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.