posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/30/2001 07:51:00 AM
Monday, April 30
[i am busy girl today. unfortunately.
and I have so many things to tell you.
It's a clutter. But try to make sense of it all if you can.]
samedi soir
1.04 a.m.
chez moi
apres minuit samedi soir
a smorgasbord of choice packets. . .
Jeudi
I went to the strip club with a huge group of girls to look at nekkid girls.
The strippers were very diverse in size, shape and color.
tig ass bitties
smalle titties
slim hips
bodacious bootays
shaved twats
flesh
you see i was there with a group of college girls
who were on a field trip for their female sexuality class . . .
this bar was totally nude
so as we walked through the door we were handed soda cups and
pointed to a self service soda bar on the other side of the club.
audience demographic:
before our arrival:
75% white and shady looking men, 20% strippers, 5% group of randy young dudes.
after our arrival:
50% college girls focused on discovering their "female sexuality",
20% strippers both aggravated and relieved
and jaded by the arrival of the college girls,
20% white and shady looking men,
10% groups of men and women attracted by the rambunctious peals of feminine screams.
the club at first glance lacked the edgy and unpredictable
quality i am accustomed to, something i attributed to the lack of alcohol.
everyone was polite, no one was being sloppy.
girls took seats and sipped their cokes
watching the titties and the splayed pussies as if this were a life drawing class
i enjoyed watching the other girls watch the girls
watching to see the rise and fall of their breath
as they squirmed with the indecision on how to react,
what was acceptable, who was watching them
could they detach?
all girls were politely leaving tips on the stage like offerings to a goddess
having grown up in an age of feminism;
no one wanted to insult or objectify with the strippers; we were all acutely aware of each other,
as women, as we would relate to girls beside us in the bathroom mirror, applying lipstick, fixing our hair.
i watched another asian girl, she came along with the class,
but didn't sit with the other girls really.
i watched as she grew more and more interested in each strippers' undulations,
in their awareness of their own movements.
i watched her as she grew more heated, taking off her sweater,
and pulling up her hair, placing the dollars on the stage for dancer after dancer.
she looked sweet, confused, vulnerable. and i wanted to kiss her cheek.
and whisper soflty, silkily, into her ear as she watched the strippers pump their hips into the air,
"do you think she is beautiful?"
"would you want to touch her?"
"do you want her to come over here and kiss your breast?"
"do you want me to put my hand between your legs?"
But meanwhile, some of the other ladies had fgone across the street to drink,
and brought back with them just that Mardi Gras kind of
titty flashing sloppiness as seen in Sorority Girls Gone Wild.
Placing their dollars bills in their mouths,
they had come back more brazen, fueled by liquid courage.
The strippers would come over to take the dollars with their teeth,
throw the bill to the stage, and lean in to kiss the college girl on the mouth.
Another breathtaking moment.
Would she kiss back? Would she be down?
Would she struggle, feel disgust and be shy, back away?
To watch the indecision, the spark of desire,
and the final submission as the two women crushed their mouths together,
softness upon softness, slip of a tongue.
The whole hearted participation of an audience member gained,
the stripper pushed the limits, sliding the straps off the young girls shoulder in a quick thrust,
exposing her to the room. I had to hold my breath watching them rub their tits together.
The coupling of a young girl with pierced nipples a
nd an domme stripper yielded an impromptu soixante-neuf onstage.
The piece de resistance was the teacher.
She'd come with the class, a smiling sweet faced woman, late late 20s or early 30s I would guess.
Attractive.
She flirted with the dancers as well, making out, dry humping on the stage.
Showing her tits. Leading the way for all her proteges to be emboldened, empowered,
enraptured by female sexuality.
She and the domme stripper were fabulous.
Crawling on the stage the stripper approached her to take the dollar bill out of her mouth.
Throwing the money to the floor they start to rub their lips together, kiss, the stripper kisses the teacher's
neck, pulls down her top to expose her tits.
They rub their chests together.
The domme pulls her up on stage.
They get into a sixty nine position, hips humping at each other.
Teacher is taking off her top and blouse altogether.
The domme gets up and climbs to the top of the pole,
then hangs upside down, invites the teacher to join her.
The teacher takes off her jeans, pulls down her white thong,
and climbs up the pole so the women are in a standing 69.
Too bad they weren't playing Hot for Teacher. That would have been perfect.
After the show . . . I am sweetly and savagely fucked to sleep. Not by Hugo.
:insert raised eyebrow here:
Friday I met with someone new for a drink after work.
He knows who he is.
I wonder what he thinks of the dopaminejunkie in the flesh.
I represent myself as I perceive myself, and this I have already described to you.
He makes me wish to plunge myself into sweet chaos.
I think we're all in need of some disorder.
Saturday as I spent the day with Hugo I wondered at myself.
What creature have I become?
My voracious appetite has been whetted and my hunger for flesh
to sink my teeth into, flesh to sink into my flesh, only increases by
the day.
As I watched the young college men of Berkeley passing by,
I felt myself salivating. Both little mouths. w(h)etted.
Sunday and the day began with the talk that I have been so reluctant to have with Hugo.
About us, my unhappiness.
He is not unhappy at all.
He wants to get married "someday".
He wants to spend the rest of his life with me.
I told him I am not ready.
That he should know better my feeling about marriage.
That I felt we had no communication, just a delicate status quo which
I swallow loads of sticky and unpleasant dissatisfaction to preserve.
That although I love the man he has evolved into.
that I miss the man I first fell in love with.
The one with the wicked smile, the wicked blue eyes.
Who whispered terrible things in my ear as he slid his hand up my thigh.
Long story short.
"Maybe you need to date other people."
He says.
"Maybe you need someone else to provoke you, excite you, help you grow."
My mind is racing. Could it be he is offering me what I want?
A two way exit?
In the end my eyes were puffy.
And he said "I'm going to dip out for a few weeks. So I won't see you
until the weekend after next. If you want me, call me and I'll come to see you."
My mind was racing ahead.
Do you know what kind of trouble I can get into in 2 weeks?
The conversation ended as he was getting hard.
Why do my tears inspire erections?
I asked him to tell me about teen sex as he fondled me.
He'd had sex with at least 15 people by the time he graduated high school.
That's a lot of teen sex.
His stories excited me.
Afterschool fucking was something that I never did.
Newsflash. He wanted to 69.
That's right.
He kissed my kitty.
It was hard to believe, and I have been so conditioned to think he doesn't
enjoy it anymore that I think I forgot that he was actually good at it.
He spreads his tongue flat against my slit and licks it, not too hard,
but with enough pressure, until I'm moaning with his cock in my mouth,
and he sucks on my clit.
I was so astounded I couldn't concentrate on cumming.
In fact, when he flipped me over to take me from behind I was too sentient
to really cum.
I think I was too surprised.
He really fucking loves me.
But I really need to be free for awhile, at least.
and I have so many things to tell you.
It's a clutter. But try to make sense of it all if you can.]
samedi soir
1.04 a.m.
chez moi
apres minuit samedi soir
a smorgasbord of choice packets. . .
Jeudi
I went to the strip club with a huge group of girls to look at nekkid girls.
The strippers were very diverse in size, shape and color.
tig ass bitties
smalle titties
slim hips
bodacious bootays
shaved twats
flesh
you see i was there with a group of college girls
who were on a field trip for their female sexuality class . . .
this bar was totally nude
so as we walked through the door we were handed soda cups and
pointed to a self service soda bar on the other side of the club.
audience demographic:
before our arrival:
75% white and shady looking men, 20% strippers, 5% group of randy young dudes.
after our arrival:
50% college girls focused on discovering their "female sexuality",
20% strippers both aggravated and relieved
and jaded by the arrival of the college girls,
20% white and shady looking men,
10% groups of men and women attracted by the rambunctious peals of feminine screams.
the club at first glance lacked the edgy and unpredictable
quality i am accustomed to, something i attributed to the lack of alcohol.
everyone was polite, no one was being sloppy.
girls took seats and sipped their cokes
watching the titties and the splayed pussies as if this were a life drawing class
i enjoyed watching the other girls watch the girls
watching to see the rise and fall of their breath
as they squirmed with the indecision on how to react,
what was acceptable, who was watching them
could they detach?
all girls were politely leaving tips on the stage like offerings to a goddess
having grown up in an age of feminism;
no one wanted to insult or objectify with the strippers; we were all acutely aware of each other,
as women, as we would relate to girls beside us in the bathroom mirror, applying lipstick, fixing our hair.
i watched another asian girl, she came along with the class,
but didn't sit with the other girls really.
i watched as she grew more and more interested in each strippers' undulations,
in their awareness of their own movements.
i watched her as she grew more heated, taking off her sweater,
and pulling up her hair, placing the dollars on the stage for dancer after dancer.
she looked sweet, confused, vulnerable. and i wanted to kiss her cheek.
and whisper soflty, silkily, into her ear as she watched the strippers pump their hips into the air,
"do you think she is beautiful?"
"would you want to touch her?"
"do you want her to come over here and kiss your breast?"
"do you want me to put my hand between your legs?"
But meanwhile, some of the other ladies had fgone across the street to drink,
and brought back with them just that Mardi Gras kind of
titty flashing sloppiness as seen in Sorority Girls Gone Wild.
Placing their dollars bills in their mouths,
they had come back more brazen, fueled by liquid courage.
The strippers would come over to take the dollars with their teeth,
throw the bill to the stage, and lean in to kiss the college girl on the mouth.
Another breathtaking moment.
Would she kiss back? Would she be down?
Would she struggle, feel disgust and be shy, back away?
To watch the indecision, the spark of desire,
and the final submission as the two women crushed their mouths together,
softness upon softness, slip of a tongue.
The whole hearted participation of an audience member gained,
the stripper pushed the limits, sliding the straps off the young girls shoulder in a quick thrust,
exposing her to the room. I had to hold my breath watching them rub their tits together.
The coupling of a young girl with pierced nipples a
nd an domme stripper yielded an impromptu soixante-neuf onstage.
The piece de resistance was the teacher.
She'd come with the class, a smiling sweet faced woman, late late 20s or early 30s I would guess.
Attractive.
She flirted with the dancers as well, making out, dry humping on the stage.
Showing her tits. Leading the way for all her proteges to be emboldened, empowered,
enraptured by female sexuality.
She and the domme stripper were fabulous.
Crawling on the stage the stripper approached her to take the dollar bill out of her mouth.
Throwing the money to the floor they start to rub their lips together, kiss, the stripper kisses the teacher's
neck, pulls down her top to expose her tits.
They rub their chests together.
The domme pulls her up on stage.
They get into a sixty nine position, hips humping at each other.
Teacher is taking off her top and blouse altogether.
The domme gets up and climbs to the top of the pole,
then hangs upside down, invites the teacher to join her.
The teacher takes off her jeans, pulls down her white thong,
and climbs up the pole so the women are in a standing 69.
Too bad they weren't playing Hot for Teacher. That would have been perfect.
After the show . . . I am sweetly and savagely fucked to sleep. Not by Hugo.
:insert raised eyebrow here:
Friday I met with someone new for a drink after work.
He knows who he is.
I wonder what he thinks of the dopaminejunkie in the flesh.
I represent myself as I perceive myself, and this I have already described to you.
He makes me wish to plunge myself into sweet chaos.
I think we're all in need of some disorder.
Saturday as I spent the day with Hugo I wondered at myself.
What creature have I become?
My voracious appetite has been whetted and my hunger for flesh
to sink my teeth into, flesh to sink into my flesh, only increases by
the day.
As I watched the young college men of Berkeley passing by,
I felt myself salivating. Both little mouths. w(h)etted.
Sunday and the day began with the talk that I have been so reluctant to have with Hugo.
About us, my unhappiness.
He is not unhappy at all.
He wants to get married "someday".
He wants to spend the rest of his life with me.
I told him I am not ready.
That he should know better my feeling about marriage.
That I felt we had no communication, just a delicate status quo which
I swallow loads of sticky and unpleasant dissatisfaction to preserve.
That although I love the man he has evolved into.
that I miss the man I first fell in love with.
The one with the wicked smile, the wicked blue eyes.
Who whispered terrible things in my ear as he slid his hand up my thigh.
Long story short.
"Maybe you need to date other people."
He says.
"Maybe you need someone else to provoke you, excite you, help you grow."
My mind is racing. Could it be he is offering me what I want?
A two way exit?
In the end my eyes were puffy.
And he said "I'm going to dip out for a few weeks. So I won't see you
until the weekend after next. If you want me, call me and I'll come to see you."
My mind was racing ahead.
Do you know what kind of trouble I can get into in 2 weeks?
The conversation ended as he was getting hard.
Why do my tears inspire erections?
I asked him to tell me about teen sex as he fondled me.
He'd had sex with at least 15 people by the time he graduated high school.
That's a lot of teen sex.
His stories excited me.
Afterschool fucking was something that I never did.
Newsflash. He wanted to 69.
That's right.
He kissed my kitty.
It was hard to believe, and I have been so conditioned to think he doesn't
enjoy it anymore that I think I forgot that he was actually good at it.
He spreads his tongue flat against my slit and licks it, not too hard,
but with enough pressure, until I'm moaning with his cock in my mouth,
and he sucks on my clit.
I was so astounded I couldn't concentrate on cumming.
In fact, when he flipped me over to take me from behind I was too sentient
to really cum.
I think I was too surprised.
He really fucking loves me.
But I really need to be free for awhile, at least.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/30/2001 07:49:00 AM
Thursday, April 26
broken pieces of thoughts today:
I. Phone Sex
My first experience with phone sex was when I lived in Canada. I hardly knew anyone, my boyfriend was here at Stanford, at 19 and freshly popped of cherry, I was horny but too faithful to take advantage of the smorgasbord of men who offered their services to me.
It was one of those "back of the weekly alternative newspaper" things, where it's free for women, you set up a voicemail box, guys can listen in and leave a message. . .etc.
I got hot listening to them all, gangbanging my VM with fantasies, which at the time, burned my ears and my crotch.
So I called one back.
He was waiting for my call. I heard a tv in the background. An older man, married. Hiding in his study.
I can't remember everything he said -- just soundbites stuck in my memory:
- i'm going to make you cum hard, cum strong for me.
- could i bribe you (he asked) to come answer phones at my office? I could bend you over the desk and put my head up under your skirt, while you had to answer phones.
- slide my dick across your face
- cum strong for me
He was rich, he said. He would pay me well to answer his phone.
I was not interested in his money, I said.
I have a job of my own, and can care for myself.
But that kind of aural fucking sets my brain fuckhole to cumming everytime.
Like blowing marijuana smoke into a cat's ear.
II. Literotica hardly does it for me anymore.
Even their incest and mature and non-consent sections aren't stimulating enough.
Or is it that I have just overloaded on the porn that I'm glazed over?
My own thoughts while masturbating start out with memories, cliches, some porn.
But to get my cum it is a far more intense thing.
Stroking sweetly and with just the right pressure,
fingers massaging my clit and slipping inside to where it's wet and slick and juicy, I am counting.
And plugged into a socket of energy somewhere in the nebulae, I am fucking myself, being fucked by an unseen lover, who is fucking me, all the girls,
at 8, 9, 10, 11 . . . 13 yes fuck 13, 14, 15 yes more fucking for 15, pop the 16, teach me to love dick right, 17 18 where I first fucked for real, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24 fabulous fucking at 24, 25, and now uncork all these repressed lusts of 26, unleash me all over your face, my little motor is revving with a healthy engine, ready to ride, loving the vibration between my legs.
and when that isn't enough, I descend to a stranger and more degrading fantasy which I never hope to live out in "real life", but which I need to cum, that slut
complex, the girl who will do anything to cum, who is gangbanged and dp'd by rock stars. preferably attractive and well hung rock stars.
III. It's thursday. I started writing around 1.16.
It is now 04.26.
IV. Pour tous les mecs qui ont decouvert que leurs copines les pensent pas commes amants prospectifs, soyez-vous rassures.
Il y a toujours un tel moment lorsqu'une fille vous regarde, et elle va remarque, tiens, mon ami ici, il est sympa, il est mignon, peut-etre sexy!
I. Phone Sex
My first experience with phone sex was when I lived in Canada. I hardly knew anyone, my boyfriend was here at Stanford, at 19 and freshly popped of cherry, I was horny but too faithful to take advantage of the smorgasbord of men who offered their services to me.
It was one of those "back of the weekly alternative newspaper" things, where it's free for women, you set up a voicemail box, guys can listen in and leave a message. . .etc.
I got hot listening to them all, gangbanging my VM with fantasies, which at the time, burned my ears and my crotch.
So I called one back.
He was waiting for my call. I heard a tv in the background. An older man, married. Hiding in his study.
I can't remember everything he said -- just soundbites stuck in my memory:
- i'm going to make you cum hard, cum strong for me.
- could i bribe you (he asked) to come answer phones at my office? I could bend you over the desk and put my head up under your skirt, while you had to answer phones.
- slide my dick across your face
- cum strong for me
He was rich, he said. He would pay me well to answer his phone.
I was not interested in his money, I said.
I have a job of my own, and can care for myself.
But that kind of aural fucking sets my brain fuckhole to cumming everytime.
Like blowing marijuana smoke into a cat's ear.
II. Literotica hardly does it for me anymore.
Even their incest and mature and non-consent sections aren't stimulating enough.
Or is it that I have just overloaded on the porn that I'm glazed over?
My own thoughts while masturbating start out with memories, cliches, some porn.
But to get my cum it is a far more intense thing.
Stroking sweetly and with just the right pressure,
fingers massaging my clit and slipping inside to where it's wet and slick and juicy, I am counting.
And plugged into a socket of energy somewhere in the nebulae, I am fucking myself, being fucked by an unseen lover, who is fucking me, all the girls,
at 8, 9, 10, 11 . . . 13 yes fuck 13, 14, 15 yes more fucking for 15, pop the 16, teach me to love dick right, 17 18 where I first fucked for real, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24 fabulous fucking at 24, 25, and now uncork all these repressed lusts of 26, unleash me all over your face, my little motor is revving with a healthy engine, ready to ride, loving the vibration between my legs.
and when that isn't enough, I descend to a stranger and more degrading fantasy which I never hope to live out in "real life", but which I need to cum, that slut
complex, the girl who will do anything to cum, who is gangbanged and dp'd by rock stars. preferably attractive and well hung rock stars.
III. It's thursday. I started writing around 1.16.
It is now 04.26.
IV. Pour tous les mecs qui ont decouvert que leurs copines les pensent pas commes amants prospectifs, soyez-vous rassures.
Il y a toujours un tel moment lorsqu'une fille vous regarde, et elle va remarque, tiens, mon ami ici, il est sympa, il est mignon, peut-etre sexy!
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/26/2001 10:39:00 AM
Wednesday, April 25
do you care about the girl?
or just the kitty she surrounds?
newsflash: and this does NOT make my headaches any better.
yesterday, a phone call from a cousin.
she's getting married this sept. to a man she's known all her life,
but has only been dating for a month.
she is "so happy".
this morning, before work.
my housemate asks to speak to me before
she leaves for work.
i open my door and she thrusts her hand to my face.
on her ring finger is a diamond ring.
Also, she is "so happy."
i choke, not knowing what to say in either case.
except that i am happy for them.
and i am, in a detached way.
oh that i were not so jaded and cynical about marriage.
now i have to be a bridesmaid.
there's not really anyone I know, not even my
best friend in the entire world (not a girl best friend)
who I could look in the eye and say:
i want to spend the rest of my life with you.
i will never lie to you.
i will be your joy, and you will be my joy.
our love will not be a cliche.
i want to breed with you.
it's a trip.
Hugo speaks often of our future.
How he is saving "for us", fully diversified in his assets "for us",
that he will work to give me the freedom from work so that I can focus
on maximizing all my wasted or unrealized talent.
And how he loves me now.
do i hold too much to the Hugo of 6 months ago,
the Hugo who broke me down with his cruelty and coldness?
he's done that to me twice now in our cumulative time together.
and now love has turned him into someone
soft and tender and loving with me.
Sometimes.
And I cannot really accept it wholeheartedly,
although I know I should allow love to flow.
I have warned him not to think of marriage with me.
But somehow I am a little afraid that he might get that
notion in his head, and I will not be moved by the gesture.
vox 1: why do you not want to get married, dj?
vox 2: why are you so afraid of it?
DJ: Who could love me in my Multiplicity?
Perhaps I am not made for marriage and breeding.
Perhaps I am a spiritual descendent of a tribe of independent women,
fierce warriors, skilled courtesans, and muse goddesses.
vox 1: you are not a myth.
vox 2: you exist although you turn your eyes away from your own existence.
DJ: Marriage means that you can't break
up with someone's Issues,
or your Issues Together.
Ever.
Forever.
Yeegads.
or just the kitty she surrounds?
newsflash: and this does NOT make my headaches any better.
yesterday, a phone call from a cousin.
she's getting married this sept. to a man she's known all her life,
but has only been dating for a month.
she is "so happy".
this morning, before work.
my housemate asks to speak to me before
she leaves for work.
i open my door and she thrusts her hand to my face.
on her ring finger is a diamond ring.
Also, she is "so happy."
i choke, not knowing what to say in either case.
except that i am happy for them.
and i am, in a detached way.
oh that i were not so jaded and cynical about marriage.
now i have to be a bridesmaid.
there's not really anyone I know, not even my
best friend in the entire world (not a girl best friend)
who I could look in the eye and say:
i want to spend the rest of my life with you.
i will never lie to you.
i will be your joy, and you will be my joy.
our love will not be a cliche.
i want to breed with you.
it's a trip.
Hugo speaks often of our future.
How he is saving "for us", fully diversified in his assets "for us",
that he will work to give me the freedom from work so that I can focus
on maximizing all my wasted or unrealized talent.
And how he loves me now.
do i hold too much to the Hugo of 6 months ago,
the Hugo who broke me down with his cruelty and coldness?
he's done that to me twice now in our cumulative time together.
and now love has turned him into someone
soft and tender and loving with me.
Sometimes.
And I cannot really accept it wholeheartedly,
although I know I should allow love to flow.
I have warned him not to think of marriage with me.
But somehow I am a little afraid that he might get that
notion in his head, and I will not be moved by the gesture.
vox 1: why do you not want to get married, dj?
vox 2: why are you so afraid of it?
DJ: Who could love me in my Multiplicity?
Perhaps I am not made for marriage and breeding.
Perhaps I am a spiritual descendent of a tribe of independent women,
fierce warriors, skilled courtesans, and muse goddesses.
vox 1: you are not a myth.
vox 2: you exist although you turn your eyes away from your own existence.
DJ: Marriage means that you can't break
up with someone's Issues,
or your Issues Together.
Ever.
Forever.
Yeegads.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/25/2001 09:51:00 AM
Tuesday, April 24
I'm having health problems, boo.
Went to the doctor today.
I swear this is all stress related, work related, stress induced.
So forgive my reticence on this day.
My little head aches, and my body is broken.
I need to care for my self and my health more I suppose.
I'm not in the immortal years anymore.
I need some care.
A lot would be wonderful,
but just a little would be fine.
A little pampering.
A little tenderness.
A soft kiss and stroke on my cheek.
To feel like a cherished and lovely little girl.
Oh Frank, I'm the girl!
Went to the doctor today.
I swear this is all stress related, work related, stress induced.
So forgive my reticence on this day.
My little head aches, and my body is broken.
I need to care for my self and my health more I suppose.
I'm not in the immortal years anymore.
I need some care.
A lot would be wonderful,
but just a little would be fine.
A little pampering.
A little tenderness.
A soft kiss and stroke on my cheek.
To feel like a cherished and lovely little girl.
Oh Frank, I'm the girl!
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/24/2001 05:01:00 PM
Monday, April 23
Friday night and it was the freaky girls night out.
Didn't even get out into the night until after midnight.
3 women walking the streets of San Francisco.
Looking for prey.
-- we finally ended up at Asiasf around 1 -- at least it was open
until 3, we closed it down, the vibe was delightfully thick and we got our prickteasing on.
the girls were definitely looking to take someone home,
for all of us, there was really no available talent. .
"call a friend, DJ, come on, don't you know anyone who would be down for the three of us?"
and I thought to myself, damn, who would I call in a situation like
this, at 3 a.m., who would be down? Who could I call and offer the experience of a lifetime?
Who would take me seriously, and say, "I'll be right there."
Then meet me downstairs, where I would lead down a hall, to an elevator,
down another hall, through to a door where I would knock.
2 freaky asian kitties in heat awaiting on the other side. . .
Supine on a bed. Looking at you.
And I wouldn't make introductions.
And there would be no exchange of names or pleasantries.
Could you hang?
Could you bring it?
Be the man in the situation?
Didn't even get out into the night until after midnight.
3 women walking the streets of San Francisco.
Looking for prey.
-- we finally ended up at Asiasf around 1 -- at least it was open
until 3, we closed it down, the vibe was delightfully thick and we got our prickteasing on.
the girls were definitely looking to take someone home,
for all of us, there was really no available talent. .
"call a friend, DJ, come on, don't you know anyone who would be down for the three of us?"
and I thought to myself, damn, who would I call in a situation like
this, at 3 a.m., who would be down? Who could I call and offer the experience of a lifetime?
Who would take me seriously, and say, "I'll be right there."
Then meet me downstairs, where I would lead down a hall, to an elevator,
down another hall, through to a door where I would knock.
2 freaky asian kitties in heat awaiting on the other side. . .
Supine on a bed. Looking at you.
And I wouldn't make introductions.
And there would be no exchange of names or pleasantries.
Could you hang?
Could you bring it?
Be the man in the situation?
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/23/2001 05:11:00 PM
Friday, April 20
Quote of the morning:
Cum or get off me.
So he pulled out and climbed off,
apologized, went to shave and shower.
Neither of us came.
I turned to my pillow and cried.
When he came back to my room,
I feigned sleep.
Puffy eyes glazed over on the bus today.
Puffy eyes closing against a headache, a pinched nerve in my shoulder,
and the incessant rain.
I'm tired. We're moving.
Why am I still here?
It's 04.20.
It's gloomy.
Dope J Therapy Time?
No, not feeling it.
Maybe Mary J. therapy time, though.
MUNI or Office Fantasy Time?
No, not feeling it.
Existential rambling Time?
Nope.
Responses to Inbox Stimulus?
Not much in there lately.
Stories about Hugo?
Eh. Def. not feeling that.
Stories about ex-boy, or any of the past lovers?
I have some, but no energy to share.
How about just some pillow talk?
With who?
With myself I guess.
Are you okay?
I guess. Not really. Just sort of.
Is it because of this morning?
It's the weather, which always fucks with me.
And that botched morning wake up fuck by Hugo.
Do you even enjoy sex with him anymore?
He talks about getting a little "sexy-sex".
He doesn't turn me on.
He doesn't even try to get into my head.
He doesn't even kiss my kitty.
He doesn't even check to see if I'm wet.
Sometimes I lie there and feel as he is just stabbing my flesh.
This is sick. This is demented. This is marriage. This is resignation.
Outside of this, everything is fine.
He loves me.
But he doesn't know how anymore.
I could talk to him about it, try again to open up our communication,
but I think it's lost.
Sex is an issue between us that has been used as a vindictive weapon,
a subject that has been torn apart.
Turning the inner eye outward for the weekend. . .
the dopamine junkie
Cum or get off me.
So he pulled out and climbed off,
apologized, went to shave and shower.
Neither of us came.
I turned to my pillow and cried.
When he came back to my room,
I feigned sleep.
Puffy eyes glazed over on the bus today.
Puffy eyes closing against a headache, a pinched nerve in my shoulder,
and the incessant rain.
I'm tired. We're moving.
Why am I still here?
It's 04.20.
It's gloomy.
Dope J Therapy Time?
No, not feeling it.
Maybe Mary J. therapy time, though.
MUNI or Office Fantasy Time?
No, not feeling it.
Existential rambling Time?
Nope.
Responses to Inbox Stimulus?
Not much in there lately.
Stories about Hugo?
Eh. Def. not feeling that.
Stories about ex-boy, or any of the past lovers?
I have some, but no energy to share.
How about just some pillow talk?
With who?
With myself I guess.
Are you okay?
I guess. Not really. Just sort of.
Is it because of this morning?
It's the weather, which always fucks with me.
And that botched morning wake up fuck by Hugo.
Do you even enjoy sex with him anymore?
He talks about getting a little "sexy-sex".
He doesn't turn me on.
He doesn't even try to get into my head.
He doesn't even kiss my kitty.
He doesn't even check to see if I'm wet.
Sometimes I lie there and feel as he is just stabbing my flesh.
This is sick. This is demented. This is marriage. This is resignation.
Outside of this, everything is fine.
He loves me.
But he doesn't know how anymore.
I could talk to him about it, try again to open up our communication,
but I think it's lost.
Sex is an issue between us that has been used as a vindictive weapon,
a subject that has been torn apart.
Turning the inner eye outward for the weekend. . .
the dopamine junkie
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/20/2001 01:24:00 PM
Thursday, April 19
L'altro sera
Ho parlato con mio ragazzo, (il nuovo).
E italiano ma non parla son proprio lingue!
Che lastima, non?
Ho bisogno di qualcuno con chi io posso parlare --
dopo tre trimestre d'italiano che ho preso all'universita,
non mi ricordo bene tutti i verbi, e come conjugargli.
That's probably all fucked up.
Oh well.
Perche adesso, sto scrivando di lui, e lui non sappia.
Potrebbero discutare il cazzo, come era tanto profundo e duro . . . .
See, I learned the most italian from the captions of the porn I brought back from Italy.
"Dai, sputo!"
"Si, caro, dammelo, dammelo tutto!"
"Signore, mi avete preso per un hamburger?"
(Caption from a DP still)
Moving back to the Financial District tomorrow.
Away from my cherished Ferry Building.
Lickety split.
This week's soup isn't coming together as planned.
I'm too distracted here at work.
And for some reason we still got no flow at home.
Tomorrow = 420.
Going out dancing with the freaky girls tomorrow . . . anyone have any suggestions for j.d.b. or some good hip hop?
Fading from view, the dopamine junkie.
Ho parlato con mio ragazzo, (il nuovo).
E italiano ma non parla son proprio lingue!
Che lastima, non?
Ho bisogno di qualcuno con chi io posso parlare --
dopo tre trimestre d'italiano che ho preso all'universita,
non mi ricordo bene tutti i verbi, e come conjugargli.
That's probably all fucked up.
Oh well.
Perche adesso, sto scrivando di lui, e lui non sappia.
Potrebbero discutare il cazzo, come era tanto profundo e duro . . . .
See, I learned the most italian from the captions of the porn I brought back from Italy.
"Dai, sputo!"
"Si, caro, dammelo, dammelo tutto!"
"Signore, mi avete preso per un hamburger?"
(Caption from a DP still)
Moving back to the Financial District tomorrow.
Away from my cherished Ferry Building.
Lickety split.
This week's soup isn't coming together as planned.
I'm too distracted here at work.
And for some reason we still got no flow at home.
Tomorrow = 420.
Going out dancing with the freaky girls tomorrow . . . anyone have any suggestions for j.d.b. or some good hip hop?
Fading from view, the dopamine junkie.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/19/2001 04:40:00 PM
Wednesday, April 18
Soup is cooking.
A question though:
To achieve a fully satisfying sexual relationship with a partner,
is it necessary to have the sub/dom switch element?
In the sense of being attuned to each other's needs and desires,
playing them out in a safe place where you can lead or be led,
punish and reward, be violent and tender?
going to that maybe dark and secret place?
trusting deeply
being understood
being accepted
not having to be ashamed of what you want, because you need it.
Shame may even be a part of what you need.
working it out till you get that release
then being kissed tenderly afterwards
what is it that men can't communicate effectively to women?
what is it that women need to say to men?
where's the glitch in the communication?
when did we become shy to say?
my first lover thought porn was dirty. Not in a good way.
I had been involved with pornography since I was 8.
I hid the childhood desires then. Because I was taught my urges were sinful.
So I hid again, in that first taste of lovemaking, I was already repressing what I really wanted to ask for.
And so I learned to not ask.
And just wished and hoped that someday . . .well, you know the rest.
A question though:
To achieve a fully satisfying sexual relationship with a partner,
is it necessary to have the sub/dom switch element?
In the sense of being attuned to each other's needs and desires,
playing them out in a safe place where you can lead or be led,
punish and reward, be violent and tender?
going to that maybe dark and secret place?
trusting deeply
being understood
being accepted
not having to be ashamed of what you want, because you need it.
Shame may even be a part of what you need.
working it out till you get that release
then being kissed tenderly afterwards
what is it that men can't communicate effectively to women?
what is it that women need to say to men?
where's the glitch in the communication?
when did we become shy to say?
my first lover thought porn was dirty. Not in a good way.
I had been involved with pornography since I was 8.
I hid the childhood desires then. Because I was taught my urges were sinful.
So I hid again, in that first taste of lovemaking, I was already repressing what I really wanted to ask for.
And so I learned to not ask.
And just wished and hoped that someday . . .well, you know the rest.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/18/2001 04:13:00 PM
Tuesday, April 17
On Hugo:
The further away I drift, the closer he gets.
The more unavailable I am, the more affectionate he is.
What's that Morrissey song?
Something about " the more you ignore me, the closer I get"
Being smothered in love like gravy
Holding me so tight
He knows something has changed inside me but he can't fathom
Because when I am with him, I am 100% the girl he wants,
pushing it all to the forefront, blinding with love
I want him to feel loved and needed.
Because he is.
But meanwhile, it's getting so hot out, and I'm getting so parched and thirsty.
It's fucking un-canny.
He never used to call me at work
just to say he loves me
just to say he misses me already
after we've spent 4 solid days together
I think, where does this come from?
I think, is this enough?
I think, it's getting better, isn't it?
I think, how long can I live like this?
I think, how much do I value freedom? Is it overrated?
I think, how will I do all the things I want to do, and not lose him?
I'll just do as I'm doing then, until I get a better idea.
And try to enjoy these halycon days while I'm in them,
ephemeral, ethereal, evaporating
*
Deal with the world as it is - not the way it was, or the way [you] want it to be.
- Cisco Systems' John Chambers
*
Matter is energy held by relation into a particular structure of tension; all "reality" is an interlocking hierarchy of rhythmically interacting structures of energy. One of these structures has the unique property of being aware of itself and so of the other structures. Being self-conscious, its place in the order of things is disturbed. Trapped, it wants to escape from or return to the lost unity and so generates new structures to place itself in the order of experience according to purpose.
Self-consciousness is an awareness of the self, here, and the other, there, so the first coordinate of these structures is spatial. Awareness of the self and the other is awareness of relation so the other coordinate is dramatic. Schematically (not experientially) the spatial coordinate is in the custody of art, the dramatic in the custody of the myth ritual.
- John W. Dixon, Jr.
Or is it that I am the kitty in Schrödinger's box?
And am I not supposed to know that I exist?
Am I a butterfly dreaming I am a girl?
Sometimes I read and it makes me wonder if I should be writing for money.
Like for these people.
What is that voice inside that pleads:
"No! Never sell out!"
which wars with the other voice inside me:
"You can do this. You can do this well. You should be paid for this instead of the soulless job you're doing right now"
I'd like to get into a steamy wordplay with these ladies:
Words make me hot
Nancy Chan:
Fictional diary of a Manhattan call girl
Kitty says: Let me out of this damned thing.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/17/2001 04:05:00 PM
Monday, April 16
oversaturation of thc has left me,
my dilemmas and everything i wrote last week,
in these past two weeks, in a fuzzy cloud.
blogger was down on thursday.
and on friday i didn't go to work at all.
and this weekend I felt "normal"
like a normal girl
inside me though, the freak feigned sleep
peeking at me with one eye open
from behind her red curtain
I was one of the Lotophagi this weekend.
Moloko has a song of the lotus eaters.
If I could eat the lotus and forget, and be forever moving forward
towards the next day, today's girl would say yes.
Or perhaps I could just be the tour guide through the Land of the Lotus Eaters.
Today is supposed to be the day DSL comes back to my house.
Last night I had a messianic dream.
The visions are fading.
But they were Red.
I was flying through the air like a bullet, leaving a green electric trail blazing behind me.
Being sought out by forces that wished to control me.
I had a book, if I could recreate it I would, partitioned off
into 4 sections, each with an instruction manual and guides to navigating . . .something (the Universe?)
The sensation of being propelled very fast through the air was clear
I was moving so fast my ears were ringing
Everything was Red.
Something was ending.
Something was imminent.
Something was urgent.
Yikes.
I could take this to be portentous, but I was awash with love this weekend, from Hugo.
Tenderness and sensitivity and attention.
Love.
Affectionate desire.
Warmth, embrace.
He is intertwined in my outside world, with everyone I know.
Always helping people.
Always supportive, always good.
With me though, just not always on target.
Each side defining itself more clearly to me.
So I can make a choice.
I cannot make a false move.
I cannot bungle this.
I will not submit to undue pressure.
On the other side of Love is Art/
the Desire/the Pleasure/
the Escape/the Lonely Time/
the Pain/the Wishing/
the Hoping/the Yearning/
the Keening/the Feening/
It's easy to not look at myself/
when someone else is reflecting me/
projecting me/
It's easy to run and hide my face/
in the safety of Hugo's embrace
And meanwhile the girls are plotting
to sink their teeth into this City
"We need you" they say.
To wreak havoc I suppose.
To lead the sailors to our siren shore.
And I am the strongest singer.
One likes it hard and rough
One likes it smooth and deep
One just likes to kiss your mouth and fuck your eyes
Two are free, the other is not
Some e, a hotel key, and an eighth of pot
Stamina, imagination and a tongue like a pogo stick.
A man who knows how to wield his dick.
That's the trick.
We're the treat.
If you can provide the above,
then maybe we can meet.
Or maybe this is out of hand.
And I should extend my stay in Lotus Land.
And not think about my needs or kitty feeds
Selfish girl.
Right now my world is whirling with un-sexy thoughts.
This morning at my work, layoffs.
Simultaneously, a girlfriend was IM'ming me that she had just been laid off.
Another girlfriend laid off last Thursday.
Two abortions going on in my immediate circle.
A friend dying of lung cancer.
A girlfriend recently diagnosed with cervical cancer.
Friend in a car crash across the country.
Joey Ramone is no more.
I meanwhile am happy, healthy and loved.
If my freak sleeps for awhile longer, during this turbulent time,
then so be it.
my dilemmas and everything i wrote last week,
in these past two weeks, in a fuzzy cloud.
blogger was down on thursday.
and on friday i didn't go to work at all.
and this weekend I felt "normal"
like a normal girl
inside me though, the freak feigned sleep
peeking at me with one eye open
from behind her red curtain
I was one of the Lotophagi this weekend.
Moloko has a song of the lotus eaters.
If I could eat the lotus and forget, and be forever moving forward
towards the next day, today's girl would say yes.
Or perhaps I could just be the tour guide through the Land of the Lotus Eaters.
Today is supposed to be the day DSL comes back to my house.
Last night I had a messianic dream.
The visions are fading.
But they were Red.
I was flying through the air like a bullet, leaving a green electric trail blazing behind me.
Being sought out by forces that wished to control me.
I had a book, if I could recreate it I would, partitioned off
into 4 sections, each with an instruction manual and guides to navigating . . .something (the Universe?)
The sensation of being propelled very fast through the air was clear
I was moving so fast my ears were ringing
Everything was Red.
Something was ending.
Something was imminent.
Something was urgent.
Yikes.
I could take this to be portentous, but I was awash with love this weekend, from Hugo.
Tenderness and sensitivity and attention.
Love.
Affectionate desire.
Warmth, embrace.
He is intertwined in my outside world, with everyone I know.
Always helping people.
Always supportive, always good.
With me though, just not always on target.
Each side defining itself more clearly to me.
So I can make a choice.
I cannot make a false move.
I cannot bungle this.
I will not submit to undue pressure.
On the other side of Love is Art/
the Desire/the Pleasure/
the Escape/the Lonely Time/
the Pain/the Wishing/
the Hoping/the Yearning/
the Keening/the Feening/
It's easy to not look at myself/
when someone else is reflecting me/
projecting me/
It's easy to run and hide my face/
in the safety of Hugo's embrace
And meanwhile the girls are plotting
to sink their teeth into this City
"We need you" they say.
To wreak havoc I suppose.
To lead the sailors to our siren shore.
And I am the strongest singer.
One likes it hard and rough
One likes it smooth and deep
One just likes to kiss your mouth and fuck your eyes
Two are free, the other is not
Some e, a hotel key, and an eighth of pot
Stamina, imagination and a tongue like a pogo stick.
A man who knows how to wield his dick.
That's the trick.
We're the treat.
If you can provide the above,
then maybe we can meet.
Or maybe this is out of hand.
And I should extend my stay in Lotus Land.
And not think about my needs or kitty feeds
Selfish girl.
Right now my world is whirling with un-sexy thoughts.
This morning at my work, layoffs.
Simultaneously, a girlfriend was IM'ming me that she had just been laid off.
Another girlfriend laid off last Thursday.
Two abortions going on in my immediate circle.
A friend dying of lung cancer.
A girlfriend recently diagnosed with cervical cancer.
Friend in a car crash across the country.
Joey Ramone is no more.
I meanwhile am happy, healthy and loved.
If my freak sleeps for awhile longer, during this turbulent time,
then so be it.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/16/2001 01:20:00 PM
Wednesday, April 11
Intro:
(I’m losing focus.
I could write about the past
About the present
About the future
I don’t wish to obsess about my next move, my next step.
If I do that too much I think, I lose the essence of today.)
Preface:
Today I am at home, illin’/
No one in this big old house/
Just me, the fishtank, digi cable and a dial up.
It’s been nice, I’ve been working hard lately/
Plus I am legitimately ill/
I made some soup and toast and asparagus/
Ghiradelli’s milk chocolate too.
It’s drafty though so I’m swathed in blankets/
And drifting off in a beam of sun/
Fresh from cum/
Act One:
If I were more ruthless I would know/
That the moment to move on/
Is the moment when you don’t care anymore/
When you sleep together or alone.
In that darkness, the inner freak wakes while we both sleep/
She crawls about, tearing down the walls/
A secret I keep/
Because I’m too weak?
I’d take you to visit her/
Hand in hand, walking down a long hallway/
Where she waits in smoldering silence/
Her twin freaks on leather leashes/
Waiting to tear us both into pieces.
- I’ve been waiting for you.
- Do you want to kiss me?
- Do you want to fuck me?
- Tell me how much.
- Now make me deserve it.
Phase Two
Pain makes me sensitive to beauty.
Beauty brings me pleasure.
Entre d’Acte
A. Imagination is divine.
I am a girl who wants to kiss a boy.
On the lips.
With tongue.
I am a teen who knows what happens when you go to the drive-in.
And I want it just as bad.
Intermission:
- yes baby yes oh shit yesss fuck it make me cum make me cum
- you like it like that? You want more?
- Yes deeper I want it deep, ooh fuck let me feel it, please feed it to me
- Time to feed the kitty. . .greedy little cunt. . .
Act Two
Side A
I am the girl behind the counter at the library;
sweater sets, wool skirts, boots, glasses.
Long ponytail.
The one you underestimate.
Who spent their whole childhood and adolescence seething
With a powerful sexual energy that wasn’t allowed.
Repressing, sublimating, years of desire.
And the shame that heightens desire.
Reading our romance novels and dirty books.
Crossing and uncrossing knee sock encased calves.
Hands between my legs upon finding father’s stashed porn.
With only my imagination to feed my hunger.
But I’m not a child woman anymore.
I’ll take my cum wrapped around you like a velvet glove.
Side B
I am also a woman who has provided comfort to a man;
with words, whispers, arms and breasts. A man can build a
home with his bare hands, but I can create a home in the circle
of my embrace, with my bare arms.
I can absorb pain and fill all the voids,
leaving me empty
With no strength for my own happiness.
I can absorb most cruelty too.
I am stronger than I admit.
I am afraid of my own effect,
Afraid of my own strength,
Afraid to unleash this freak.
When I get a taste of pleasure,
It is selfish and greedy.
I’ve felt parched for so long.
I was anhedonic.
Finale
I’m at home today and ten kinds of horny.
Slipping wet skin over wet skin in a tub of lavendar scented water/
Hard brown nipples and slippery taut tits teasing your face/
Your tongue slips into my tummy button/
Then I grind the kitty into your mouth/
And flood your fingers with honey cum/
Tight glove snatch takes it deep, full hilt/
Loving the throb of your hard pole/
I ride and work out a delicious rhythm/
I get the snap going in my hips/
And a bounce going with my tits/
Working out my sweet spot with your tip.
You set me to cumming/
And we both are watching/
Your pole disappear into my succulent little hole/
Gasping for breath and I’m on my way into the ether-world/
Short quick jabs forcing my mouth into an ooh/
Knocking my head from side to side/
When you stuff me full length.
This is fucking.
Wearing and tearing at each other’s skin
Lost in body contact, pheromones and sweat
Your tongue penetrates my mouth
And luscious dueling ensues.
Gasps and groans smothered by kisses.
Fin (for now)
(I’m losing focus.
I could write about the past
About the present
About the future
I don’t wish to obsess about my next move, my next step.
If I do that too much I think, I lose the essence of today.)
Preface:
Today I am at home, illin’/
No one in this big old house/
Just me, the fishtank, digi cable and a dial up.
It’s been nice, I’ve been working hard lately/
Plus I am legitimately ill/
I made some soup and toast and asparagus/
Ghiradelli’s milk chocolate too.
It’s drafty though so I’m swathed in blankets/
And drifting off in a beam of sun/
Fresh from cum/
Act One:
If I were more ruthless I would know/
That the moment to move on/
Is the moment when you don’t care anymore/
When you sleep together or alone.
In that darkness, the inner freak wakes while we both sleep/
She crawls about, tearing down the walls/
A secret I keep/
Because I’m too weak?
I’d take you to visit her/
Hand in hand, walking down a long hallway/
Where she waits in smoldering silence/
Her twin freaks on leather leashes/
Waiting to tear us both into pieces.
- I’ve been waiting for you.
- Do you want to kiss me?
- Do you want to fuck me?
- Tell me how much.
- Now make me deserve it.
Phase Two
Pain makes me sensitive to beauty.
Beauty brings me pleasure.
Entre d’Acte
A. Imagination is divine.
I am a girl who wants to kiss a boy.
On the lips.
With tongue.
I am a teen who knows what happens when you go to the drive-in.
And I want it just as bad.
Intermission:
- yes baby yes oh shit yesss fuck it make me cum make me cum
- you like it like that? You want more?
- Yes deeper I want it deep, ooh fuck let me feel it, please feed it to me
- Time to feed the kitty. . .greedy little cunt. . .
Act Two
Side A
I am the girl behind the counter at the library;
sweater sets, wool skirts, boots, glasses.
Long ponytail.
The one you underestimate.
Who spent their whole childhood and adolescence seething
With a powerful sexual energy that wasn’t allowed.
Repressing, sublimating, years of desire.
And the shame that heightens desire.
Reading our romance novels and dirty books.
Crossing and uncrossing knee sock encased calves.
Hands between my legs upon finding father’s stashed porn.
With only my imagination to feed my hunger.
But I’m not a child woman anymore.
I’ll take my cum wrapped around you like a velvet glove.
Side B
I am also a woman who has provided comfort to a man;
with words, whispers, arms and breasts. A man can build a
home with his bare hands, but I can create a home in the circle
of my embrace, with my bare arms.
I can absorb pain and fill all the voids,
leaving me empty
With no strength for my own happiness.
I can absorb most cruelty too.
I am stronger than I admit.
I am afraid of my own effect,
Afraid of my own strength,
Afraid to unleash this freak.
When I get a taste of pleasure,
It is selfish and greedy.
I’ve felt parched for so long.
I was anhedonic.
Finale
I’m at home today and ten kinds of horny.
Slipping wet skin over wet skin in a tub of lavendar scented water/
Hard brown nipples and slippery taut tits teasing your face/
Your tongue slips into my tummy button/
Then I grind the kitty into your mouth/
And flood your fingers with honey cum/
Tight glove snatch takes it deep, full hilt/
Loving the throb of your hard pole/
I ride and work out a delicious rhythm/
I get the snap going in my hips/
And a bounce going with my tits/
Working out my sweet spot with your tip.
You set me to cumming/
And we both are watching/
Your pole disappear into my succulent little hole/
Gasping for breath and I’m on my way into the ether-world/
Short quick jabs forcing my mouth into an ooh/
Knocking my head from side to side/
When you stuff me full length.
This is fucking.
Wearing and tearing at each other’s skin
Lost in body contact, pheromones and sweat
Your tongue penetrates my mouth
And luscious dueling ensues.
Gasps and groans smothered by kisses.
Fin (for now)
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/11/2001 03:54:00 PM
Do you believe that I am damaged goods? The trite manifestation of that hooker with a heart of gold, the teenage runaway looking for the father figure to clean her up, the dirty slut who needs only to "fall in love" to turn her sordid cocksucking life around?
What am I afraid of?
Being strong.
Being weak.
Relinquishing control to someone who can't take control -- myself.
I've always understood that I take care of me. I consisting of so many personalities, so many undersouls. Each day a decision is made in the mirror -- which girl, which woman do I need to be today to get through it?
What am I afraid of?
Being strong.
Being weak.
Relinquishing control to someone who can't take control -- myself.
I've always understood that I take care of me. I consisting of so many personalities, so many undersouls. Each day a decision is made in the mirror -- which girl, which woman do I need to be today to get through it?
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/11/2001 10:03:00 AM
Tuesday, April 10
One more thing -- with regard to the Literotica story I'm writing, it's all written in a journal of mine, so I still need to key it in.
Not much time to do it here at work, but looks like we'll be online again this weekend at my house. So I'll do it then.
Not much time to do it here at work, but looks like we'll be online again this weekend at my house. So I'll do it then.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/10/2001 04:38:00 PM
Feeling poorly healthwise these past few days.
It's hard to feel sexy.
Noticing a lot of women with knee length pencil skirts
and heeled sandals, naked calves smooth and glistening skin.
The weekend by the ocean was good for me, I feel better and reset.
Hot tubbing, sunsets, balmy breezes.
The lapping of ocean waves soothes me.
I feel more positive.
I want to be back at school, ditching class on sunny days.
Wearing little but sunglasses, a sarong and flip flops.
No undies -- too restrictive.
The smell of sunscreen, nagchampa and herbs wafting in the wind.
Wishing on dandelion heads.
Hiking up to the meadow.
Reading in the shade of a redwood tree.
The whole world ahead of me.
My independent spirit strong and pulsating with life.
Spring spring spring spring
and I want to be on Spring Break.
I want a bacchanalian festival of fruit, fun and fucking.
Not necessarily fucking.
But I want to be loosely wrapped in cloth, be barefoot with my hair down,
healthy, happy, kissable, drunk, dancing, singing, napping like a contented kitty in a beam of sunlight.
That doesn't make me a hippie does it?
I like to take showers and I hate patchouli.
But I am becoming less and less carnivorous all the time.
Song of the Day: Hooverphonic - Barabas
Sharing with you a letter I once wrote to a Master.
It is morning. The sun is just coming up. I awake to
your desire, walk in your desire throughout the day,
and suffer a keen longing for you at night.
If I could awake with your fingers, your tongue on my
breasts, on my neck and collarbone, the scratchy of
your facial hair satisfying my skin. .Mmmm.
Awakening me with kisses, until I stretch and yawn.
Apparently you are intent on having me right away.
But I slide away from you like an eel, walking away
from the bed totally nude while you watch me.
I am going to brush my teeth, wash my face.
I know you want to get inside me. And that you are
slightly vexed.
So I shall go on with my toilette and your eyes grow
dark, I see you out of the corner of my eye and you
are slowly, quietly stalking me like a big jungle cat
and I am your tasty meal.
I begin to ask you innocuous questions about your day,
to which you answer with controlled normalcy. I have
slipped on a short robe which rides high up on my
thighs and exposes glimpses of my bare and shaven
kitty whenever I reach over for something or bend a
bit to the mirror.
I am deliberately ignoring you. I am hoping this will
make you pounce on me.
It's seven in the morning, and we are already awash in
pure lust for each other.
You have not yet pounced on me, and I am getting
antsy. I become a bit more insolent with you, trying
to inflame you with childish flippancy.
You are still vexed with me. and of course you know
what I am doing. And you are watching to see what I
will do next.
I drop the robe and step into the shower. Shampoo,
rinse, repeat. You are coming closer. You begin to
hear slight gasps and moans.
I am fingering myself, on hand stroking my clit and
slipping inside me, the other hand pressed against the
wall for support. I'm desperately trying to cum.
This is the last straw for you. You open the shower
door, grasp me by the wrists and push me against the
wall to stare right into my insolent and heated dark
eyes which challenge and beckon you at the same time.
My parted lips are a submission and you plunder my
mouth with your tongue, and without further ado, lift
my legs around your waist, supporting me by cradling
my bottom, and drop me onto your full length.
Nhmm. Uhh. Fuck your little one.
Punishing and rewarding me for teasing you, by
stuffing me full of your cock . . . Master.
Master doesn't want me anymore. I'm too awake.
It's hard to feel sexy.
Noticing a lot of women with knee length pencil skirts
and heeled sandals, naked calves smooth and glistening skin.
The weekend by the ocean was good for me, I feel better and reset.
Hot tubbing, sunsets, balmy breezes.
The lapping of ocean waves soothes me.
I feel more positive.
I want to be back at school, ditching class on sunny days.
Wearing little but sunglasses, a sarong and flip flops.
No undies -- too restrictive.
The smell of sunscreen, nagchampa and herbs wafting in the wind.
Wishing on dandelion heads.
Hiking up to the meadow.
Reading in the shade of a redwood tree.
The whole world ahead of me.
My independent spirit strong and pulsating with life.
Spring spring spring spring
and I want to be on Spring Break.
I want a bacchanalian festival of fruit, fun and fucking.
Not necessarily fucking.
But I want to be loosely wrapped in cloth, be barefoot with my hair down,
healthy, happy, kissable, drunk, dancing, singing, napping like a contented kitty in a beam of sunlight.
That doesn't make me a hippie does it?
I like to take showers and I hate patchouli.
But I am becoming less and less carnivorous all the time.
Song of the Day: Hooverphonic - Barabas
Sharing with you a letter I once wrote to a Master.
It is morning. The sun is just coming up. I awake to
your desire, walk in your desire throughout the day,
and suffer a keen longing for you at night.
If I could awake with your fingers, your tongue on my
breasts, on my neck and collarbone, the scratchy of
your facial hair satisfying my skin. .Mmmm.
Awakening me with kisses, until I stretch and yawn.
Apparently you are intent on having me right away.
But I slide away from you like an eel, walking away
from the bed totally nude while you watch me.
I am going to brush my teeth, wash my face.
I know you want to get inside me. And that you are
slightly vexed.
So I shall go on with my toilette and your eyes grow
dark, I see you out of the corner of my eye and you
are slowly, quietly stalking me like a big jungle cat
and I am your tasty meal.
I begin to ask you innocuous questions about your day,
to which you answer with controlled normalcy. I have
slipped on a short robe which rides high up on my
thighs and exposes glimpses of my bare and shaven
kitty whenever I reach over for something or bend a
bit to the mirror.
I am deliberately ignoring you. I am hoping this will
make you pounce on me.
It's seven in the morning, and we are already awash in
pure lust for each other.
You have not yet pounced on me, and I am getting
antsy. I become a bit more insolent with you, trying
to inflame you with childish flippancy.
You are still vexed with me. and of course you know
what I am doing. And you are watching to see what I
will do next.
I drop the robe and step into the shower. Shampoo,
rinse, repeat. You are coming closer. You begin to
hear slight gasps and moans.
I am fingering myself, on hand stroking my clit and
slipping inside me, the other hand pressed against the
wall for support. I'm desperately trying to cum.
This is the last straw for you. You open the shower
door, grasp me by the wrists and push me against the
wall to stare right into my insolent and heated dark
eyes which challenge and beckon you at the same time.
My parted lips are a submission and you plunder my
mouth with your tongue, and without further ado, lift
my legs around your waist, supporting me by cradling
my bottom, and drop me onto your full length.
Nhmm. Uhh. Fuck your little one.
Punishing and rewarding me for teasing you, by
stuffing me full of your cock . . . Master.
Master doesn't want me anymore. I'm too awake.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/10/2001 03:58:00 PM
Monday, April 9
By the way.
I added a spy link.
If there's anyone interested in being notified when I post,
click on "Dope J just blew her wad. . ."
Will save some time checking in since I only post once a day now.
It's not for me to spy on you.
It's for you to spy on me.
I added a spy link.
If there's anyone interested in being notified when I post,
click on "Dope J just blew her wad. . ."
Will save some time checking in since I only post once a day now.
It's not for me to spy on you.
It's for you to spy on me.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/09/2001 04:56:00 PM
The jury is still out and then I remembered that I once promised myself that I would not stop writing.
No matter if there is no audience - this is a private journal anyway.
Note to self: Don't eat mushrooms at work ever again.
I've pushed many "readers" away, mistaking concern and perception for judgement.
And I've been wrong to do this. But I was afraid, as always, of someone getting too close to me, too close to the truth.
And these massive armaments of self-preservation defense mechanisms kick in.
Perceptive lover observed that I greet compassion and tenderness by cynically batting it away.
It's true isn't it? Even as endearments and reassurances are forming and spilling from his beautiful mouth,
my mind is racing ahead, to look away, frantically seeking reasons to dismiss and disbelieve,
before the sentiment touches and feeds my hungry heart.
Speaking of my heart, it has so many things to say.
For one, how utterly foolish and naive it has been of me to believe
I could dissociate the organ of the heart from the rest
of the flesh that merges with another.
The heart always extends itself, offers itself, reaches out with the rest of the body.
Also seeking to be pleased, to be satisfied.
I accuse everyone of being too serious.
I'm too damn serious lately.
It's springtime isn't it?
And I'm still on a quest for sandals.
Still on the quest for the most bombass spot!
Still loving Suck's Filler!
National ***-a-thon in Canada!
Participate or just be a sponsor!
Speaking of the M-word:
Contrary to suspicion, no that is NOT me posting on literotica.com as anaisnin.
Recently, though, I completed my first story - which I plan to submit to Literotica.
Perhaps if anyone is interested in helping to edit and improve - you will let me know and I will send to you?
A collaborative effort?
Wait, there's no one out there. Who are you talking to?
I have more truth to reveal but it doesn't matter anymore, does it?
No one wants to face the truth.
Least of all Ms. DJ.
The DayWalker, the Shell of a Girl, she walked in the sun this weekend.
For the most part, content, feeling safe and beloved.
Had a meaningful talk with Hugo about the future.
That I didn't want to hold him back from anything or anyone that would lead
him towards fulfillment, happiness, evolution.
That I wanted that for him, even if it was without me as his partner.
That I loved him as an individual more than I loved him as part of our relationship.
He listened quietly. And told me that he felt the same way.
Setting the stage to bring the notion of together forever to a bittersweet decrescendo.
It's not the Inner Therapist or even the Dopamine Junkie I have to kill.
It's the Defeatist, the Girl that poisons the well, the Mistress of Despair.
I'm working on it. But I have to be quiet or she'll hear me plotting against her.
No matter if there is no audience - this is a private journal anyway.
Note to self: Don't eat mushrooms at work ever again.
I've pushed many "readers" away, mistaking concern and perception for judgement.
And I've been wrong to do this. But I was afraid, as always, of someone getting too close to me, too close to the truth.
And these massive armaments of self-preservation defense mechanisms kick in.
Perceptive lover observed that I greet compassion and tenderness by cynically batting it away.
It's true isn't it? Even as endearments and reassurances are forming and spilling from his beautiful mouth,
my mind is racing ahead, to look away, frantically seeking reasons to dismiss and disbelieve,
before the sentiment touches and feeds my hungry heart.
Speaking of my heart, it has so many things to say.
For one, how utterly foolish and naive it has been of me to believe
I could dissociate the organ of the heart from the rest
of the flesh that merges with another.
The heart always extends itself, offers itself, reaches out with the rest of the body.
Also seeking to be pleased, to be satisfied.
I accuse everyone of being too serious.
I'm too damn serious lately.
It's springtime isn't it?
And I'm still on a quest for sandals.
Still on the quest for the most bombass spot!
Still loving Suck's Filler!
National ***-a-thon in Canada!
Participate or just be a sponsor!
Speaking of the M-word:
Contrary to suspicion, no that is NOT me posting on literotica.com as anaisnin.
Recently, though, I completed my first story - which I plan to submit to Literotica.
Perhaps if anyone is interested in helping to edit and improve - you will let me know and I will send to you?
A collaborative effort?
Wait, there's no one out there. Who are you talking to?
I have more truth to reveal but it doesn't matter anymore, does it?
No one wants to face the truth.
Least of all Ms. DJ.
The DayWalker, the Shell of a Girl, she walked in the sun this weekend.
For the most part, content, feeling safe and beloved.
Had a meaningful talk with Hugo about the future.
That I didn't want to hold him back from anything or anyone that would lead
him towards fulfillment, happiness, evolution.
That I wanted that for him, even if it was without me as his partner.
That I loved him as an individual more than I loved him as part of our relationship.
He listened quietly. And told me that he felt the same way.
Setting the stage to bring the notion of together forever to a bittersweet decrescendo.
It's not the Inner Therapist or even the Dopamine Junkie I have to kill.
It's the Defeatist, the Girl that poisons the well, the Mistress of Despair.
I'm working on it. But I have to be quiet or she'll hear me plotting against her.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/09/2001 04:31:00 PM
Friday, April 6
Message from the Dopamine Junkie's Oblivion Concierge.
She's been causing far too much trouble.
Her cries for help and pleas for attention and love are out of control and have been deemed
unacceptable conduct by the Council of Undersouls.
Her continued existence is now formally under review.
We may have to kill her this weekend.
She's been causing far too much trouble.
Her cries for help and pleas for attention and love are out of control and have been deemed
unacceptable conduct by the Council of Undersouls.
Her continued existence is now formally under review.
We may have to kill her this weekend.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/06/2001 11:41:00 AM
I've been recently accused of having gone mad with power.
I've been thinking about the enormous void inside me that I've been
trying to fill with virtual attention.
Maybe it's that I lost my umbrella again
(I really just need to get more than 1 umbrella),
maybe it's the rain that makes me want to cry too.
I'm taking a half day today and will be wandering the rainy gloomy streets of the City aimlessly.
Form of: A Molecule!
Or maybe just crawl home, watch a movie at the local theatre.
Maybe something only I, and not Hugo or anyone else I know, wants to watch.
Self loathing cycle beginning again. I'm tired of this.
I'm sure everyone else is too. Don't read me anymore.
Maybe I should just shut up and quit whining.
Full of desperation and hostility today.
The kind of day that makes me want to go up to Twin Peaks and just howl like a banshee into the wind.
When did I turn into such a bargain girl?
To Hugo, I am a bargain.
Because I allow myself to be.
The energy he expends on maintaining and possessing me is lesser than my worth.
To my lover, I am also a bargain.
Young piece of ass he gets to tap, without the hassles of damage control or any other maintenance.
Even to my potential Master, I am nothing but an object.
I'm a bargain! I'm slashing prices all over the place!
Fuck me! Use me! You don't even have to pay for my dinner!
I'm giving it all up for free.
Then send me home and forget about me!
It's all good!
No. It's not all good.
I did it to myself. I did it to myself. I have only myself to blame.
For all of it. For making my life a big fat mess.
Ugh.
Is it time for therapy?
T: So what is it today? How are you feeling?
DJ: Sad. Depressed. Lonely. Desperate. Hostile. Wretched.
T: That's a lot of negativity to be carrying around. Is there anything you can do to uplift your spirits?
DJ: I don't know. Probably. Kill you for one.
Okay, maybe not therapy today.
I need a pacifier.
I need love.
I need love.
I need some love.
I need some cuddle.
I need a hug.
I need to cum.
I need a little love.
I need a lot of attention.
I need some adoration.
I'm a sucking vortex of need.
Inconsolable and wretched.
Unlovable and undesirable.
Monstrous.
If this were indeed a movie and I were to write the next scene in which
my day, my life would be changed in the next hour,
I would walk outside and bump into a wonderful man who would take
one look at me and silently take my hand, lead me away
to a room where he would brew a strong pot of genmai bancha,
take off my clothes and hand me a silk charmeuse robe and slippers to wear,
burn some nag champa incense, play music for me to sing along to,
jazz and blues standards, some dinah washington, or etta james, or some jobim maybe,
for me to sing along to, hand me the new issue of Shuz magazine,
massage my shoulders and neck, then take out a hairbrush to brush my hair.
Kissing me softly until the tears come flowing out, until I succumb.
Pushing the robe back over my shoulders until I am naked.
Carrying me to a bed to cradle me, kiss me.
Fuck it. This sounds like a goddamm romance novel.
I've fucked up. I don't deserve anything.
I've been thinking about the enormous void inside me that I've been
trying to fill with virtual attention.
Maybe it's that I lost my umbrella again
(I really just need to get more than 1 umbrella),
maybe it's the rain that makes me want to cry too.
I'm taking a half day today and will be wandering the rainy gloomy streets of the City aimlessly.
Form of: A Molecule!
Or maybe just crawl home, watch a movie at the local theatre.
Maybe something only I, and not Hugo or anyone else I know, wants to watch.
Self loathing cycle beginning again. I'm tired of this.
I'm sure everyone else is too. Don't read me anymore.
Maybe I should just shut up and quit whining.
Full of desperation and hostility today.
The kind of day that makes me want to go up to Twin Peaks and just howl like a banshee into the wind.
When did I turn into such a bargain girl?
To Hugo, I am a bargain.
Because I allow myself to be.
The energy he expends on maintaining and possessing me is lesser than my worth.
To my lover, I am also a bargain.
Young piece of ass he gets to tap, without the hassles of damage control or any other maintenance.
Even to my potential Master, I am nothing but an object.
I'm a bargain! I'm slashing prices all over the place!
Fuck me! Use me! You don't even have to pay for my dinner!
I'm giving it all up for free.
Then send me home and forget about me!
It's all good!
No. It's not all good.
I did it to myself. I did it to myself. I have only myself to blame.
For all of it. For making my life a big fat mess.
Ugh.
Is it time for therapy?
T: So what is it today? How are you feeling?
DJ: Sad. Depressed. Lonely. Desperate. Hostile. Wretched.
T: That's a lot of negativity to be carrying around. Is there anything you can do to uplift your spirits?
DJ: I don't know. Probably. Kill you for one.
Okay, maybe not therapy today.
I need a pacifier.
I need love.
I need love.
I need some love.
I need some cuddle.
I need a hug.
I need to cum.
I need a little love.
I need a lot of attention.
I need some adoration.
I'm a sucking vortex of need.
Inconsolable and wretched.
Unlovable and undesirable.
Monstrous.
If this were indeed a movie and I were to write the next scene in which
my day, my life would be changed in the next hour,
I would walk outside and bump into a wonderful man who would take
one look at me and silently take my hand, lead me away
to a room where he would brew a strong pot of genmai bancha,
take off my clothes and hand me a silk charmeuse robe and slippers to wear,
burn some nag champa incense, play music for me to sing along to,
jazz and blues standards, some dinah washington, or etta james, or some jobim maybe,
for me to sing along to, hand me the new issue of Shuz magazine,
massage my shoulders and neck, then take out a hairbrush to brush my hair.
Kissing me softly until the tears come flowing out, until I succumb.
Pushing the robe back over my shoulders until I am naked.
Carrying me to a bed to cradle me, kiss me.
Fuck it. This sounds like a goddamm romance novel.
I've fucked up. I don't deserve anything.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/06/2001 11:20:00 AM
Thursday, April 5
Lavendar and Ether.
If I could somehow mix the 2 together I believe I could create an amazing new scent for women.
Something heady.
Any chemist types out there want to help me out in the lab?
We could be naked under our lab coats.
I'd roll up the long dark hair in a bun, have my glasses on, my goggles too.
We could be very serious, rolling up our sleeves.
Nude beneath the lab coats and goggles.
Black slingback medium kitten heel with a closed toe (no open toed shoes in the lab of course).
Lightheaded and giddy from ether and lavendar.
Slipping hands to skin underneath pristine sterile lab coats.
Fogging up the goggles.
- Are the doors locked? You ask.
I can't answer because my mouth is in use.
Lack of oxygen to my brain forcing me to focus on my task at hand.
Yes, my hand. And my mouth.
Black eyes looking up at you.
Women looking up to men -- a common turn-on.
You like that don't you?
When I watch, your face contorting with pleasure.
And I take your cues, your encouragement, click Apply.
And I shift technique to serve your pleasure, new sensations.
My whole world circling around your shaft.
Texture smooth and wet. You help me to set the rhythm.
Concentrated on your pleasure center.
The glasses come off, yes, the hair comes down.
The lab coats get unbuttoned but not abandoned altogether.
Slingback heels slipping off.
I've gotten to the point where talking with Hugo to "make weekend plans" is a slight chore.
I want to spend time with him, but he never seems that excited to see me.
And never excited in the way he used to be with me.
When I would open the front door and he'd kiss me immediately.
And wouldn't talk to me, just pushing me and pushing me, backing
me into my bedroom, onto the bed, all the time stripping me down,
stripping himself down.
All fired up, firing me up.
And what is it now?
Barely a hug at the door, sometimes none at all, not after even a week apart.
Sometimes he goes straight to my room to change, sometimes he goes straight to my room to fall asleep.
When he wants me lately it is when I am near unconscious with sleep.
When he wants me now he is childish about it, about jumping onto me like an unschooled 14 year old,
humping away at me, wanting to bone.
The voracious kitty is not alive with him.
She is not inspired. She will not wake up.
He won't even kiss her on the mouth.
So lickety split, sir.
Away to a refuge for the kitty.
Away to shower thick passion on a more inspiring individual.
Of whom I am growing dangerously and increasingly fond.
Who loves to feed greedy kitties.
Yes it is possible to separate love from desire.
I believe. Anais believes. Joseph Campbell believes.
Eros, agape, amor.
Amor, amor is what I suppose I have with Hugo,
strictly in the sense of the agony and the suffering.
The suffering unilateral though.
Yes - wouldn't it be nice to have it all wrapped up in a neat package?
Yes - I have a desire, a passion, a lust for knowledge, self-awareness and experience that propels me forward into action.
I sweat the consequences according to the local custom, along the physical layer.
But I'll sweat out that toxin in the heat of another's passionate embrace.
Speaking of sweat, finally a night at Osento in the Mission.
To get naked and hot and wet with other women.
Meditate and chill the fuck out.
Lord knows I need it.
And I will close my eyes, breathing in steam, wishing for a pair of
Big
Warm
Strong
Hands
to work out the tension in my body.
Leaving me prone and limp as a noodle.
If I could somehow mix the 2 together I believe I could create an amazing new scent for women.
Something heady.
Any chemist types out there want to help me out in the lab?
We could be naked under our lab coats.
I'd roll up the long dark hair in a bun, have my glasses on, my goggles too.
We could be very serious, rolling up our sleeves.
Nude beneath the lab coats and goggles.
Black slingback medium kitten heel with a closed toe (no open toed shoes in the lab of course).
Lightheaded and giddy from ether and lavendar.
Slipping hands to skin underneath pristine sterile lab coats.
Fogging up the goggles.
- Are the doors locked? You ask.
I can't answer because my mouth is in use.
Lack of oxygen to my brain forcing me to focus on my task at hand.
Yes, my hand. And my mouth.
Black eyes looking up at you.
Women looking up to men -- a common turn-on.
You like that don't you?
When I watch, your face contorting with pleasure.
And I take your cues, your encouragement, click Apply.
And I shift technique to serve your pleasure, new sensations.
My whole world circling around your shaft.
Texture smooth and wet. You help me to set the rhythm.
Concentrated on your pleasure center.
The glasses come off, yes, the hair comes down.
The lab coats get unbuttoned but not abandoned altogether.
Slingback heels slipping off.
I've gotten to the point where talking with Hugo to "make weekend plans" is a slight chore.
I want to spend time with him, but he never seems that excited to see me.
And never excited in the way he used to be with me.
When I would open the front door and he'd kiss me immediately.
And wouldn't talk to me, just pushing me and pushing me, backing
me into my bedroom, onto the bed, all the time stripping me down,
stripping himself down.
All fired up, firing me up.
And what is it now?
Barely a hug at the door, sometimes none at all, not after even a week apart.
Sometimes he goes straight to my room to change, sometimes he goes straight to my room to fall asleep.
When he wants me lately it is when I am near unconscious with sleep.
When he wants me now he is childish about it, about jumping onto me like an unschooled 14 year old,
humping away at me, wanting to bone.
The voracious kitty is not alive with him.
She is not inspired. She will not wake up.
He won't even kiss her on the mouth.
So lickety split, sir.
Away to a refuge for the kitty.
Away to shower thick passion on a more inspiring individual.
Of whom I am growing dangerously and increasingly fond.
Who loves to feed greedy kitties.
Yes it is possible to separate love from desire.
I believe. Anais believes. Joseph Campbell believes.
Eros, agape, amor.
Amor, amor is what I suppose I have with Hugo,
strictly in the sense of the agony and the suffering.
The suffering unilateral though.
Yes - wouldn't it be nice to have it all wrapped up in a neat package?
Yes - I have a desire, a passion, a lust for knowledge, self-awareness and experience that propels me forward into action.
I sweat the consequences according to the local custom, along the physical layer.
But I'll sweat out that toxin in the heat of another's passionate embrace.
Speaking of sweat, finally a night at Osento in the Mission.
To get naked and hot and wet with other women.
Meditate and chill the fuck out.
Lord knows I need it.
And I will close my eyes, breathing in steam, wishing for a pair of
Big
Warm
Strong
Hands
to work out the tension in my body.
Leaving me prone and limp as a noodle.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/05/2001 01:36:00 PM
Wednesday, April 4
Today I adamantly refuse any self-reflection.
I'm just another curious girl in search of fun and choice packets of information.
As you know, I don't usually include links, but here are 2 I felt compelled to pass along:
Interesting Event
Sex Party - Read the Release Form!
Was sent (for the umpteenth time) the "friendship survey" below, and I have filled it out.
I've sent it to one or two people out there, thank you very much for responding.
See, you know quite a bit about me. But there's not a lot I know about you.
If you wish to, feed the junkie, please? Humor my inner teen?
Copy and Paste questions, send me your answers?
It would be nice to know a little bit more about who I'm talking to.
1.WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT LIVING ARRANGEMENT?
Co-op styles in the Blue House full of cool and mellow
fellows; 3 boys/3 girls; very yin-yang.
2. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW? The early diary of
Anais Nin, Demian by Hermann Hesse (re-reading), Marya
by Joyce Carol Oates
3. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? Blood from my slit
wrists.
4. FAVORITE BOARD GAME? Scrabble
5. FAVORITE MAGAZINE? Details, Maxim, Lucky, Tight
6a. FAVORITE SMELLS? Gardenias, skunky dank, Chanel
Allure for Men, Nag champa
6b. LEAST FAVORITE SMELLS? Puke, Cilantro, patchouli
oil
7. FAVORITE SOUND?
Groans/Moans/Gasps of pleasure, zippers unzipping,
music in the bedroom, laughter in the hall
8. WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD? Self-loathing,
betrayal, neglect, being marginalized, sleeping in a
bed next to someone who doesn't want to touch you,
paranoia that my parents are waiting for me in their
van in my driveway at any given time.
9. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU THINK OF WHEN YOU WAKE
UP IN THE MORNING?
Do I have enough time to ***?
10. FAVORITE COLOR? Red
11. HOW MANY RINGS BEFORE YOU ANSWER THE PHONE? 2
12. FUTURE CHILD'S NAME: Anais, Ramona (I don't know
what else yet)
13. WHAT IS MOST IMPORTANT IN LIFE? Experience,
Passion, Love, Sleep, Pleasure
14. FAVORITE FOODS? Mangoes, Triple Chocolate Hara
Kiri (Souffle, Mousse and Ice cream), Creme Brulee,
Pizza, Sushi, Eggs+Rice+Ketchup, Chicken and Waffles
15. CHOCOLATE OR VANILLA? Chocolate.
There's really nothing good about vanilla unless it's
vanilla Torani in steamed milk.
16. DO YOU LIKE TO DRIVE FAST? Yes.
17. DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL? No, but I do
sleep with 2 5 ft. body pillows which sandwich me.
18. STORMS - COOL OR SCARY? Cool and scary.
19. WHAT TYPE WAS YOUR FIRST CAR? Mercedes Benz 300 SD
20. IF YOU COULD MEET ONE PERSON DEAD OR ALIVE? Anais
Nin
21. FAVORITE ALCOHOLIC DRINK? Raspberry Stoli and 7-up
22. WHAT IS YOUR ZODIAC SIGN? Aquarius
23. DO YOU EAT THE STEMS OF BROCCOLI? No.
24. IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB YOU WANTED, WHAT WOULD
IT BE?
Professional Muse and Dinner-Party Organizer,
Documenter of Life, Gatekeeper of the Universe
25. IF YOU COULD DYE YOUR HAIR ANY COLOR?
Red and Orange and Yellow like the Dark Phoenix that
Dr. Jean Grey turns into in X-men, or a beautiful
green like Miriya Sterling from Robotech.
26. EVER BEEN IN LOVE? Mmmm....Yes
27. IS THIS GLASS HALF EMPTY OR HALF FULL?
I refuse to answer this insipid question.
I am a cynical dreamer.
28. FAVORITE MOVIES? 9.5 weeks
adventures of fong sai yuk
Akira
Barbarella
Belle du Jour
bitter moon
blue velvet
Camille Claudel
children of the lost city
cruel intentions II
cry baby
Damage
desperate living
Dona Flor y Sus Dos Maridos
easy rider
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Firestarter
grease
henry and june
Highlander (first one only)
In the Realm of the Senses
indochine
Kentucky Fried Movie
la femme nikita
leaving las vegas
Macross
madame x
man bites dog
Microcosmos
mommie dearest
moonstruck
my own private idaho
mystic pizza
naked lunch
Nights of Cabiria
of human bondage
Orlando
the best intentions
The Company of Wolves
The Seven Samurai
tokyo decadence
Umbrellas of Cherbourg
valley of the dolls
whatever happened to baby jane?
who's afraid of virginia woolf
wild at heart
wild things
29. DO YOU TYPE WITH YOUR FINGERS ON THE RIGHT KEYS?
Mostly
30. WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED? Nothing.
31. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE NUMBER? 13
32. FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH?
Playground basketball (watching men play shirts vs.
SKINS), Hockey, and High School football.
33. SAY ONE NICE THING ABOUT THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS
TO YOU?
Don't orbit too far from me.
34. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE MUSIC OF THE MOMENT?
Girl Boy Song - Aphex Twin
Everybody Here Wants You - Jeff Buckley
35. IF YOU COULD INVENT A DEVICE TO MAKE YOUR LIFE
BETTER, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
Teleportation device
36. IF YOU COULD KIDNAP SOMEONE AND HYPNOTIZE THEM
INTO BEING YOUR BEST FRIEND, WHO WOULD IT BE?
In order of obsession:
Bjork
Tim Burton
Prince
Johnny Depp
Natalie Portman
Kahimi Karie
Parker Posey
Christina Ricci
37. Favorite Fetish:
SHOES. I'd spend all my money on shoes, if I didn't have a student loan, rent, bills and habits to support.
Do you mind if we don't talk about the other night? I know you want to hear about it, hear what Hugo has said or done. Basically he hasn't said a thing. No evidence of guilt, shame or whatever.
I think he just thinks it's all good, that he's normal. I won't say it's right, or that it's his fault or my fault. I won't play victim here. I know what I'm doing, and how sad and wrong it seems.
I don't want to talk about it or write about it anymore.
I just want the memory to disappear.
I'm just another curious girl in search of fun and choice packets of information.
As you know, I don't usually include links, but here are 2 I felt compelled to pass along:
Interesting Event
Sex Party - Read the Release Form!
Was sent (for the umpteenth time) the "friendship survey" below, and I have filled it out.
I've sent it to one or two people out there, thank you very much for responding.
See, you know quite a bit about me. But there's not a lot I know about you.
If you wish to, feed the junkie, please? Humor my inner teen?
Copy and Paste questions, send me your answers?
It would be nice to know a little bit more about who I'm talking to.
1.WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT LIVING ARRANGEMENT?
Co-op styles in the Blue House full of cool and mellow
fellows; 3 boys/3 girls; very yin-yang.
2. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW? The early diary of
Anais Nin, Demian by Hermann Hesse (re-reading), Marya
by Joyce Carol Oates
3. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? Blood from my slit
wrists.
4. FAVORITE BOARD GAME? Scrabble
5. FAVORITE MAGAZINE? Details, Maxim, Lucky, Tight
6a. FAVORITE SMELLS? Gardenias, skunky dank, Chanel
Allure for Men, Nag champa
6b. LEAST FAVORITE SMELLS? Puke, Cilantro, patchouli
oil
7. FAVORITE SOUND?
Groans/Moans/Gasps of pleasure, zippers unzipping,
music in the bedroom, laughter in the hall
8. WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD? Self-loathing,
betrayal, neglect, being marginalized, sleeping in a
bed next to someone who doesn't want to touch you,
paranoia that my parents are waiting for me in their
van in my driveway at any given time.
9. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU THINK OF WHEN YOU WAKE
UP IN THE MORNING?
Do I have enough time to ***?
10. FAVORITE COLOR? Red
11. HOW MANY RINGS BEFORE YOU ANSWER THE PHONE? 2
12. FUTURE CHILD'S NAME: Anais, Ramona (I don't know
what else yet)
13. WHAT IS MOST IMPORTANT IN LIFE? Experience,
Passion, Love, Sleep, Pleasure
14. FAVORITE FOODS? Mangoes, Triple Chocolate Hara
Kiri (Souffle, Mousse and Ice cream), Creme Brulee,
Pizza, Sushi, Eggs+Rice+Ketchup, Chicken and Waffles
15. CHOCOLATE OR VANILLA? Chocolate.
There's really nothing good about vanilla unless it's
vanilla Torani in steamed milk.
16. DO YOU LIKE TO DRIVE FAST? Yes.
17. DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL? No, but I do
sleep with 2 5 ft. body pillows which sandwich me.
18. STORMS - COOL OR SCARY? Cool and scary.
19. WHAT TYPE WAS YOUR FIRST CAR? Mercedes Benz 300 SD
20. IF YOU COULD MEET ONE PERSON DEAD OR ALIVE? Anais
Nin
21. FAVORITE ALCOHOLIC DRINK? Raspberry Stoli and 7-up
22. WHAT IS YOUR ZODIAC SIGN? Aquarius
23. DO YOU EAT THE STEMS OF BROCCOLI? No.
24. IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB YOU WANTED, WHAT WOULD
IT BE?
Professional Muse and Dinner-Party Organizer,
Documenter of Life, Gatekeeper of the Universe
25. IF YOU COULD DYE YOUR HAIR ANY COLOR?
Red and Orange and Yellow like the Dark Phoenix that
Dr. Jean Grey turns into in X-men, or a beautiful
green like Miriya Sterling from Robotech.
26. EVER BEEN IN LOVE? Mmmm....Yes
27. IS THIS GLASS HALF EMPTY OR HALF FULL?
I refuse to answer this insipid question.
I am a cynical dreamer.
28. FAVORITE MOVIES? 9.5 weeks
adventures of fong sai yuk
Akira
Barbarella
Belle du Jour
bitter moon
blue velvet
Camille Claudel
children of the lost city
cruel intentions II
cry baby
Damage
desperate living
Dona Flor y Sus Dos Maridos
easy rider
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Firestarter
grease
henry and june
Highlander (first one only)
In the Realm of the Senses
indochine
Kentucky Fried Movie
la femme nikita
leaving las vegas
Macross
madame x
man bites dog
Microcosmos
mommie dearest
moonstruck
my own private idaho
mystic pizza
naked lunch
Nights of Cabiria
of human bondage
Orlando
the best intentions
The Company of Wolves
The Seven Samurai
tokyo decadence
Umbrellas of Cherbourg
valley of the dolls
whatever happened to baby jane?
who's afraid of virginia woolf
wild at heart
wild things
29. DO YOU TYPE WITH YOUR FINGERS ON THE RIGHT KEYS?
Mostly
30. WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED? Nothing.
31. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE NUMBER? 13
32. FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH?
Playground basketball (watching men play shirts vs.
SKINS), Hockey, and High School football.
33. SAY ONE NICE THING ABOUT THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS
TO YOU?
Don't orbit too far from me.
34. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE MUSIC OF THE MOMENT?
Girl Boy Song - Aphex Twin
Everybody Here Wants You - Jeff Buckley
35. IF YOU COULD INVENT A DEVICE TO MAKE YOUR LIFE
BETTER, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
Teleportation device
36. IF YOU COULD KIDNAP SOMEONE AND HYPNOTIZE THEM
INTO BEING YOUR BEST FRIEND, WHO WOULD IT BE?
In order of obsession:
Bjork
Tim Burton
Prince
Johnny Depp
Natalie Portman
Kahimi Karie
Parker Posey
Christina Ricci
37. Favorite Fetish:
SHOES. I'd spend all my money on shoes, if I didn't have a student loan, rent, bills and habits to support.
Do you mind if we don't talk about the other night? I know you want to hear about it, hear what Hugo has said or done. Basically he hasn't said a thing. No evidence of guilt, shame or whatever.
I think he just thinks it's all good, that he's normal. I won't say it's right, or that it's his fault or my fault. I won't play victim here. I know what I'm doing, and how sad and wrong it seems.
I don't want to talk about it or write about it anymore.
I just want the memory to disappear.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/04/2001 03:50:00 PM
Tuesday, April 3
Do you want to know about last night?
It's humiliating in a way.
Last night.
Locked again in my room, furiously stroking away my frustration.
Hugo outside in the living room with other boys, engaged in Az v Duke.
I hear him yelling, "Oh my God! He was so wide open!"
Hearing that, ensconced in my room.
Thought wryly of what was "wide open" in here.
Post cum I sleep. Awake to the cheers @ Duke's victory.
I surface. I am quiet. He is jubilant. I get something to eat.
He senses that I am in a "mood", contemplates me for a moment, and immediately goes into his
"dealing with me" mechanism.
Autobots transform and roll out.
- I'm going to go read then, he says.
He goes into my room.
I finish eating and follow him. Take Anais out for a bit. We are reading side by side in my bed, not really touching.
My eyes tire and I stop reading. He puts his arm out so I can crawl into its crook. He reads.
My gaze cuts across him to fixate on the candle, and I am absorbed in a million thoughts he will never know.
Because he will never ask what I am thinking.
Because he has stopped caring?
Wanting to sleep I roll over to hug my pillow, face the wall.
Late at night I am asleep and I feel him rolled over to spoon me,
his erection rubbing against my ass.
He is kissing my shoulder.
I refuse to wake up.
He is probing me for wetness with his fingers.
I am getting wet.
Eventually. I can't help it.
But I refuse to wake up.
Not unless he kisses the kitty.
But I know he won't.
He gets up over me, spreads me.
Part of me can't believe that he's doing this,
not while I'm asleep.
But he is.
Strokes away as I am getting wetter.
Arranges my limbs to his desire.
I just want it to be done with so I turn on the pussy control.
A few minutes later I feel the pulse.
And the wetness spilling out of me.
I roll over to hug my pillow again, falling back into a deep sleep.
This morning I do not let on that I remember.
I am curious to see how he deals with this within himself.
It's humiliating in a way.
Last night.
Locked again in my room, furiously stroking away my frustration.
Hugo outside in the living room with other boys, engaged in Az v Duke.
I hear him yelling, "Oh my God! He was so wide open!"
Hearing that, ensconced in my room.
Thought wryly of what was "wide open" in here.
Post cum I sleep. Awake to the cheers @ Duke's victory.
I surface. I am quiet. He is jubilant. I get something to eat.
He senses that I am in a "mood", contemplates me for a moment, and immediately goes into his
"dealing with me" mechanism.
Autobots transform and roll out.
- I'm going to go read then, he says.
He goes into my room.
I finish eating and follow him. Take Anais out for a bit. We are reading side by side in my bed, not really touching.
My eyes tire and I stop reading. He puts his arm out so I can crawl into its crook. He reads.
My gaze cuts across him to fixate on the candle, and I am absorbed in a million thoughts he will never know.
Because he will never ask what I am thinking.
Because he has stopped caring?
Wanting to sleep I roll over to hug my pillow, face the wall.
Late at night I am asleep and I feel him rolled over to spoon me,
his erection rubbing against my ass.
He is kissing my shoulder.
I refuse to wake up.
He is probing me for wetness with his fingers.
I am getting wet.
Eventually. I can't help it.
But I refuse to wake up.
Not unless he kisses the kitty.
But I know he won't.
He gets up over me, spreads me.
Part of me can't believe that he's doing this,
not while I'm asleep.
But he is.
Strokes away as I am getting wetter.
Arranges my limbs to his desire.
I just want it to be done with so I turn on the pussy control.
A few minutes later I feel the pulse.
And the wetness spilling out of me.
I roll over to hug my pillow again, falling back into a deep sleep.
This morning I do not let on that I remember.
I am curious to see how he deals with this within himself.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/03/2001 02:44:00 PM
I just want the sweetest longest most thrilling cum.
- Dites-moi pourquoi tu aimes sucer mon baton, mon amant m'a dit.
- J'aime te sucer parce que j'aime ton baton et j'aime aussi le sucer, je lui ai repondu.
I want.
A strong pair of arms to lift me onto a rock hard solid cock, a strong enough erection
that I can be carried around, impaled, without even having to hang on.
- Dites-moi pourquoi tu aimes sucer mon baton, mon amant m'a dit.
- J'aime te sucer parce que j'aime ton baton et j'aime aussi le sucer, je lui ai repondu.
I want.
A strong pair of arms to lift me onto a rock hard solid cock, a strong enough erection
that I can be carried around, impaled, without even having to hang on.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/03/2001 02:11:00 PM
Monday, April 2
This weekend was good for me.
The sunshine, the breeze, the blue skies, the smoothed out clouds.
Sunday afternoon alone in my bed, napping after a languid self-induced cum.
I was also offline all weekend long, thanks to Northpoint/Telocity.
I was jonesing for choice packets, but actually it was good to give my hands and eyes a rest.
My recent despair lately has me running back to the Anais Nin diaries.
Looking for guidance, for absolution in her bible of multiplicity.
>
May 15 1919
It's a little difficult to explain what I have been thinking about the last few days.
I have been living in a strange world, in an attack of reverie, with a change in my character which astonishes me a little.
This is the result of the long hours that I spend alone thinking, I suppose.
I couldn't write because when I tried to discover what I was dreaming about,
I found only a bottomless chasm the depths of which I couldn't sound.
Last night it was hot and I was leaning on the sill of the open window in the living room. Then my imagination got the better of me. A single idea had taken possession of my dreams, a thing I had never, never thought of, an emptiness that I had never felt. I was alone and something was missing. It wasn't the love of my mother, my brothers or the rest of my family; I knew that I wanted someone very strong, very powerful, very handsome who would me and whom I could love with all my heart. It is an image or an idol that my dreams have created and that I am searching for in mortal form. Does he exist? And there, under the starry sky, the smiling moon, face to face with a horizon that doesn't go further than the end of the street, with my head in my hands, I sent a very sad prayer into infinite space: Love me, someone!
I don't understand it all. I had never been aware of that immense empty space that can only be filled by a Shadow that my mind has created, that my dreams have given a soul.
Then, with a calm smile, thinking no doubt of all the novels I have read, I took a large armchair and set it very close to my chair, and looking into the eyes of the one that my imagination placed there, I talked with him.
>
The past week filled with in-the-moment moments, of showers of exploding stars,
sparklers in my synapse, deep relaxed breathing,
wonderful moments of springtime selfishness.
I have a hard time holding on to those moments though.
They seem to evaporate like streaming media.
Lately I have felt my age. A vulnerability and confusion of youth. Always in identity crisis.
My mature, sophisticated, cynical grip slipping a little. Plagued too much by self-examination.
Discussing something totally unrelated with Hugo, he himself says to me:
"You've got to choose whether or not you care about something, instead of spending all this time
and emotion struggling as to whether or not you should care."
Heavy and meaningful words to me, piercing through.
He has no clue.
In his arms again though, I am loved and warm.
I do not feel sexy or desirable.
But I do not feel unattractive or
not good enough either.
I am just me, not even all of me, and for him that is enough.
Fuckable does not always mean beautiful.
And sometimes the arrangement of my features in my reflection looks distorted to me.
When I am walking by in a storefront window, hand in hand with Hugo,
I am not the same woman.
I am transformed into a domesticated creature,
some kind of wife-like thing,
always in mute acquiescience,
carefully navigating Hugo's temper.
Now more than ever seeking to preserve these precious halycon days of spring.
How long will this good weather last?
Before it starts to thunder again?
It is my energy, my desire, the action potential that's been building inside me in that secret place,
the box where the freak has been resting, been dormant, been waiting, been imprisoned; therein lies the fuel that allows me to live out this dual world.
FOR MADMEN ONLY.
My most fervent wish of the moment:
To escape to New York or Canada,
either immerse myself in the City
or seclude myself on a farm.
Cry for a whole day.
Drink mushroom tea.
Induce cathartic brain enema.
Pick flowers. Drink coffee. Sing.
Write write write write write.
2 weeks sounds good.
2 weeks to cleanse and strengthen.
To unburden and recharge.
To write and write all the live long day.
Find a lover or two or three.
Play naked.
Smile again, freely and all the time.
Indulge all my personalities.
Give all the girls a turn.
How can I make this a reality?
I get scared here you see.
I've been struggling to emerge from this coccoon for awhile.
But everytime I feel like I've eaten a little more of the exoskeleton away,
I feel the cold new air on my wet and naked shoulders
and I want to squirm back inside, to hide again, gestating and unready.
The sunshine, the breeze, the blue skies, the smoothed out clouds.
Sunday afternoon alone in my bed, napping after a languid self-induced cum.
I was also offline all weekend long, thanks to Northpoint/Telocity.
I was jonesing for choice packets, but actually it was good to give my hands and eyes a rest.
My recent despair lately has me running back to the Anais Nin diaries.
Looking for guidance, for absolution in her bible of multiplicity.
>
May 15 1919
It's a little difficult to explain what I have been thinking about the last few days.
I have been living in a strange world, in an attack of reverie, with a change in my character which astonishes me a little.
This is the result of the long hours that I spend alone thinking, I suppose.
I couldn't write because when I tried to discover what I was dreaming about,
I found only a bottomless chasm the depths of which I couldn't sound.
Last night it was hot and I was leaning on the sill of the open window in the living room. Then my imagination got the better of me. A single idea had taken possession of my dreams, a thing I had never, never thought of, an emptiness that I had never felt. I was alone and something was missing. It wasn't the love of my mother, my brothers or the rest of my family; I knew that I wanted someone very strong, very powerful, very handsome who would me and whom I could love with all my heart. It is an image or an idol that my dreams have created and that I am searching for in mortal form. Does he exist? And there, under the starry sky, the smiling moon, face to face with a horizon that doesn't go further than the end of the street, with my head in my hands, I sent a very sad prayer into infinite space: Love me, someone!
I don't understand it all. I had never been aware of that immense empty space that can only be filled by a Shadow that my mind has created, that my dreams have given a soul.
Then, with a calm smile, thinking no doubt of all the novels I have read, I took a large armchair and set it very close to my chair, and looking into the eyes of the one that my imagination placed there, I talked with him.
>
The past week filled with in-the-moment moments, of showers of exploding stars,
sparklers in my synapse, deep relaxed breathing,
wonderful moments of springtime selfishness.
I have a hard time holding on to those moments though.
They seem to evaporate like streaming media.
Lately I have felt my age. A vulnerability and confusion of youth. Always in identity crisis.
My mature, sophisticated, cynical grip slipping a little. Plagued too much by self-examination.
Discussing something totally unrelated with Hugo, he himself says to me:
"You've got to choose whether or not you care about something, instead of spending all this time
and emotion struggling as to whether or not you should care."
Heavy and meaningful words to me, piercing through.
He has no clue.
In his arms again though, I am loved and warm.
I do not feel sexy or desirable.
But I do not feel unattractive or
not good enough either.
I am just me, not even all of me, and for him that is enough.
Fuckable does not always mean beautiful.
And sometimes the arrangement of my features in my reflection looks distorted to me.
When I am walking by in a storefront window, hand in hand with Hugo,
I am not the same woman.
I am transformed into a domesticated creature,
some kind of wife-like thing,
always in mute acquiescience,
carefully navigating Hugo's temper.
Now more than ever seeking to preserve these precious halycon days of spring.
How long will this good weather last?
Before it starts to thunder again?
It is my energy, my desire, the action potential that's been building inside me in that secret place,
the box where the freak has been resting, been dormant, been waiting, been imprisoned; therein lies the fuel that allows me to live out this dual world.
FOR MADMEN ONLY.
My most fervent wish of the moment:
To escape to New York or Canada,
either immerse myself in the City
or seclude myself on a farm.
Cry for a whole day.
Drink mushroom tea.
Induce cathartic brain enema.
Pick flowers. Drink coffee. Sing.
Write write write write write.
2 weeks sounds good.
2 weeks to cleanse and strengthen.
To unburden and recharge.
To write and write all the live long day.
Find a lover or two or three.
Play naked.
Smile again, freely and all the time.
Indulge all my personalities.
Give all the girls a turn.
How can I make this a reality?
I get scared here you see.
I've been struggling to emerge from this coccoon for awhile.
But everytime I feel like I've eaten a little more of the exoskeleton away,
I feel the cold new air on my wet and naked shoulders
and I want to squirm back inside, to hide again, gestating and unready.
posted by DopamineJunkie at
4/02/2001 11:43:00 AM
About Me
- Name: DopamineJunkie
- Location: Los Angeles, California, United States
Links
Previous Posts
- Perhaps I should say, that I won't take any "unfam...
- It's been awhile hasn't it? I was overdosed on sel...
- Situation defused, handled. No stalkers allowed. T...
- Dope J makes this request only once. No stalkers o...
- Even more bait? Not sure... 8pt agenda on a conti...
- More bait for Dope J just wanna be a teen girl ag...
- Dopamine Junkie’s recipe for the blues, which des...
- Don't know what's up with Blogger but yes, I am st...
- it’s late and it’s quiet in my house. i just confe...
- friday morning has such a wonderful ring to it. Hu...
Archives
