO's Real Sex, an episode on finding your Spiritual Sexuality. Chakra
balancing, stroking, etc.
Chakra = Energy Vortex?
I don't want to be closeminded about anything, but it doesn't looks like it's for me. It
looks good, it seems like people are having a good time, but the whole chakra
emerging is not really something I feel would be right for me.
*Note: Subject has anhedonic response to Chakra Emergence.
Also there's this piece on this Japanese pornographer Yoyogi-san.
He's the self-proclaimed "Master of Orgasm" and makes movies of
"amateurs" who participate in his non-contact based sexual channelling orgasm
experiments.
What does seem interesting on this show is a blowjob workshop.
Well it's a blowjob/handjob workshop.
Lots of interesting techniques.
It appears I'm familiar with lots of these techniques, thanks to my gay men friends and
my nasty girl crew.
Basket Weaver. Hmm.
Pulse.
Of course the flick and swirl.
Suckle.
Hand Pocket
Soft stroke twist.
Testicle cupping, stroking, okay. . got it.
Anal stimulation. . .uh huh. I find this is one of those ass by ass basis things too.
Ice. Altoids.
Smeared Cherry Red lipstick.
But it's this kind of thing, that whole Dr. Ruth type, polyamory commune type things
that makes sex less sexy.
Or maybe it's my middle class sexual mores again reasserting themselves, but when
you remove the restrictions, the boundaries, the repression, the whole Victorian aspect
of sex, you lose some of the sensuality.
Like all the secret thoughts.
Secrets are sexy to me.
Forbidden is sexy to me.
Fantasizing all the time, while I'm in the supermarket, on the bus, walking down the
street, in a meeting. . .
A constant montage of erotic images swim before my closed eyes, haunts my
daydreams.
A flash of thigh
+An exposed collarbone
+The swell of a breast
+A nipple budded to the cold
+The nape
+A sheen of sweat
+Knowing smile
+Half closed eyes
+swollen wet lips
+tender earlobe
+cherry
+long pigtails to wrap around your hands
+aching instep
+audible gasp
+curve of a woman's calf
+lush laugh
+fast cars!
+my favorite men's colognes:
Burberry, Chanel Allure pour Homme, Unleaded (?) by DKNY.
+taut wet skin
+mouthful of rose petals
+big stick popsicles
+darkened movie theatre digital stimulation
But this is not what I am thinking when I masturbate.
I have a different montage - in no particular order, the scenes flash, each one wringing
something out of me, something deeply rooted, savage desires of violation and
domination. It is not lovely or sensual. It is raw triple X footage.
Lesbians sharing a double headed dildo
+young man sucking off a policer officer while handcuffed to a chain-link fence
+doctor examining a young female patient who is still a virgin but is worried that she
might be pregnant from swallowing cum asks "do you want me to pick up where your
boyfriend left off?"
+standard babysitter fantasy
+standard sexy niece horny uncle fantasy
+standard my stiletto heel in a postulant's anus fantasy
+losing my virginity fantasies
+earning my extra credit fantasies
+taking dick-tation fantasies
+standard orgy
+standard sandwich
I'm rethinking my "efficient" orgasms. It's so results-driven and goal oriented. What's
happened to me?
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 1:30 PM
2.15.2001
Beautiful Asian women on the bus today. Beautiful black boots. Shiny black hair.
A gorgeous Asian man. Tall, well dressed. Wool pants. Great Shoes. Tan.
Me, I'm still illin' a bit so I look a mess. Undercover. The inner freak always goes
incognito.
I got my headphones on, I'm chillin.
I don't understand how people can sit completely still while listening to music.
I can't. Why do they fight it?
On my headphones:
PJ Harvey/Thom Yorke - This Mess We're In
Bjork, 5 years
Robbie Robertson - Somewhere down the Crazy River
Roni Size Reprazent - Dirty Beats
Too Short - Blow Job Betty
Notorious B.I.G. - I'm fucking you tonight
Monifah - I Can Tell
Lauryn Hill and D'Angelo - Nothing Even Matters
Being comfortable with your body is proven in 2 venues, I think..
On the dancefloor.
and in the "ring".
On a "satisfying" night out, I will be out with the girls, flying high on something (I am a
dopamine junkie after all),
I'll be at a bar or a club or a party, there's bumpin beats going on, [ if it's my choice
then it's jungle drum and bass, or just jungle],
and I'm somewhere in the thick of it all, crushed in the throng of gyrating bodies,
sweating, pulsing, feeling the music driving my hips into a grind.
Somewhere out there someone has been watching me.
Somewhere out there someone is picking up my rhythms, the scent of my pheromones.
And although I don't see him, I sense him, I am conscious of leaving myself open.
Conscious of leaving a frequency open like a silent siren call.
Silently stalking me through the crowd like a smug predator.
If I look up then he's there, waiting to catch me in his stare.
Friendly, open look, cognizant.
Getting closer but not right away.
Letting the tide of bodies bring him to me.
Enter Sade [ the singer, not the Marquis de ] : Feel me. . .flowing. . .like a river. . .to the
sea.
And he arrives right in front of me, not touching me, just smiling and moving with me,
bodies close but not touching.
His eyes looking right at me -- my eyes, my mouth. He closes his eyes. Smiles again.
Moves behind me and for a minute my heart skips with disappointment, thinking that
he's left.
But he's still here, behind me now, his hands slipping over my shoulders, sweeping
down my arms to enfold me to him.
His hips pressed against mine, and I feel his heat, so nice, so inviting, the front of him
along the back of me.
And he's not just grinding me in that sophomoric way, he's just pressed against me,
and we're moving together.
It makes me want to turn around, to nuzzle my face against his chest [of course he's
taller than I am]
So I tried to wiggle around but he won't let me, just keeps his arms wrapped around
me, his chin on the top of my head, his mouth bent to my ear.
- Just wait, he says.
And his breath in my ear, his lips brushing my earlobe, his soft voice, unravels me.
I relax into his arms, close my eyes. Breathe in his smell. Let his strength support me.
My dance partner is patiently and deliberately stoking my fire.
His control makes me lose control.
But I can pull myself together. I don't have to Yin to his Yang.
But he just smiles in a teasing way because he knows I'm just trying to be cool now.
It's cliche. It's typical. It's a fantasy.
Just like that song:
Guess he's discovered we are truly lovers,
Magic from the very start, 'cause love just kept me groovin,
And he felt me movin even though we danced apart.
So we started dancing and love put us into the groove
As soon as we started to move
I like to meet a person on the dance floor to get a sense of their physicality right away.
That's one litmus test I guess.
Now I want to go dancing again.
Not all my fantasies are dripping with sex juice.
Not all my wishes are so profound.
Sometimes they're kind of simple and girlish and wistful.
Like a teenager reading Tiger Beat magazine and sighing over her favorite movie star.
Except I'm NAKED!
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 2:16 PM
2.14.2001
It's Red Day today. I didn't go to work because I'm illin'.
A perfect and beautiful day to stay home, sleep, porn, cereal, sleep again. Luxurious.
The wave of Winter Break-Ups begins. Even the most solid couples fall. I'm surrounded
by it.
Time for Spring Cleaning. Time for Change. Time to come out of hibernation.
Spring is coming and with it, the desire for freedom.
The veil's been down for too long maybe, and I am no longer a fantasy girl. Good.
It's too hard to maintain that anyway, and this is not Penthouse Forum.
I'm still a mess, but at least, less of a disaster. The knots in my head are unravelling.
And my brief hiatus snapped me back into reality, back into myself, back to the Love I
have.
Finding a little bit of peace.
I accept that I am in flux. And I believe that writing, here, to one or no one, is my
stepping stone for change, but also my canvas where I exorcise the disappointment
and dissatisfaction I feel.
And exorcise the self-loathing cycles, splashing it all up onto a messy canvas Jackson
Pollock style.
Contradiction, Cowardice, Co-dependency.
Messy Multiplicity.
Self-loathing, Chickenshit.
Seething with Desire and Cringing from Change.
Exhausted from the Cognitive Dissonance.
Reading a bit of Freud -- about women being failed men, the penis envy, that women's
libido's are inherently masochistic.
Fuck Freud.
In my head, there's an interview going on:
Let's have a peek:
Vox 1: Dopamine Junkie, you write about maximizing your inner freak, and yet you're
such a chickenshit.
You stay within your little boundaries, you play it safe, you cherish your precious
security and love. What's the deal?
DJ: I evolve in my own time, in my own way. Why do I need to justify it to you? And do
you have a manual somewhere that has all the rules for this sort of thing? I'm still in
the process of eating my discarded exoskeleton. Who are you to challenge me, to rush
me?
Vox 2: You talk a good game though, DJ. You want people to believe that you're some
kind of sex goddess, that you're down to get freaky. But when you're confronted with
the flesh, you sublimate yourself!
DJ: It's easy to get laid. But I'm not desperate. I can efficiently get myself off when I
need to.
And part of me is still wrestling with the Buddhist "desire is the cause of all suffering"
thing.
And I still love him, respect him, love him. He's changing too, responding I think to the
subtle changes in me. I do not purport myself to be a sex goddess. I think this little
online journal is a testament to my sexual dysfunction, don't you think? If I were a sex
goddess, I wouldn't be writing about my repressed fantasies.
Vox 3: So are you down or not? To "explore your options" ?
DJ: Hmm. Tough call at this juncture.
I have guilt issues, but I've dealt with those before.
I suppose if I found someone with whom I really felt I could let go, someone I could
trust,
someone to respect the delicate ecosystem of my emotional life, I would go for it.
But I am not down to get with just any stranger who claims to be my soulmate.
I waited till I was 18 to lose my virginity. And I made that boy wait a whole year.
I don't like feeling used. I don't like using anyone else.
I've been there before, done that before, and the psychic scars still sting me.
I hunger yet, though. For all night long till the break of dawn, learning the landscape of
a new body.
Vox 4: I'm surprised -- I wouldn't think someone like you would believe in Regret.
DJ: I know that I did what I had to do for myself at any given time. At this time, I know
what I am capable of, what I need to do for myself, and it's not about throwing away
everything I've built with this man just to feed my freak. I have plenty of desires, I
don't need to act on all of them just because the opportunity is there.
Vox 5: The more you suppress your freak though, the larger she will grow. Right?
DJ: And when she is big enough, she will do what she needs to do. Until then, she
gestates. And I write. I record her gestation, day by day.
Vox 6: You sound like you've got it all explained away, figured out. Like you're backing
away from the fire you lit.
DJ: I had to get a grip. This is my grip. If it seems like a sacrifice or a compromise or
total chickenshit --
well -- who's got the right to judge me? I am awake. I am sentient. I decide. I will not
accept pressure to do what I am not ready to do.
Vox 7: Does this mean you're giving up your daily dose of sexy thoughts? Does this
mean that you'll never realize all these complex fantasies?
DJ: Hell, no. Fantasies exalt the mundane to the sublime. And when She is ready, she
will bring the mind to the flesh.
. . end interview. . .
Red Day is a powerful day for me. My birthday usually brings an inevitable negativity
that I can't shake.
But Red Day always reminds me that with every year of growth, every layer I add to my
pearl, I am stronger.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 5:07 PM
2.13.2001
Could I resist writing on my birthday? Nope. [ Today I am 26 ]
Could I resist commentary on Valentine's Day? Nope.
What's Romantic to the Dopamine Junkie?
George, my husband...George, who is out somewhere there in the dark, who is good to
me - whom I revile, who can keep learning the games we play as quickly as I can
change them. Who can make me happy and I do not wish to be happy. Yes, I do wish
to be happy. George and Martha: Sad, sad, sad...Whom I will not forgive for having
come to rest; for having seen me and having said: yes, this will do; who has made the
hideous, the hurting, the insulting mistake of loving me and must be punished for it.
George and Martha: Sad, sad, sad...Some day, hah! Some night, some stupid,
liquor-ridden night, I will go too far and I'll either break the man's back or I'll push him
off for good which is what I deserve.
- Elizabeth Taylor in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf
Leaving Las Vegas
(in a room, Sera is talking to someone that we can't see or hear)
Sera: I think the thing is we both realized that we didn't have that much time and I
accepted him for who he was and I didn't expect him to change and I think he felt that
from me too. I liked his drama and he needed me. I loved him (pause) I really loved
him.
- Elisabeth Shue, in Mike Figgis' Leaving Las Vegas
Fucked Up Love. Acceptance of Mutual Monsters.
Is there a way to achieve this kind of acceptance, without there being a wall?
I don't see it. I don't see it in anyone. No relationship I've seen, monogamous or
polyamorous, has got it.
Does that mean that there is no One? Because I myself am not just One?
I would like to live the purest life, the most honest, but I don't know how. I've had love
before and I messed it up -- because I was young and I wanted more, because I have
always had an ideal, a sense that a soulmate was out there, so my standards were so
high.
And I've fucked around before, feeding myself with snack boys and snack girls, trying to
figure out what it was I really wanted. High on my own sexual powers. But that was
before. And I am supposedly older, and wiser now.
I know that someone like me is unstable. And I need stability. Anais Nin needed Hugo
and Henry. I have my Hugo.
I will protect him and love him with a pure love. I don't care who judges me, calls me a
liar.
But there is something dark I need that he cannot give me.
There is a chamber inside into which my Hugo cannot descend.
It's a broken place, a messy place, of carnal and savage desire that needs to be
fulfilled.
Once I vowed to give up this secret life.
Once I vowed to live with simple needs.
But in sublimating, in denying those things that have always existed within me, I have
hit a wall, a glass ceiling.
Now I'm boxed in, trapped, painted into a corner.
This year I want to strive to step graciously, sensuously, quietly and deliberately,
outside.
It took me years to forgive myself, years to sort this out, years to come to terms with
that sad and abandoned "freak/thing/desire" inside me, that has been trying to speak
up, only to be chained up again, by SuperEgo. By Safety. By Security. By Fear of
Change.
And that freak has been writhing inside me, twisting and tearing at itself in chains.
Poisoning me with an unnamed melancholy.
What does it all mean? What am I trying to do? Life, Love, the Essence of Living.
Fullness. Before this life is over. Living for my Self.
Energy wanting to transfer to Energy. Not out of selfishness, but just wanting to
experience something more than 2.5 kids, 2.5 cars, house, mortgage and a week's
vacation every year. Because I'm sorry, I'm just not that simple. I have whole worlds
that I want to consume.
Romance for me is not perfume and roses and chocolate (although I love all of the
above). And it's not just the sunsets and champagne and holding hands.
I'm not the first one to know this, but I had to get here by myself, I know.
Romance to me is being enfolded in my soulmate's arms, releasing the tension,
bringing down the walls and the shields, yielding, becoming vulnerable, letting the
tears flow and the laughter ring and the breath mingle and the flesh to merge. This I
need fulfilled more than any corporeal desire. This I need fulfilled to achieve any
corporeal fulfillment.
Is it just One? Or is it a lifetime in a minute with many?
My body is aching, my head is spinning and I'm breathless with epiphany.
Deep. Deeper. Deepest.
Coming Home to the Safest Harbor in the Universe.
Wherever that is.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 4:35 PM
2.7.2001
: (
I've officially driven myself mad with all this.
And before it gets any worse, I've got to shut down.
I'm sorry if that makes me seem chickenshit.
Thank you for reading, for participating in this strange support group for inner freaks.
I hope at least you were maximized.
Me? I opened a Pandora's Box and all the beautiful and ugly things came out.
I just need to take a break, clear my head, and get healthy again.
If you care, please email me if you want to be notified of when I'm back.
I will send you a personal invitation. I will also be checking and answering any emails
sent to me.
But just not posting for a few days.
Thank you Thank you and Good night sweet Prince.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 5:17 PM
Feeling beaten down and a little soft and wistful.
Writing to an unknown Darling:
Darling,
I've been listening to the new Sade album:
. . .
i've been torn apart so
many times
i've been hurt so many
times before
so i'm counting on you now
. . . . .
girl you are rich
even with nothing
you know tenderness
comes from pain
it's amazing how you love
and love is kind
and love can give
and get no gain
it's down a rugged road
you've come
though you had every reason you didn't come undone
. . . .
So I'vc been feeling a little tender lately.
Love is such a strange thing.
Never really sure how to tell if it's real, if it's right, if it's the end.
Never really sure how to tell when it's worth it, worth the compromise, worth the
sacrifice.
. . . . .
I've also been listening to Bjork - 5 Years:
I'm so bored with cowards
who say they want
but they can't handle
. . . . .
Song lyrics pierce through all the rest of the babble. Early adolescent music echoing in
my memory. Painful memory.
. . . . . .
Darling I have so much to say, so much to show you, to whisper to you, to sing to you.
To murmur to you with my lips pressed against your skin.
I want to walk with you in dreams again.
I want those simple mornings of quiet and contentment.
I want to dance all night with you and watch you peel sweaty clothes away from your
skin.
I want to see your face with your eyes closed in pleasure. Pleasure I give to you.
Smile with you watching a sunset.
_end of tenderhearted dopamine junkie_
Now back to your regularly scheduled dose of fantasy and cynicism.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 4:02 PM
When I woke up this morning from a nightmare that my mother had died, I knew it was
going to be a shitty day.
When I woke up this morning and my boyfriend was already angry at me, I knew it was
going to be an even shittier day.
When I got into work only to find that my promotion/raise had been frozen until April
due to company-wide layoffs,
I just shut my door to my office and bawled like a child.
Not even my little fantasy world can bring me out of this muck today.
What do men do when they feel like this? What can I do to not cry about this?
I'm counting my blessings. I'm trying to get a grip on perspective. I'm trying to breathe
in and breathe out.
I'm trying to find my happy place. I'm trying to keep my cool, laugh it off, put on a
happy face.
What the hell else can I do?
I remember that Stepford Wives movie, and one of the daughters twitching on the
ground in an apparent malfunction in her programming:
"I am such a lucky girl. I am such a lucky girl. I am such a lucky girl."
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 11:05 AM
2.18.2001
I am displeased with the world today.
I will be walking the streets with a scowl.
I also feel that my security has been compromised and so I will be deleting this website
altogether,
and moving to a new url. I would very much like to continue writing, if not for anyone
but myself.
I suppose anyone who is still interested in reading can email me and I will send you
the new url.
All the old posts will be there, as well as what I've been writing now.
At work, at home, and here in this little cubbyhole, I am on a rampage.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 11:36 PM
Thank heaven, for little girls,
they grow up in the most delightful way . . . .
Maurice Chevalier made pedophilia charming and acceptable with a French
accent. I wonder what he did with that cane. I bet it wasn't just for walking
around.
It's energy-consuming to be "pathologically sexy".
I can see how some people get tired of the games that they themselves invent.
There's Roman Polanski's film Bitter Moon. Oscar and Mimi - the May December romance
- from the first glimmer to sexual obsession, up to the height of sensuality, then
through the descent and the forced fantasy, the shredding of the veil, to betrayal,
hatred, bitterness, cruelty.
"Where is that little piggy?"
"Have you been playing with your zizi while I've been away?"
Even the most charming eyes lose their twinkle.
And like Viagra, after a while, having a perpetual hard-on gets stale.
After you've seen it all, does it get boring?
Sometimes I'm jaded. One of those "cynical" people.
But it's not that. I think I'm just an old soul.
But it's interesting -- is this why age feeds on youth?
To vicariously experience the reawakening?
To lead another, less experienced one, through the awakening to pleasure.
Feeding off the generated sexual energy, an newly tapped oil well.
Greedy for flesh, tender and fresh.
Looking at the young meat, the way I do, imagining the clothes melting
away from the taut and rounded young curves.
What must the skin be like beneath those clothes?
Would her legs feel silky smooth in the night, wrapped around my waist?
And what does her yielding shoulder taste like, the one beneath my hand?
Young woman standing in front of you, yielding silently to your inspection.
Hoping her reactions to your touch do not give her away.
But to you, a seasoned veteran, you miss nothing.
Not the slightest twitch or shiver, stifled moan or choked gasp.
Not the kitten tongue darting out between the parted lips to moisten.
Not the slightest change in breathing.
In the center of stillness in a silent room.
The power of experience pervades the room.
As does the sweetness of submission.
Pleasure echoes. Pain echoes. Power echoes.
A transference of energy is about to take place.
Deliberate. Primal. Symbiotic.
Perhaps it is the rain and the empty house I am in.
Perhaps it is the shudders that course through me, from the cold gusts from the open
window. Perhaps it is the sensation of my bare feet on the carpet.
But I have a channel open, a frequency, to the room inside where this scene is being
played out.
It is being played out whether or not my physical body chooses to act it out.
But that doesn't mean I don't feel the sudden shock of pain as my erect nipples are
being pinched.
It doesn't mean I can't feel the hot and terrible commands being whispered in my ear.
It doesn't mean that beneath the sweat that I know is running down my body in
rivulets, I can't
smell my own arousal.
It doesn't mean that I can't feel the scraping of a fingernail drawing goosebumps
on the backs of my arms.
That I can't feel the tensing in my buttocks before the strap.
That I'm not watching too.
Breathe in, Breathe Out.
Slippery intermingling of tongues.
Kitty aching all the time.
Kitty needing something to suckle, to pacify her hot wet little mouth.
Kitty needing to be possessed.
Once a lover told me that he loved to hear my voice on the phone because the timbre
of my voice triggered a sense memory in his cock - so when I would talk to him at night
he said he could feel a vibration in his cock - as if I was moaning while I had him in my
throat.
Something is on fire in this room.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 11:15 PM
2.16.2001
Dropping the veil from sexuality is a vibekiller.
Watching HBO's Real Sex, an episode on finding your Spiritual Sexuality. Chakra
balancing, stroking, etc.
Chakra = Energy Vortex?
I don't want to be closeminded about anything, but it doesn't looks like it's for me. It
looks good, it seems like people are having a good time, but the whole chakra
emerging is not really something I feel would be right for me.
*Note: Subject has anhedonic response to Chakra Emergence.
Also there's this piece on this Japanese pornographer Yoyogi-san.
He's the self-proclaimed "Master of Orgasm" and makes movies of
"amateurs" who participate in his non-contact based sexual channelling orgasm
experiments.
What does seem interesting on this show is a blowjob workshop.
Well it's a blowjob/handjob workshop.
Lots of interesting techniques.
It appears I'm familiar with lots of these techniques, thanks to my gay men friends and
my nasty girl crew.
Basket Weaver. Hmm.
Pulse.
Of course the flick and swirl.
Suckle.
Hand Pocket
Soft stroke twist.
Testicle cupping, stroking, okay. . got it.
Anal stimulation. . .uh huh. I find this is one of those ass by ass basis things too.
Ice. Altoids.
Smeared Cherry Red lipstick.
But it's this kind of thing, that whole Dr. Ruth type, polyamory commune type things
that makes sex less sexy.
Or maybe it's my middle class sexual mores again reasserting themselves, but when
you remove the restrictions, the boundaries, the repression, the whole Victorian aspect
of sex, you lose some of the sensuality.
Like all the secret thoughts.
Secrets are sexy to me.
Forbidden is sexy to me.
Fantasizing all the time, while I'm in the supermarket, on the bus, walking down the
street, in a meeting. . .
A constant montage of erotic images swim before my closed eyes, haunts my
daydreams.
A flash of thigh
+An exposed collarbone
+The swell of a breast
+A nipple budded to the cold
+The nape
+A sheen of sweat
+Knowing smile
+Half closed eyes
+swollen wet lips
+tender earlobe
+cherry
+long pigtails to wrap around your hands
+aching instep
+audible gasp
+curve of a woman's calf
+lush laugh
+fast cars!
+my favorite men's colognes:
Burberry, Chanel Allure pour Homme, Unleaded (?) by DKNY.
+taut wet skin
+mouthful of rose petals
+big stick popsicles
+darkened movie theatre digital stimulation
But this is not what I am thinking when I masturbate.
I have a different montage - in no particular order, the scenes flash, each one wringing
something out of me, something deeply rooted, savage desires of violation and
domination. It is not lovely or sensual. It is raw triple X footage.
Lesbians sharing a double headed dildo
+young man sucking off a policer officer while handcuffed to a chain-link fence
+doctor examining a young female patient who is still a virgin but is worried that she
might be pregnant from swallowing cum asks "do you want me to pick up where your
boyfriend left off?"
+standard babysitter fantasy
+standard sexy niece horny uncle fantasy
+standard my stiletto heel in a postulant's anus fantasy
+losing my virginity fantasies
+earning my extra credit fantasies
+taking dick-tation fantasies
+standard orgy
+standard sandwich
I'm rethinking my "efficient" orgasms. It's so results-driven and goal oriented. What's
happened to me?
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 1:30 PM
2.15.2001
Beautiful Asian women on the bus today. Beautiful black boots. Shiny black hair.
A gorgeous Asian man. Tall, well dressed. Wool pants. Great Shoes. Tan.
Me, I'm still illin' a bit so I look a mess. Undercover. The inner freak always goes
incognito.
I got my headphones on, I'm chillin.
I don't understand how people can sit completely still while listening to music.
I can't. Why do they fight it?
On my headphones:
PJ Harvey/Thom Yorke - This Mess We're In
Bjork, 5 years
Robbie Robertson - Somewhere down the Crazy River
Roni Size Reprazent - Dirty Beats
Too Short - Blow Job Betty
Notorious B.I.G. - I'm fucking you tonight
Monifah - I Can Tell
Lauryn Hill and D'Angelo - Nothing Even Matters
Being comfortable with your body is proven in 2 venues, I think..
On the dancefloor.
and in the "ring".
On a "satisfying" night out, I will be out with the girls, flying high on something (I am a
dopamine junkie after all),
I'll be at a bar or a club or a party, there's bumpin beats going on, [ if it's my choice
then it's jungle drum and bass, or just jungle],
and I'm somewhere in the thick of it all, crushed in the throng of gyrating bodies,
sweating, pulsing, feeling the music driving my hips into a grind.
Somewhere out there someone has been watching me.
Somewhere out there someone is picking up my rhythms, the scent of my pheromones.
And although I don't see him, I sense him, I am conscious of leaving myself open.
Conscious of leaving a frequency open like a silent siren call.
Silently stalking me through the crowd like a smug predator.
If I look up then he's there, waiting to catch me in his stare.
Friendly, open look, cognizant.
Getting closer but not right away.
Letting the tide of bodies bring him to me.
Enter Sade [ the singer, not the Marquis de ] : Feel me. . .flowing. . .like a river. . .to the
sea.
And he arrives right in front of me, not touching me, just smiling and moving with me,
bodies close but not touching.
His eyes looking right at me -- my eyes, my mouth. He closes his eyes. Smiles again.
Moves behind me and for a minute my heart skips with disappointment, thinking that
he's left.
But he's still here, behind me now, his hands slipping over my shoulders, sweeping
down my arms to enfold me to him.
His hips pressed against mine, and I feel his heat, so nice, so inviting, the front of him
along the back of me.
And he's not just grinding me in that sophomoric way, he's just pressed against me,
and we're moving together.
It makes me want to turn around, to nuzzle my face against his chest [of course he's
taller than I am]
So I tried to wiggle around but he won't let me, just keeps his arms wrapped around
me, his chin on the top of my head, his mouth bent to my ear.
- Just wait, he says.
And his breath in my ear, his lips brushing my earlobe, his soft voice, unravels me.
I relax into his arms, close my eyes. Breathe in his smell. Let his strength support me.
My dance partner is patiently and deliberately stoking my fire.
His control makes me lose control.
But I can pull myself together. I don't have to Yin to his Yang.
But he just smiles in a teasing way because he knows I'm just trying to be cool now.
It's cliche. It's typical. It's a fantasy.
Just like that song:
Guess he's discovered we are truly lovers,
Magic from the very start, 'cause love just kept me groovin,
And he felt me movin even though we danced apart.
So we started dancing and love put us into the groove
As soon as we started to move
I like to meet a person on the dance floor to get a sense of their physicality right away.
That's one litmus test I guess.
Now I want to go dancing again.
Not all my fantasies are dripping with sex juice.
Not all my wishes are so profound.
Sometimes they're kind of simple and girlish and wistful.
Like a teenager reading Tiger Beat magazine and sighing over her favorite movie star.
Except I'm NAKED!
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 2:16 PM
2.14.2001
It's Red Day today. I didn't go to work because I'm illin'.
A perfect and beautiful day to stay home, sleep, porn, cereal, sleep again. Luxurious.
The wave of Winter Break-Ups begins. Even the most solid couples fall. I'm surrounded
by it.
Time for Spring Cleaning. Time for Change. Time to come out of hibernation.
Spring is coming and with it, the desire for freedom.
The veil's been down for too long maybe, and I am no longer a fantasy girl. Good.
It's too hard to maintain that anyway, and this is not Penthouse Forum.
I'm still a mess, but at least, less of a disaster. The knots in my head are unravelling.
And my brief hiatus snapped me back into reality, back into myself, back to the Love I
have.
Finding a little bit of peace.
I accept that I am in flux. And I believe that writing, here, to one or no one, is my
stepping stone for change, but also my canvas where I exorcise the disappointment
and dissatisfaction I feel.
And exorcise the self-loathing cycles, splashing it all up onto a messy canvas Jackson
Pollock style.
Contradiction, Cowardice, Co-dependency.
Messy Multiplicity.
Self-loathing, Chickenshit.
Seething with Desire and Cringing from Change.
Exhausted from the Cognitive Dissonance.
Reading a bit of Freud -- about women being failed men, the penis envy, that women's
libido's are inherently masochistic.
Fuck Freud.
In my head, there's an interview going on:
Let's have a peek:
Vox 1: Dopamine Junkie, you write about maximizing your inner freak, and yet you're
such a chickenshit.
You stay within your little boundaries, you play it safe, you cherish your precious
security and love. What's the deal?
DJ: I evolve in my own time, in my own way. Why do I need to justify it to you? And do
you have a manual somewhere that has all the rules for this sort of thing? I'm still in
the process of eating my discarded exoskeleton. Who are you to challenge me, to rush
me?
Vox 2: You talk a good game though, DJ. You want people to believe that you're some
kind of sex goddess, that you're down to get freaky. But when you're confronted with
the flesh, you sublimate yourself!
DJ: It's easy to get laid. But I'm not desperate. I can efficiently get myself off when I
need to.
And part of me is still wrestling with the Buddhist "desire is the cause of all suffering"
thing.
And I still love him, respect him, love him. He's changing too, responding I think to the
subtle changes in me. I do not purport myself to be a sex goddess. I think this little
online journal is a testament to my sexual dysfunction, don't you think? If I were a sex
goddess, I wouldn't be writing about my repressed fantasies.
Vox 3: So are you down or not? To "explore your options" ?
DJ: Hmm. Tough call at this juncture.
I have guilt issues, but I've dealt with those before.
I suppose if I found someone with whom I really felt I could let go, someone I could
trust,
someone to respect the delicate ecosystem of my emotional life, I would go for it.
But I am not down to get with just any stranger who claims to be my soulmate.
I waited till I was 18 to lose my virginity. And I made that boy wait a whole year.
I don't like feeling used. I don't like using anyone else.
I've been there before, done that before, and the psychic scars still sting me.
I hunger yet, though. For all night long till the break of dawn, learning the landscape of
a new body.
Vox 4: I'm surprised -- I wouldn't think someone like you would believe in Regret.
DJ: I know that I did what I had to do for myself at any given time. At this time, I know
what I am capable of, what I need to do for myself, and it's not about throwing away
everything I've built with this man just to feed my freak. I have plenty of desires, I
don't need to act on all of them just because the opportunity is there.
Vox 5: The more you suppress your freak though, the larger she will grow. Right?
DJ: And when she is big enough, she will do what she needs to do. Until then, she
gestates. And I write. I record her gestation, day by day.
Vox 6: You sound like you've got it all explained away, figured out. Like you're backing
away from the fire you lit.
DJ: I had to get a grip. This is my grip. If it seems like a sacrifice or a compromise or
total chickenshit --
well -- who's got the right to judge me? I am awake. I am sentient. I decide. I will not
accept pressure to do what I am not ready to do.
Vox 7: Does this mean you're giving up your daily dose of sexy thoughts? Does this
mean that you'll never realize all these complex fantasies?
DJ: Hell, no. Fantasies exalt the mundane to the sublime. And when She is ready, she
will bring the mind to the flesh.
. . end interview. . .
Red Day is a powerful day for me. My birthday usually brings an inevitable negativity
that I can't shake.
But Red Day always reminds me that with every year of growth, every layer I add to my
pearl, I am stronger.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 5:07 PM
2.13.2001
Could I resist writing on my birthday? Nope. [ Today I am 26 ]
Could I resist commentary on Valentine's Day? Nope.
What's Romantic to the Dopamine Junkie?
George, my husband...George, who is out somewhere there in the dark, who is good to
me - whom I revile, who can keep learning the games we play as quickly as I can
change them. Who can make me happy and I do not wish to be happy. Yes, I do wish
to be happy. George and Martha: Sad, sad, sad...Whom I will not forgive for having
come to rest; for having seen me and having said: yes, this will do; who has made the
hideous, the hurting, the insulting mistake of loving me and must be punished for it.
George and Martha: Sad, sad, sad...Some day, hah! Some night, some stupid,
liquor-ridden night, I will go too far and I'll either break the man's back or I'll push him
off for good which is what I deserve.
- Elizabeth Taylor in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf
Leaving Las Vegas
(in a room, Sera is talking to someone that we can't see or hear)
Sera: I think the thing is we both realized that we didn't have that much time and I
accepted him for who he was and I didn't expect him to change and I think he felt that
from me too. I liked his drama and he needed me. I loved him (pause) I really loved
him.
- Elisabeth Shue, in Mike Figgis' Leaving Las Vegas
Fucked Up Love. Acceptance of Mutual Monsters.
Is there a way to achieve this kind of acceptance, without there being a wall?
I don't see it. I don't see it in anyone. No relationship I've seen, monogamous or
polyamorous, has got it.
Does that mean that there is no One? Because I myself am not just One?
I would like to live the purest life, the most honest, but I don't know how. I've had love
before and I messed it up -- because I was young and I wanted more, because I have
always had an ideal, a sense that a soulmate was out there, so my standards were so
high.
And I've fucked around before, feeding myself with snack boys and snack girls, trying to
figure out what it was I really wanted. High on my own sexual powers. But that was
before. And I am supposedly older, and wiser now.
I know that someone like me is unstable. And I need stability. Anais Nin needed Hugo
and Henry. I have my Hugo.
I will protect him and love him with a pure love. I don't care who judges me, calls me a
liar.
But there is something dark I need that he cannot give me.
There is a chamber inside into which my Hugo cannot descend.
It's a broken place, a messy place, of carnal and savage desire that needs to be
fulfilled.
Once I vowed to give up this secret life.
Once I vowed to live with simple needs.
But in sublimating, in denying those things that have always existed within me, I have
hit a wall, a glass ceiling.
Now I'm boxed in, trapped, painted into a corner.
This year I want to strive to step graciously, sensuously, quietly and deliberately,
outside.
It took me years to forgive myself, years to sort this out, years to come to terms with
that sad and abandoned "freak/thing/desire" inside me, that has been trying to speak
up, only to be chained up again, by SuperEgo. By Safety. By Security. By Fear of
Change.
And that freak has been writhing inside me, twisting and tearing at itself in chains.
Poisoning me with an unnamed melancholy.
What does it all mean? What am I trying to do? Life, Love, the Essence of Living.
Fullness. Before this life is over. Living for my Self.
Energy wanting to transfer to Energy. Not out of selfishness, but just wanting to
experience something more than 2.5 kids, 2.5 cars, house, mortgage and a week's
vacation every year. Because I'm sorry, I'm just not that simple. I have whole worlds
that I want to consume.
Romance for me is not perfume and roses and chocolate (although I love all of the
above). And it's not just the sunsets and champagne and holding hands.
I'm not the first one to know this, but I had to get here by myself, I know.
Romance to me is being enfolded in my soulmate's arms, releasing the tension,
bringing down the walls and the shields, yielding, becoming vulnerable, letting the
tears flow and the laughter ring and the breath mingle and the flesh to merge. This I
need fulfilled more than any corporeal desire. This I need fulfilled to achieve any
corporeal fulfillment.
Is it just One? Or is it a lifetime in a minute with many?
My body is aching, my head is spinning and I'm breathless with epiphany.
Deep. Deeper. Deepest.
Coming Home to the Safest Harbor in the Universe.
Wherever that is.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 4:35 PM
2.7.2001
: (
I've officially driven myself mad with all this.
And before it gets any worse, I've got to shut down.
I'm sorry if that makes me seem chickenshit.
Thank you for reading, for participating in this strange support group for inner freaks.
I hope at least you were maximized.
Me? I opened a Pandora's Box and all the beautiful and ugly things came out.
I just need to take a break, clear my head, and get healthy again.
If you care, please email me if you want to be notified of when I'm back.
I will send you a personal invitation. I will also be checking and answering any emails
sent to me.
But just not posting for a few days.
Thank you Thank you and Good night sweet Prince.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 5:17 PM
posted by DopamineJunkie at
3/12/2001 10:02:00 AM
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