it's too damn hot to be cooking soup in the kitchen.
i'll try to prepare a gazpacho or maybe a vichyssoise. . . .
soo busy. soo hot. kind of hectic and cranky.

last night a boy came to my house to steal me away in the night.
he did sex to me in the hotness of the night.
luckily there was ice in the freezer.

ok. that's all for now. . .be back tomorrow. . .stay cool.

Damn it's gorgeous outside.
If I had some acid I would take it right now.
Fuck werk and traipse perma-grinned into the City.

Bare calves, bare arms, bare shoulders.
Cute derrieres.
Watching is a pleasure behing my shades as I walk by.
Bam. Bam! Bam!
Mm. Hips swaying.

Sunshine and balmy weather.
Moisturized skin.
A day yet without mistake or heartache.
And I shall try to keep it so.

What girl am I?
What woman?
What child?

Who prefers to be near beauty than be the object of it.
Who prefers to retreat to entice pursuit.
Who prefers to hope recklessly instead of healing.

My heart has a sense of it's own.
Vibrating within me with singing intensity.
New blood is pumping out the old blood.

Another choice packet from Hugo.
From last night's thoughts of him
he gains a new dimension, does he not?
As do I, perhaps.

His thoughts are kind and fond and missing.
His thoughts are not in close proximity.
He has been left behind on the grid.

I've been playing again on CL.
I couldn't help myself.
I was just inspired.
It was late last night when I couldn't sleep.
See if you can find me!

Tadpoles is a winner!

late and later still.
pain in my tum.
pain in my head.
pain in my heart.
palpable.

here alone at night
i am whispering to myself
wishing for kindness
but feeling I deserve none.

can't sleep
but I need to
another long day
of another busy week

so I sought out cum
in the form of a story and my euro porn mags
with the smiling european girls getting dp'd.

"are you here because you need someone? or are you here because you need me?"

yeah no one seems to have a clear idea of what they want or need.
no one seems to have a clear idea of how much they're willing
to spend in time and effort.

Everyone looking out for their ROI.
How can you measure results?

Quantitative? Qualitative?
What might we do, to provide you
with more effective, innovative, efficient service?
Your business is important to us, esp.
in this soft market.

Fucking Paul Westerberg.
Always making me cry.
"If being afraid is a crime, we hang side by side/at the swingin' party down the line."
- Paul in the Replacements, Swinging Party

And when I start in on the Replacements, all the emo rock CDs come out.
Morphine, Toad, Yo La Tengo,
Freedy Johnston, Matthew Sweet, Sting's Soul Cages, more Morphine.

SOMETHING REALLY AWFUL HAPPENED.

I think my mini disc player is brokeded.
The mini disc player and my blog are the most
priceless things I own.
I'm devastated. I don't know if it would
be worth it to dig up the warranty, it's been almost a year.
Or has it been over a year?

In any case I am more depressed.
And now it's 1.47 a.m. and I am nauseous and depressed.
Broken.
One more bowl and a tylenol p.m.
And maybe I'll be able to sleep.

Tuesday evening

My blood sugar is low because I haven't eaten since my cup of oatmeal this morning.
I just ate 2 slices of processed cheese and had a glass of cranberry juice.
Mayhap the dizzy feeling will go away.

I've got to shut down. My head is hurting and my heart is raw from hoping.
I don't want to feel pain anymore.
I don't want to let anyone see me crying.
I don't want to offer my hand in trust and be crushed by the rejection.

My little world, I should leave it be.
Not a moment's peace in the midst of chaos.
Alls I wants is sanctuary for my little self.

* * *
A few hours later and I feel my age.
My body is tired, of the reaching and the yearning
and the bending and the yielding.

Actual physical pains punctuate the aches inside me.
I look out a window into darkness.
The house is silent.
I’m alone.
I can’t sleep tonight.

My inner light is dim tonight.
I feel weakened as if after a bloodletting.

Something inside me is so sleepy and needs to rest.
Something inside me is so restless and anxious.
I hurt inside. Fuck.

Just as I begin to wish for unconsciousness
a new Force is asserted within me;
one of my most cherished allies, my Rage.
If I am Chaos in another world, by my side lay my weapons, my pets;
Glorious, Imperious, Righteous Rage.
Supple, Tender, Wicked Vulnerability.

Do I need to be enslaved?
Wasn’t I just liberated from a slavish holding pattern?
What does it mean about my psychology
that I would allow myself, my small proud head,
to bow in submission?
What does it mean that I accept cruelty and pain?
Emotional, physical.

Once. The period after Hugo had first broken my heart.
My shields were new, and strong.
The girl who loves went to sleep.
and my Dark Angel awoke to sing her first siren song.
The heartbreak awoke the Predator in me.
After a time he became jealous.
After a time he wanted to see me again.
So I let him.
I was beautiful and sexy and cold.
I sympathized with him in regards to his
poor sex life with his girlfriend.
Who was his ex-girlfriend.
Who he broke up with initially to date me.

He was incited I could see.
He wanted into the goods.
Into my head. Into my bed.
And we got really drunk that night.
He took me home.

He started to kiss me but I didn’t want him
after what he did to me.
But I was broken already.
I did what he wanted, not feeling anything.
He used me several ways.
Tore my bra, my clothes, smothered my mouth.
He wasn’t wearing a condom.
I wasn’t on the pill.
He knew it too.
I just couldn’t fight him.
It was just easier to lie there and stare at the ceiling.
And think I was above this.
That I was winning somehow, with my soiled virtue
and the evidence of his cruelty, his brutal lust,
perhaps he would hate himself.
As I hated him.

He didn’t sleep with me that night.
He went home to her.
I slept alone.

The next morning I had to ask my housemate
for a ride up to the Health Center.
She asked why.
I told her I had to get a morning after pill.
She hugged me and I cried.
Big fucking surprise.

I came back to my room,
which was still trashed from the night before.
In my full length mirror I took off my clothes
to look at my naked body.
When did I decide it was alright to sacrifice myself
for a man’s pleasure?
On my chest, my breasts, around my nipples and my neck,
dark purple bruises where his hands gripped me,
the tenderness on my nipples where he bit down on me hard.
Dark purple bruises on my breasts where he bit me through to break skin.

My body despite the marks, was at it’s most beautiful, I think.
I had my roommate take photos of my mauled tits.
To remind me. Of what he was capable of.
Of what I am capable of.

* * * *

I thought it was a triumph. I knew it was empty.
But I also knew that in the way he was ruthlessly fucking me,
he wanted to get at something deep inside me,
a sweet honey basted heart that would never touch his lips again.

How quickly can men be inspired to cruelty, to violence.
How easily a woman swallows it.

* * * *

Have I ever feared for my safety?
Yes.

Do I still?
Yes.

From whom?
One who would aim to make me doubt the extension of my trust.

What will I do?
No choice but to play it out now.
Men will be cruel if that is their intention.

* * * *

I am doing my best to stoke the chaos I suppose.
More thunderous crescendo.
I’m delerious.
My inner laughter is depressed, catatonic, maniacal.

I want to paint my face with lipstick and kiss myself in the mirror.
I want a tiny animal a chinchilla or something, whose head I can fit
into my open mouth and then slowly bite down on, just a little bit.

Passing out now.

Now overcast days never turned me on . . . but something about the clouds and her mixed . . .
- Prince, Raspberry Beret

Monday evening

The Blue House is full of people.
One of those call-your-friends-over organically grown parties.
Full of stoner boys.

Alone in my room, alone for the first time this weekend.
Glad to be alone again.
Unapologetically catatonic.

Patience, patience, someone out there is patient . . .
older men understand the fullness of time,
can wait for a wine to age, and a girl to come around.

Maddening patience, breaking down my resistance.
Intuition perhaps, that I want to yield?
Just need time to strip off all my armor.
It’s heavy and thick like a mood.
The patient man, he waited, enduring and affectionate,
even in my silence.
He understands the silence is something I cannot control,
the introspection that comes over me like a wave,
triggered by a memory, an object, a cloud.
Systematic patience; borne from a knowledge, experience,
that the desires of women can change in a heartbeat.

May I tell you about Friday? I did not go to work that day.
I had not seen the Connoisseur in almost 2 weeks, except
for dinner or lunch hours.

Therefore we both savored the thought over the waiting;
he thought of Devouring. I thought of being Devoured.

Early Friday morning and I took my time and dressed with care.
Small black t-shirt, dark blue mini in a schoolgirl style,
badass red coat, black fishnets, platform Mary Janes.

When I arrived at his doorstep my heart was racing, but
I wanted to keep my composure.

He was eating an apple, opened the door.
The heat of his gaze followed me inside,
where I set down my things.

His artist’s eye always watching me.
For a few preliminary moments we chat
about getting breakfast.

But I know we should get something out of the way first.
His first kiss on my cheek like a kind uncle.
His hair is wet still from a shower.
But as I sit he bends his head to mine for a soft kiss.
The heat of his mouth betrays what he is leashing.
Hot tongue delving slowly to penetrate me.


Without further prevarication I abandon myself to
the delicious inevitable.

His kisses are insistent and focused and hot.
This is what I want.
Fever.

Without warning he has me stand with my hands against the wall, bent over.
This is something new.
Something I did not expect.
And how I delight in the unexpected.

He yanks down the fishnets and flips up the little skirt.
Exposing me.
Hands caressing my hip, my ass.

Then, the woosh of the belt through the loops.
What is happening to my gentle and fucking Connoisseur?
Then I understand.
I am to be punished for making him wait, for putting him off.

He whispers into my ear, I missed you.
This admission in itself sends me thrilling.

This is what I want.
Discipline, punishment, accountability.
To be missed. To be desired.

The lesson: Retribution
The voice, thick: This is for making me wait.
The instruments of discipline: a weathered leather belt to start.
Later, wrist restraints while I am on my back, on the bed.

It has been so long since I have been punished, been
given a place to atone for the things I have done.
That this was to be given to me by the gentle
hand of the Connoisseur, who is usually so caressing
and tender with me, made my submission all the more . . .
delightful.

Because I trust him. Because no matter how much
I try to remain detached, he floods me with
patience, tenderness, caring, affection, friendship.

His belt is cracking smartly against my thighs, my ass.
The leather belt so totemic of my childhood.
Papa or Mama looming over me.
Me facedown on the bed, or facing the wall, with my
pants and panties pulled down to expose my tender young ass.
Their question: How many? And how many next time?
Asking me to set my own punishment.

Hands flat, up against the wall, bent at the waist to present my ass
to best advantage, the old stubbornness, the fear, the pride of a defiant
eleven year old girl awakes from a dormancy.
Sense memory recalled, from this posture,
from this tension, awaiting
the next blow.

I’m ready to be punished.
I know it will hurt me physically.
I know if I relax at the moment of contact, it won’t hurt as much.

The first blows - the Connoisseur is testing my limits, and his own, perhaps.
Slapping, smarting little licks of leather tongues against my inner thighs, my ass.
I am prepared for more. I can take more.
My ass writhing and wiggling to let this be known.
His hands caress my ass, feeling my slit for wetness.

- Not wet enough. he says.

His hand grabs my ass, smacks it, and the leather tongues come slapping.
across my thighs, my ass, a little harder, and from behind he lifts me by the hips
to expose my vulva for more spanks.

My asscheeks are hot and smarting, my pussy is wet.
I am gasping and tense, ready for more.

Ah but to punish the masochist, just the taste of pain to gain acquiescence,
submission, and when I am wanting more . . .

He grabs me by the ponytails to pull my head around,
pushing my head down to suck his cock.
And I am not in control.
He does not flinch or let up when I gag a little,
or the tears start a little in the corners of my eye.

Later he says to me: Beware the fury of a patient man.

Later, that is, after. After I have been securely bound by the wrists
and am chewing on the leather of his belt to stifle my noise.

******

Dopamine Junkie is a moody girl.

What I seek still, forever, is the cosmic union,
the intermingling of spirit and energy on the grid.
Stronger than sexual obsession,
longer lasting than an ephemeral cum.

I become still, quiet, pensive because my mind is heavy with thoughts.
Also in the dynamic, I become quiet to draw the energy from the Other.
I lower my voice, my eyes, my head in submission to gauge the intensity
of the man who believes he can hang.

Waiting for a telepathic phone call with my back arched and breath held, eyes closed.
The voice on the other line, clear and static free:

- I know what you want.

In response I want to manifest all that is female sexuality –
gentleness, lioness, alluring, seductive, yielding, intoxicating and Strong.
At 24 I believed myself at the height of my sexual powers.
I was heartbroken (by Hugo).
Emotionally unavailable.
Tight.
Ripe.
Hot.
but Cold inside.
Eyes like reflecting mirrors, a trick to make you
believe that there was something there.
Awaiting lovers in my home, receiving callers and suitors.
Smooth, perfumed and ready.
I was aware of my effect, but had no clue
how to use the power for good instead of evil.

A few long years later and here I am again, a new creature this time.
Wanting to be good, wanting to give,
wanting to be given, wanting to please and be pleased.

I feel I am watching in a detached fashion, as intimacy between strangers
cultivates. I am one of the strangers.

So easy at first to give in to that sexual desire between men and women.
After the fucking and the sucking; free to hold on to each other, as if
the physical familiarity was as good as comfort.
But no talk of comfort, hope, future and esp. not the L-word, allowed.
Verboten.
Interdit.

Because comfort is easy, isn’t it?
We search for the familiar within the new relationships.
Seeking to achieve in a fast food kind of way
something ‘comfortable’.
The same kind of ‘comfortable’ I had with Hugo.
Comfort because there is no talk of feelings.

But at least there is no pretense of substance between lovers.
Companionship. Fucking. Cuddle, and if you’re lucky – Friendship.
All sugary and light and airy and as unfulfilling as an angel food cake.

And the new twist, a trick I play on myself, achieving this tenderness.

But you see the anhedonia is out, the very word, the concept lodging itself
in my synapse, preventing me from getting my cum.

And so I need something deeper, an extra twist, to get off.
Something tangible, a little frightening, thrilling.

Pain, a sensation I can’t sidestep or squirm my way out of.
For months, the pain, the fear of pain, that pain in my heart has been
so sublimated I have felt only a dull, numb ache. Comfortably numb.

This dulling of my senses has affected me sexually also, I think.
Leaving me with a longing to be bound, stripped down, and
punished until I start to cum true.

I’ve become too practiced in my pretense, even in sex.
The cum is not even the goal anymore.
Only the use of my body.
Being the drug.
Being rolled up
and smoked.
Only for the scent that overtakes me for those brief moments
where I am transported to the ether world.

I can barely even cry.
My control is so tight, the shields and guards
and armaments so massive and effective,
I can’t even gain access to my inner self anymore.
She’s retreated I suppose and doesn’t want to be found.
I can’t say I blame her.

Oh but it is she that I miss, the one who falls in love,
whose heart overflows
with tenderness, generosity, sensitivity.
That girl – the one who loves.
She sleeps again, leaving me here alone to keep time moving along,
to create a new world for her to wake up to.

******
Evaluation of time spent with the Pyromaniac this weekend.
1) He beat me at Scrabble.
2) What does it take to unlock his sweetness?
3) Is he a friend, a lover, or a student? Do I want him as all 3?
4) Just what the hell does he think of me anyway?
Like I'm some kind of brainless dick-whipped fuck bitch?
Wrong girl.
5) I'm mad because he struck at one of my most
volatile touchpoints. I'm hoping the anger will dissipate by morning.
6) I think we have fun times in san francisco hanging out together.
it would be kind of lame if we couldn't anymore.

*******
I enjoyed a fullness of time that I haven't in a while, this weekend.
Oh xyxyxyxyxyxyxy. . . .time for bed, alone.

I won't ask if you missed me. Because I don't believe anymore that you exist.

(Saturday morning fresh and hot)

[The character Dopamine Junkie is alone in the house on a Saturday afternoon.
She is hiding. Laundry spinning in the dryer.
Freshly washed, freshly stony, watching Chungking Express on Bravo.
#1 Pet Peeve = Waiting for Boys on a continuous loop in her mind.
Half a muscle relaxer to relax the aching muscles. She is writing.]

[I have recently redefined my long-term goal to be a multi-media content goddess
by the time I am 35 (which gives me 9 years), I am now shopping for a host and a domain.
It's my one of my numerous creative "projects" for the summer.]

On the other side of Love, Art.
on the other side of this dynamic vicissitude is a frozen image.
Where I am alone, a still spirit, catatonic, with tears ceaselessly flowing,
wings aching and exhausted from the flight, limbs tender and unsure,
the pain of metamorphosis, the pain of living.

In this space the ugly thoughts get trapped in the flypaper. . . .
Dopamine Junkie is a character. Dopamine Junkie is a doppelganger.
Dopamine Junkie is a complementary personality, born of a necessary duplicity.
But it’s just me now.

Strange to face the world alone instead of hand in hand with someone else.
Strange to lack that pillar of strength and stability that was Hugo.
Strange to cry and feel nothing but wetness on my cheeks.

When the ache starts, I fill my time pie.
Must stay in motion. Stop only to chronicle, to sleep and to smoke.

Stepping careful and cautious into new friendships, new relations
Cautious about my weaknesses, my habits, my proclivities.
Cautious about being too hard on myself.

Ugly thoughts this morning:
You’re like a prostitute who never gets paid.

Something hard and unyielding, rigid disciplinarian
Sunday School teacher within,
debasing myself. Erasing myself.

What do I get out of relationships with lovers?
Some fuck for money.
Some fuck for drugs.
Some fuck for free dinners.

I just fuck for sex.
For synergy.
For release.

But it’s hard to snap out of this mindset of anhedonia.
It’s hard to remember how to truly, truly experience pleasure.
Gratification for my own sake.
Without it being caught up, in another pleasure I have confused it with for so long.
Satisfying someone else.

It started with Hugo, and carries on to my new lovers.
Am I satisfying their fantasies? Am I responding appropriately?
Do I look alright?
Is this complex enough to make you believe that I am really here,
here for you, to become the woman you want, the woman you desire?

In the snuggle afterwards, this is where I find any real satisfaction.
The work ethic satiated, a job well done.
He came.
Never mind if I didn’t. Or at least he thought I did.

My hunger to please, stronger than my hunger for pleasure.
Desire, that state of uneasiness, of pleasure longed for, unfulfilled.

******
Boys of My Life. Boys of My Life.
******
Ex-Boy, when he was young and unsculpted, awkward but eager,
wrote me a letter, a snippet of which
I carry with me in my heart:

You needed a place where you could escape, where you could rest.
And me, I’ve been lugging around all this empty space.
I want you to fill it, take whatever you need of me.

This is why our journeys will always be entwined.
Like a train station locker in Amsterdam
I’ll always come back for my stuff.

******
non sequitur
******

I don't speak very often about the last True Love I had.
The First One, the Boy who stole my heart, my dreams,
my imagination, and my virginity.

My most literary lover.
Our conversations are filled with obscure references to
inside jokes, great cinema,
great literature, great comedy,
and to the emo-rock/j pop era of the 90s.

Sample of our conversation:

I am the character FirstLoveMe, and we shall call him CherryPopper.

FirstLoveMe: you're there aren't you cheese?
FirstLoveMe: are you? appears you are.
CherryPopper: Cheese can't write an instant message.
FirstLoveMe: cheese must abhor the instant message medium
CherryPopper: It's far from cheese's forte.
FirstLoveMe: i just got home
CherryPopper: I just sent you an e-mail.
FirstLoveMe: i haven't checked yet
CherryPopper: No hard feelings.
FirstLoveMe: when you lived out here, did you ever hear of/go to a place called asia sf?
CherryPopper: No. It sound a little suspicious.
FirstLoveMe: asian transvestites lip-syncing at a bar/tapas asian fusion place.
CherryPopper: My instincts were again reliable.
FirstLoveMe: i have a few friends, including those of the ambiguous
persuasion, who work there.
CherryPopper: I bet you do.
FirstLoveMe: beautiful wo/men
CherryPopper: Chicks with dicks?
FirstLoveMe: yes
FirstLoveMe: and mad titty
CherryPopper: Styrofoam packing material?
CherryPopper: Corrugated cardboard?
CherryPopper: Double-sided packing tape?
FirstLoveMe: not quite as tittilating.
FirstLoveMe: wait does that have 2 t's?
FirstLoveMe: or 3?
CherryPopper: The former.
CherryPopper: No, sorry, the latter.
FirstLoveMe: okay smartypants: what's the difference
between a plebian and a proletarian?
CherryPopper: Titilating.
FirstLoveMe: nooo
FirstLoveMe: 3 t's then
CherryPopper: Do you mean a "plebeian"?
FirstLoveMe: oh stop
FirstLoveMe: you're not my writing tutor
CherryPopper: I think they are relatively similar in meaning,
but different in connotation.
CherryPopper: You should be so lucky.
FirstLoveMe: i don't need a writing tutor.
FirstLoveMe: aol instant messenger. last bastion of what?
CherryPopper: That's what they all think before I tutor them.
FirstLoveMe: mmhmm.
CherryPopper: Last bastion of bastardization.
FirstLoveMe: so what's an attached guy like you
doing in cyberspace at this hour of the night?
CherryPopper: Well, avoiding bedtime.
FirstLoveMe: because why?
CherryPopper: Because I always hated bedtime.
FirstLoveMe: no you didn't
CherryPopper: Especially bedtime before the beginning of the week.
My weeks now start on Tuesday and end Saturday.
FirstLoveMe: i see
CherryPopper: What do you mean, didn't.
FirstLoveMe: never mind
FirstLoveMe: being fa-ce-tious
CherryPopper: That's what I thought. Nicely spelled.
FirstLoveMe: did I spell that right, Herr Professor?
FirstLoveMe: danke
CherryPopper: Or is that "spelt"?
FirstLoveMe: finished two more Hesse. One last one to go!
CherryPopper: Quantity or quality?
FirstLoveMe: Bof
CherryPopper: Always in excess.
FirstLoveMe: discovering the similar themes in all of them
CherryPopper: I bet you are.
FirstLoveMe: Magic Theater.
FirstLoveMe: For Madmen Only.
CherryPopper: Theatre?
FirstLoveMe: oh la la.
CherryPopper: I love Steppenwolf, especially "Born to be Wild."
CherryPopper: "Head out on the highway!!!"
CherryPopper: Last bastion of Classic Rock.
FirstLoveMe: your essence is lost in this medium
FirstLoveMe: alas.
CherryPopper: You're joking, right?
FirstLoveMe: Joking about what?
CherryPopper: Is my essence that diffuse?
FirstLoveMe: I understand your reference
FirstLoveMe: but something is lost
CherryPopper: Similar in meaning, different in connotation.
FirstLoveMe: about 70% hilarity is lost
CherryPopper: A bad stat.
FirstLoveMe: was hesse gay?
CherryPopper: Is it still funny?
CherryPopper: I don't think he was gay, no, but I'm not sure.
FirstLoveMe: he sure writes a lot about monks kissing monks.
FirstLoveMe: or young wannabe monks kissing other monks
CherryPopper: Hmm.
CherryPopper: Still smarting over loss of hilarity.
FirstLoveMe: i don't think he likes wimmen very much
CherryPopper: Who does?
FirstLoveMe: pobrecito, don't let that stop you!
FirstLoveMe: who likes wimmen?
CherryPopper: Still regretting fading comedy.
FirstLoveMe: it was only that one.
FirstLoveMe: i wish I could remember a funny joke to tell you
FirstLoveMe: i never remember the jokes
FirstLoveMe: only the punchlines
CherryPopper: My favorite Hesse moral: Remember to laugh a lot.
FirstLoveMe: are you sure that wasn't kundera?
CherryPopper: No, no. At the end of Steppenwolf, the gods laugh at him for being so serious.
FirstLoveMe: that's a shitty thing to do.
FirstLoveMe: like any mortal could be so carefree and good-humored
CherryPopper: I thought it was fantastic, because I was taking
the whole thing so seriously, too.
FirstLoveMe: i was esp. surprised by the bloodshed.
CherryPopper: I was thinking, "Oh no, how could he kill her?"
And then they laughed at him and me.
FirstLoveMe: Do you remember what killed Kerouac?
CherryPopper: Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.
CherryPopper: Drinking and drugs?
CherryPopper: Lung cancer?
CherryPopper: Not funny enough?
CherryPopper: Not funny in the instant message format?
FirstLoveMe: Heroin is always funny.
CherryPopper: Are you referring to my essay on the subject?
FirstLoveMe: mebbe, mebbe not!
CherryPopper: Mememorme!
CherryPopper: You're still kind of funny in this format, BTW.
FirstLoveMe: did you hear there was a ulysses play?
CherryPopper: That's Finnegan's Wake, not Ulysses.
FirstLoveMe: it probably sucks
FirstLoveMe: nu-uh
FirstLoveMe: mememorme is ulysses!
CherryPopper: Yeah.
CherryPopper: Yeah to both.
FirstLoveMe: why you lie? you don't gots to lie!
CherryPopper: No, it's not, sucka! Born to be wiiiild!!!
FirstLoveMe: this can't really be you.
FirstLoveMe: you are a figment of my imagination
FirstLoveMe: right?
CherryPopper: There are at least two other JG in the United States.
So which one is the real JG?
CherryPopper: Does the real JG like classic rock?
FirstLoveMe: the one who said cheese can't write an instant message
CherryPopper: Is the real JG only a little funny?
CherryPopper: Do the other JG know that line?
FirstLoveMe: he's only funny like a funeral
CherryPopper: I need you to bury me.
CherryPopper: If you don't remind me, I won't forget you.
CherryPopper: I scratch so I won't itch. I reach so I won't miss.
FirstLoveMe: why don't you bury your own self, like Paul?
FirstLoveMe: those aren't aphorisms
CherryPopper: Paul McCartney.
CherryPopper: ?
FirstLoveMe: yeah
CherryPopper: A near miss or a close call?
CherryPopper: I learned to put on airs. I needed them to breathe.
FirstLoveMe: i got to you there was nothing left
CherryPopper: I love that song.
FirstLoveMe: yeah I remember how you love that song
CherryPopper: I thought that was after you.
FirstLoveMe: you flogged me with it
CherryPopper: Oops.
CherryPopper: Now I flog myself only.
FirstLoveMe: your log you mean!
CherryPopper: Leave him out of this.
FirstLoveMe: tee hee
CherryPopper: I could just hear your gleeful giggle before you wrote it.
FirstLoveMe: tee hee hee
FirstLoveMe: i like "flog your log" and "whacking your pud" makes me laugh
CherryPopper: I wish I was like you.
FirstLoveMe: boys masturbation is more funny than girls'
CherryPopper: Easily amused.
CherryPopper: I know, girls' is sometimes too damn sexy to be funny!
FirstLoveMe: i hate people who sign their emails: Cheers,
CherryPopper: If they're British, it's OK.
FirstLoveMe: it's late where you are.
CherryPopper: Indeed.
FirstLoveMe: why are you not cuddling with your anna begins?
CherryPopper: So provocative a question.
CherryPopper: We don't live together. Sometimes I get my stuff and plan ahead.
Sometimes I just stay late, put her to bed and come home.
FirstLoveMe: Jes asking, you don't have to disclose
CherryPopper: Have to have a shirt, tie, pants, etc., and sometimes
don't have the energy to take it all over. That's all, really.
FirstLoveMe: mm
CherryPopper: Not a provocative answer.
CherryPopper: Still sorrowful over unfunniness.
FirstLoveMe: do you think I am crasy?
CherryPopper: Yes. Sometimes in a good way, though.
FirstLoveMe: like mebbe 35% sometimes in a good way.
FirstLoveMe: sometimes I wonder if I have a Jewish temperment
CherryPopper: Nah. 35 percent in a bad way.
CherryPopper: Don't know what Jewish temperament is.
CherryPopper: Jewish humor, often.
FirstLoveMe: are you old?
FirstLoveMe: i'm still a kid
CherryPopper: I am 26.
CherryPopper: You used to call me "old man" when I was 17!
FirstLoveMe: i know. because you were.
CherryPopper: In some ways.
FirstLoveMe: which is why I wonder if you are even older
CherryPopper: But not all, in my opinion.
FirstLoveMe: guess what?
CherryPopper: I think I am old in good ways.
FirstLoveMe: it's too morbid a thought, never mind. don't guess,
CherryPopper: But if I don't guess, your defense mechanism of
constantly changing the subject won't work!
FirstLoveMe: I'm raging against the dying of the light!
CherryPopper: A nonsequitur?
FirstLoveMe: that's two words, boy wonder
CherryPopper: You're just jealous.
CherryPopper: But correct.
FirstLoveMe: and so what if I am jealous?
CherryPopper: I would be flattered if you were.
CherryPopper: Jealous of an old man?
CherryPopper: I grow old. I grow old. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
FirstLoveMe: i have no wish to enter dangerous territory, sir
FirstLoveMe: sylvette is at home alone with me
CherryPopper: I don't know what you mean. Really.
FirstLoveMe: about what?
CherryPopper: Dangerous territory.
CherryPopper: Is Sylvette a picture?
CherryPopper: Barely remember.
FirstLoveMe: you don't remember the Picasso you gave me
CherryPopper: Mememorme.
CherryPopper: !
CherryPopper: Is she blue?
CherryPopper: Or just sad-looking?
FirstLoveMe: she's black and white and very "angular" as Dieter might say
CherryPopper: Really sad?
CherryPopper: Or just maladjusted?
FirstLoveMe: lost in flux
CherryPopper: I remember getting you a painting that fit you perfectly,
and that you liked it a lot. But the rest is hazy, for I grow old.
CherryPopper: Trousers rolled.
FirstLoveMe: speaking of flux, do you like aeon flux?
CherryPopper: Sort of.
FirstLoveMe: if i could have her and bjork as my best friends,
I would be so happy.
CherryPopper: Did you say you're alone?
FirstLoveMe: and I would kidnap natalie portman and watch her pretty
eyes fill up with tears and make her my best friend too
FirstLoveMe: yes I am
CherryPopper: Where's Hugo?
FirstLoveMe: probably fucking some girl
CherryPopper: Talk about dangerous territory!
FirstLoveMe: no that's not fair. he's out with a girl I don't know.
CherryPopper: Sorry.
FirstLoveMe: not home yet, nor am I permitted to ask
when he's coming home, or where they went
FirstLoveMe: so it's like that
CherryPopper: Raymond Chandler, as Marlowe:
"There is no trap so dangerous as the one you set for yourself."
FirstLoveMe: thanks so much for that inspirational
quote, it's almost like chicken soup to my soul.
CherryPopper: No need to take it out on me, kid.
CherryPopper: I didn't set this one.
FirstLoveMe: i'm too cynical these days for endless platitudes
FirstLoveMe: Sorry
CherryPopper: You think you're cynical, huh?
CherryPopper: Now who's the old man?
FirstLoveMe: a lot of times I wish I were a man and I had a penis.
CherryPopper: So you say you want a revolution?
FirstLoveMe: so I could beat my meat!
CherryPopper: I think Freud figured that one out a long time ago,
or else I'd tell you to write a book about that.
FirstLoveMe: I jes wanna beat my meat!
FirstLoveMe: what movie is that from?
CherryPopper: You are intrigued by the idea of meat-beating?
CherryPopper: Dunno.
FirstLoveMe: I shot Andy Warhol. Lili Taylor as Valerie Solanas.
CherryPopper: Didn't see it.
CherryPopper: I am familiar with the sentiment, though.
FirstLoveMe: An update: so now I am in that desperate state of
growing hysteria of clock-watching.
CherryPopper: I'm sorry.
CherryPopper: The gods are laughing.
FirstLoveMe: Not your problem
FirstLoveMe: at me?
CherryPopper: Both of us.
FirstLoveMe: denouement?
CherryPopper: Did I use it to your liking?
FirstLoveMe: always
CherryPopper: Good.
FirstLoveMe: I'll leave you to your sleep now? You seem sleepy.
FirstLoveMe: falling asleep on the phone.
CherryPopper: I remember.
FirstLoveMe: mememorme
CherryPopper: You OK for now?
FirstLoveMe: ya.
CherryPopper: Good night, Rosasharn.
FirstLoveMe: I'll be alright. smoke a bowl, take a pill, go to sleep.
FirstLoveMe: I'm tard Pa.
CherryPopper: Te quiero mucho, baby.
FirstLoveMe: Yo tambien. Hasta luego


A man who can use the word denouement in a sentence without hesitation. Mm. yes sexy.

******

Letters every other morning from a Hugo in mourning.
Every morning at my desk, coffee in hand, door closed to the
enormous office I will occupy alone, the tears come.
Starting off my action items list with an emotional catharsis.

>I would like to find that special friendship we had;
it won't happen tomorrow for many reasons.
My thoughts are with you during this purging period.
I once saw you fly on top of twin peaks: you were in love.
>
And I weep uncontrollably, the poignance I have not heard from him in so
long piercing through my shields.
If we could have only loved each other . . .better, more. . . who knows?

He and I, are not accustomed to failure in any arena.

*****

(Friday morning)

Sometimes the young Pyromaniac can twist me right with a crinkle of an eye,
the slightest betrayal of a smile. That little crack in the skillfully played fantasy
between consenting adults, that’s the bunny rabbit in the teen twat spread,
the impetus to push me over the top. . .

With him I play out the childhood I never had but always wished to have.
We are 2 of so many grown-ups out there, who are really children who
had to grow up too soon, who didn’t, for whatever repressed, abused or traumatic
reasons of life’s hardship, were robbed of the pleasure of innocent childhood discovery.

*******

(Thursday)

Sigh. Wistful. Dreamily remembering fuck faces looming above me.
Making me smile, want, laugh.

My own face in the throes of passion I have no picture of.

I can’t reconcile the sad still girl in the mirror with the girl
whose legs are being arranged according to her lover’s pleasure;
whose mouth is being filled with dick;
whose cries echo through the neighborhood as she rides.

What I can see if the shower of little exploding points of light shooting
towards me as the orgasm is being strangled out of my bated breath;
I can feel the pain of my teeth biting down hard on my lip as I savor
each slick and filling stroke.
I don’t know my face, as I’m being stabbed in my sweet center with a hot meat Pole.
But I do remember, the vibrations of the grunts and moans echoing in my chest,
rolling in my throat.

*****

Dopamine Junkie.
Packet Junkie.
Information Junkie.

Fleshy sentient mass I am, strapped to the earth and addicted to stimulus.
Some prefer physical exercise for the endorphin fix.
That’s not really my gig.

Alone in my room I lie in my nest
Curled in a fetal position
2 6 ft body pillow flanking me

The body goes to rest
but the spirit awakes and takes her place
Takes up where she left off last night
Stepping gracefully onto the grid

She breathes in, information stimulus
The nectar of choice packets
Breathes out, a synthesized dream
A pathway for me
A map to find you

And here I am.

Jonesing for a fix.
That fire in my synapse.
Arresting and Soothing to mine eye.
Heady and fragrant in aroma.
Consonance, Dissonance.
Smooth Silky Firm Tender.
The tender chords of my senses strumming, humming, cumming.

The days offline I spent are my decompression chamber
A cleansing sensory deprivation tabula rasa.

Except for that other sensation.
Which is the lack.
Tu me manques.
Te extrano.
The longing, the void.
If I become a part of your consciousness,
of your thoughts, or a small part of your life
(at present)
and I am gone.
Do you notice, do you care, if I’m not around?

You’re used to instant gratification.
Choice packets from random search queries.
Shift reload is there something new?
You’re used to the almost telepathic instant messages.
Or emails that take one minute to cross the earth.
Jpegs of me at your fingertips, instead of the dog-eared photo in your wallet.

I miss the missing, do you miss it too?
Modern love lacks longing and suffers
From the depth of love that downtime brings?

Virtual infidelity
a streaming media conscience
evaporating with each play.

Life online is still real life.
It doesn’t shut down or suspend.

********
You found me.

Dopamine Junkie Reading Reading trying to reach the sublime. . . .

*
I do not consider myself less ignorant than most people,. I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me.
*
Each man's life represents a road toward himself, an attempt at
such a road, the intimation of a path. No man has ever been entirely
and completely himself. Yet each one strives to become that--one
in an awkward, the other in a more intelligent way, each as best
he can. Each man carries the vestiges of his birth--the slime and
eggshells of his primeval past--with him to the end of his days.
*
We all share the same origin, our mothers; all of us come in at
the same door. But each of us--experiments of the depths--strives
toward his own destiny. We can understand one another; but each
of us is able to interpret himself to himself alone.

- Herman Hesse, Demian

DJ Z-Trip and DJ P Remix of this song: Beautiful.

Letter from Hugo arrived via email yesterday. He's only beginning to focus on the bigger picture.
>
I want companionship, I need to be loved, I desire to be challenged, I want
to be understood completely.
Can you ever give me these things?
Difficult question to answer.
I went through the motions this weekend, I wonder if anyone realized?
Babe, why did we choose to go through the motions? We had an
opportunity to build something special; instead we allowed our tainted past
to control our interactions, communications, and beliefs.
I can only apologize for my part, and tell you that I'm available to talk.
Hope you were better able to "forget" this weekend than I.
>

I will leave him to ruminate.
I don't have the strength of heart at this moment to try to show him more.
He's a brilliant man. He will understand soon.

Yesterday @ werk.
Thankful I have an office now.
No one saw me weeping silently.
I couldn't stem the flow of tears.

Last week I was "ostensibly numb"; this week I am beginning to thaw.
It's making me tender to the touch, sensitive to light and loud sounds.

*******

Just as the Connoisseur loves women, I love men.
A smiling man is so attractive, esp. when he is laughing.
He is adept at smoothing out my rough and jagged and irritated edges Sometimes.
His secret weapons, more than what lies in his pants.
Patience, a teasing sense of humor, and a busload of affection.
Some days it charms me.
Some days it makes me want to throttle him.

Meanwhile, there is the volatile and sulky beautiful boy, impatient and often scowling.
But when the smile spreads across his perty mouth, softens him, I am enchanted.

While waiting yesterday by the Powell St. Cable Car line, across from the SF shopping center,
I am approached by a young man.

He approaches me with such familiarity, I think I must have either met him before,
or perhaps he is a friend of one of my sisters.

Wide, unflagging smile.

- Hi! he says but I have my headphones on.
- Hi, do I know you? Do you know me? I say, pulling off my headphones.
- I'm Carlos.
- Hi Carlos. Do you have a light?
- Yes. he takes out his lighter, and a pack of Newports.
- Thanks. he lights my Camel Light (I'm sorry I'm sorry. At least the one and only pack I have bought since "the Change"
isn't even halfway gone. That's good, isn't it?)
- What are you doing here? he asks.
- Waiting for my lover. I answer.
- It's a trip, I can't see your eyes.
I take off my sunglasses.
- Better, he says. You have beautiful eyes.
- Thanks, I say. So why are you talking to me? Did you come here to spit some game?
If so, go ahead. I'm interested in hearing it.
- I saw you standing here. You're very attractive. I thought I'd come and talk to you. So what's up?
- Hmm. I say. A week ago a 3 year relationship I was in, ended. Now I have no boyfriend, and I don't want one.
- But you're waiting for "your lover"? Don't play like that.
- He's right over there, I say, pointing to the Connoisseur, who is standing off to the side, he sees me but isn't coming over
until I'm finished with this guy. I've told him before that I prefer to handle these things on my own.
- So it's like that? Carlos says. Damn! He is still smiling, though. But not moving away.
- Yup. S'like that. I say. I wave at the Connoisseur, to bring him over, extend my hand to Carlos.
- Thanks for the light, I say.
- You're welcome, he says. Maybe I'll bump into you at a better time. He is holding on to my hand.
- Peace, I say. Then I turn to the Connoisseur, take his arm, and we walk away.

It's strange for me to be approached on a day like yesterday, when I didn't feel beautiful at all.
No makeup, well-insulated clothing that does little to really betray the shape of my body, my hair a
wind whipped mess. Interestingly enough, it is on days like this when I am more often approached by men.
Not when I'm tricked out, got all my war paint on, cleavage abundant.

I don't get it. I wasn't pretty yesterday.

IMPULSE. Fortified again with male attention.
Which I guess is what something inside me seeks.
Alternately, something inside is tired of boys,
tired of being disappointed and broke-hearted.
But some voice inside says:
There’s a smorgasbord out there.
I’ll have the sampler platter to start please.

My euphemism for the breakup is “the Change.”
How I feared it. How I craved it.
I forget then that Change enables growth.
The unseen grasp of Change as it extends its hand, lifting me up to a new level.
And as always in these moments I reflect, why did I resist?
(inner voice whispers: Welcome to your new home,
We’ve been building this nest for us, here on the Other Side)

The other side of what? What side am I on?

Change? Present? Past? Future? Love?

(just a forward motion on your hero’s arc,
the pendulum swing, the sine wave, reaching out of you,
desiring growth, transformation)

I ate all the way through the coccoon.
Walking with confidence on faltering legs. Looking around me.
Is this where I’m supposed to be now?

I wonder to myself if I am for real.

If you are a man, and you lie in my arms, and feel the thickness of the vibe,
the intimacy that feeds something lonely inside, and you are covered in kisses,
and you want to get inside me, and you just met me,
and I am wrapped up with you, lying there for reasons of my own,
and you wonder if I have drugged you,
Remember I am the dopamine junkie.
I am not megalomaniacal.
But I ingest quite a bit of drugs.
And perhaps now I am a drug myself.
I don’t know what I am.



Match the Snatch – Requires Shockwave

Slap the Slut


It’s 6.22 a.m. on Monday morning and I’m already in whining stance, to no one but myself,
because I don’t really want to go to work today. The weekend seemed so short.

Got my mani/pedi, treated my younger sister to one as well.
Friday night a girlfriend/ex-housemate came up from Santa Cruz to spend some time.
The three of us had breakfast at the Squat and Gobble on Haight, shopped a bit.

She bailed, then it was just me and my sister walking down the street.
My sister is 21 going on 22, and carelessly and deliberately provocatively fabulous.

We were headed down the street, she wanted to sell some clothes at either
Buffalo or Crossroads, when we were accosted by a tall, blonde, 6 foot green eyed Ex Boy!
(He lives near Haight)

He recognized us “from behind” he said.

We walked about a bit, then my sister needed to get going.
We put her on the N. Went to his house to smoke bowls.

Before I go on: THERE WERE NO WORTHY SHOES ON HAIGHT FOR ME.

Remember, Ex Boy has a girlfriend. A co-worker.
Which is why, because he’s deathly afraid of creating unpleasantness in his life,
he’s not been able to break up with her despite the fact that he’s not in love with her,
she’s a fucking harpy and he wants to date other people.

At his house we toke, I kiss his housemate on the lips as is my greeting.
Listen to music. Cuddle together like yinyang. Which we are. Amazingly synergistic.
I know my vibe is deadly.
I can feel him getting chubs and harder still, simply from the touch of my hand on his shoulder, his thigh.
He strokes my arm the way I like, inhales the scent of my hair, tangles his limbs in mine on the couch.

We breathe deeply when we are together.
He glances at his watch and curses the vibration of his cell phone,
where he is being VM bombed by New Girlfriend.

Synergistic moment is over.
He kisses me lightly on the lips as I leave, promising that soon, soon,
he will have more time to spend with me, where he won’t have to feel guilty . . .
I won’t hold my breath.

He’s 25 but still young in the mind. In the sense that he cannot take control. I hate that.

Thus begins a mood that lasts for the rest of Saturday.

Saturday night I had plans to see the Connoisseur.
When I phoned him however, it seemed we would be joined by one of his friends.

Not that the Connoisseur would ever hurt my feelings intentionally,
but at that moment I didn’t relish the thought of being a slampiece for show.

I need to be capricious. Selfish. Independent. Cautious about the feelings I let out to anyone.
I know my vibe is deadly. I know I have a very strong magnet inside.
I know that the Game is out there, waiting to be played again.
I know my pimp hand is pretty strong.

I know that most of the time, all I want is intimacy more than sex.
I want spoons and cuddle, kisses and sweetness. To start.
And if that escalates, maybe fucking.
But no one will get a piece of me until my brain fuckhole is soaking wet.

I am prone to gazing far off. I am prone to get lost in my thoughts.
I am prone to fits of laughter, wry smiles, heavy sighs and tears that never actually fall.

I would write a bit about a new friend. Who is young but adept at setting synaptic fires.
A pyromaniac of sorts. But he’s shy and I don’t want his cheeks to flame.

I worry about my feelings. Which are messy right now.
Whosoever wants to reach inside me to try to get a piece of my heart,
will come up with a handful of veins and arteries, pulsing with old black blood, dirty mixed blood and the new fresh red blood.
I’m looking for a transfusion.

I forget what is my blood type.

However if there existed categories for donors of Energy, I think I would be type O. Universal donor.

* * * * * This weekend there were no shoes. No where.
This weekend I went to the the mall. At least I ate a corndog.
This weekend I had a makeout session in the parking lot where I “digitally” and “technically” lost my virginity.
This weekend I visited the buffalo in the park, and watched the young Pyromaniac
make friends with a dog, a goose, and some little childrens.

The cynic in me wonders if this is part of a scheme.
But even if it is, I suppose it is harmless.

Monday. I’m keening a bit.
Depressed by the fog, the empty space inside yet unfilled,
and the lack of pretty shoes for me.

Friday. One week since last Thursday. Friday morning when I saw Hugo last.
Friends ask how I am. I recount, in the abridged version, the latest developments.

Are you okay? They all say, dripping with concern.
I think so, I say. Either I'm just not tragic about this since I've been emotionally
moved out for awhile, or I'm numb and in some serious denial.

This weekend will be a weekend of reinvention, if I have enough time.
Enough time to cut off all this damn hair.
Find some new shoes.
Buy some new bras.
Get a manicure and a pedicure.
And a massage.
Hot tubs?

Treat myself.

Kissing is really therapeutic, I think.
Now I just need to get in some burly games of Scrabble
with a worthy opponent.

Been communicating with Hugo via email.
Sounds like he's all froze up.
I won't prod him for tenderness.
Maybe he can't afford it.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, I'm closing ranks and the network of
beautiful friendships blaze vibrant with support.

I have not really been that lonely.
Except the nights.
Which I have not spent with any lovers.
Sometimes a girlfriend.
But I'm in mourning.

And I'll be back out there soon anyway.
The weather makes me feel playful, childish, energetic and frisky.
Almost young again.

Last night I went out with my lesbian girlfriend.
Sushi with her and 2 friends.
Cafe Flore for coffee and catty chat.
The Cafe for dancing and for cruising the gay scene.
I'm the only straight one amongst the friends she runs with.
An honor for sure.

Drunk blonde girl with long hair trying to make eye contact.
I close my eyes, lose myself in the rhythms.
Dance till my tummy hurts.
Blonde is moving, dancing near me.
There's a space for her to move in.
She's just watching me, probably wondering about the
nature of my proximity to my girlfriend, who is clearly
popular within the entire gay community.
A fleeting glance I look over while dancing
until the Vibekiller -- the Lilith Fair t-shirt that she's wearing.

Trying to put some time space and silence between Hugo and me.
He probably needs it more than I do.

More to come, later today.

OH MY GOD.
I LOVE THIS.
THIS IS ONE OF THE CHOICEST PACKETS I'VE COME ACROSS IN A LONG LONG TIME.

I have a need to resist
Damn near hedonophobic
frighten me one more time
Resisting
Holding in my breath
Cutting off my oxygen
to prolong the last moment of ecstasy
fermata

light continuous stroke of a fingertip from my ankle to my knee
a lipsucking crushing kiss
persuasion
submission
seduction.

In the bedroom chamber of my mind
I can be very serious about commitment to fantasy
Mind always alert, assessing the shift in the energy,
in the dynamic. Who won that time?
Who was broken down?
Who wanted to be broken down?

In the living room of my mind
there’s naught but hazy clouds, giggles, and colorful popping bubbles
And I lie on my tummy with the controller in my hand
eat popcorn while we’re playing video games
Refreshingly numb, vacuous, child-like.

And I’m not so serious. I’m just a children, like all the rest.
A children reading In Defense of Masochism.

The fun guys are creeping closer
I want to take a ride on their blue stems

>>>>>>>>>>>>

“You've always liked that position the best, ever since we were kids."
"That's because that's the way we did it the first time, remember?"

Right. I remember.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

- Would you like me to make you feel good? he finally said softly.

After a few seconds of deep silence, no longer in doubt about the answer.

From far away she heard herself answer in a small voice.

- Yes...

- Come here.

Head bowed low
face obscured by a black curtain
eyes looking up at you

- What is it that you want?

- I can’t say it.

- If you can’t ask for it, then you can’t have it. You don’t deserve it.

- I know. Why do you think I stayed with Hugo so long?
To punish myself. To deprive myself of pleasure because I was ashamed to lack the courage to ask for it?

A thoughtful moment.

- You stayed with him because you were afraid to hurt him,
and because you have been too drugged to see clearly that you
don’t need to stay with him to protect his feelings, and deny your own?

- (silence)

- What are you afraid of? That I don’t want you? That you’ll want me?

- I’m projecting, aren’t I?

- He’s the one that traumatized you.

- But I think I detect a trend. I’m attracted to “inscrutable” men. Brow-furrowers.

- Stoic. Equally locked up in their own feelings.

- It’s so true. You need someone intuitive.

- Perceptive.

- Who draws you out.

- And smoothes me out.

I’ve already cum. To the same stuff as last night. It’s a nice progression.
Something will twist me out.

Now I can sleep. Alone in my bed, sleeping in an X.

1.11 a.m
still can't sleep
so I made some lazy Photo Editor pics of my mouth.

11.52 and I can't sleep can't sleep

I wish I were, standing in your room
waiting at the foot of the bed

I wish I were, standing at the top of one of the Twin Peaks
howling into the wind

I wish I were, naked in bed with you
my leg thrown over your hip
and my teeth biting firmly down onto
the skin of your shoulderblade

I wish I were, sitting in the Park
on a bench eating a ice cream cone from Mitchell's
swinging my legs

I wish I were, on an elevator with you
going up 50 floors
your hands holding my face
and we're kissing luscious and sweet

I wish I were, blindfolded and wrist bound
sitting up in a chair
fully clothed
and you are touching my whole body

I wish I were, less conscious

12.00 a.m. and I need to get up at 5.30 to catch a 6.15 to get to a 7.15 to get to a 9.00 a.m.
to meet for 3 hours, be back in the office for a 2.30.

I'm already exhausted.

The foghorns are loud tonight.
The fog is thick in the Richmond.

I need to be smoothed out
Smoothed out like the clouds I saw in the sky today
I'm frayed and worn.

But still so insatiably horny.

You wanna know
what
just

made

me

cuuum?

Be careful. It's very very twisted.

i need more drugs
better drugs
to kill the pain
and force me to smile
take me away

I must eroticize it
the pain
the mundane
the stress
the mess

I am shaking with it, a little right now
alone in my room I am very very stoned
I've been on the phone
I've been crying
Talking to a friend
A friend of both of ours
we haven't told our friends
so I had to be the one. to say.
what I didn't really want to say out loud.
to someone who knew me
who knew us both.

i hemmed and hawed and she asked the right questions
and said what i could
and then i broke down, and it was just me,
just the real me, the most vulnerable one, the one who's crying now
the one who’s hurting so bad, who hides under the protective umbrage
of DJ, who doesn’t have words for her tears and sadness
i tried to explain
but it just didn't make sense
didn't seem real
but she knew what I meant
I asked if she would care for him
he doesn't have a lot of friends
with whom he can be weak

i am a girl with a boy's pride
and i can't stand my own weakness
so to weaken before someone
is often something shameful to me.

i have lots of machismo
"my chismo" as Hugo calls it
I am stubborn, willful, proud
and from the men in my life
I learned how to be callous
how to shut down
how to repress anger instead of working through the pain.

that's why I need a man.
stronger than I am.
a man I can trust.

These telepathic waves
either I can't control them
or I am a shapeshifting empath
but they don't preclude standard security measures

SEX is EASY.
PLEASURE is HARD.
ULTIMATE SATISFACTION TAKES:
imagination, trust, courage, determination.

I am highly volatile right now
Fucking radioactive
and glowing oddly from within
handle with care
don't make any sudden movements

My eyes are blazing black
and my skin is hot
and the pain sleeps
and the freak wakes
and she's hungry

wants to touch
wants to kiss
wants to touch tongues
wants to slide smooth
wants to scratch the itch
wants to soothe the ache
wants to be filled with something other than mourning
wants 30 seconds or more of peace and stillness,
being held closely by strong arms
oh please
oh please
I feel wild and feverish.
I’m shaking.

I need so badly for someone to absorb me.
But I am poison. poison.
Disorder.
Chaos.

And more skilled in fulfilling someone else's pleasure than my own.

My molecules are rearranging themselves as we speak.
I need something, I need a fix.

9 cigarettes total since last Thursday.

Normal Coping Strategy :

a)carton of cigs
b)playlist for booty calls
c)assortment of painkilling drugs
d)porn
e)**psychedelic drugs

Now I’ve only got c & d.

Oh, and chocolate of course.

If you could send me a box of chocolates, that would be lovely.
My favorite kinds are Cadbury’s Roast Almond, See’s Nuts and Chews, Lindt Milk chocolate/hazelnut.

Time for my meds. good night lover.

Monday Night = Alright.
the hash arrived from amsterdam today, wrapped in a blanket of vinyl fetish fisting porn.
my housemates really accept me. it’s a nice feeling.

I walked home from the bus today, bummin’.
listening to melancholy music on my md.

thinking to myself about Mondays.
when hugo is usually over.
this Monday I don’t have to think about
what I might cook us for dinner.

I don’t have much of an appetite at all.
or at least I didn’t today.

and I was thinking, with just me again, my grocery bills will
go down again!

(go. down..)

so I thought, mac and cheese? ramen noodles with tofu and miso paste?
nachos?

with these thoughts in mind
singing plaintively along with the only stevie
nicks song I can stand
I walk through the open door of my house
where the tv is on, people abound
I am being passed a freshly lit joint.
everyone is smiling at me.

my housemate who sent me (from amsterdam) me my standard european requests:

euro-porn with fetish and anal penetration
hash
apple mentos

said, Maybe you should go look in your room.

So I open the door to my room and there on my bed is a flat brown paper bag.
within it, a copy of lady anita f. the international unlimited bizarre magazine.
on the cover it has a label: Warning: Extremely Nasty.

And it is. Coupled with the newest, freshest issue of Tight,
a new eighth, a newly rearranged room, a busy work schedule,
a girlfriend asleep in my bed, and a tummy full from
spaghetti
garlic bread
strawberries soaked in peppermint schnapps
red wine
margarita
10 kinds of shake joint with 3 kinds Amsterdam hash,
I am not complaining at this moment about my life.

I try not to think about him, where he is right now, what he’s doing.

I know I’ll feel worse eventually.
I know we’ll still fight
I know there’s more crying to come.

Some force is devouring me from the inside out.
Taking over the controls of my consciousness.
internal impetus propelling me forward.
like I don’t even have a choice now.

Object in Motion.

If you were wondering about this character, it is Chikara.
Strength/Power.
Hugo paid to have it tatted on me when I turned 24.
I told him then that this indelible ink on my skin had repercussions of permanence.

He said, yes I know.

Ah, the vagaries of youth. All these years.
Memories like ghosts haunting every part of this City.
Ghosts of so many loves past.

This is my City, where I was born.
This is my City, where in Love I walked hand in hand with boys who loved me back.
This is my City, where I will never feel too lonely.

Plunging heedlessly into chaos is the best way to let go.
What do I mean by chaos?
Loosed of the tethers, free to follow the energy pockets along the grid,
travelling high above the corporeal world.
My course and my aim, to find where I can feed.

It seems that the something I was looking for appeared before me,
blindsided me, fed me, sated me.
Clever, clever, sir.

Patient and calculating was the stranger.
I was not even aware of being stalked.
So clever it sets my synapses on fire.
I was delighted to be so outmaneuvered.

What I was asking for between the prose and the parallel structure materialized in a
terrifying, thrilling and unassuming form.

- Isn't that what you needed? he asks, pointedly.

It was, it is. But I had all but given up on finding it. I cannot go, yet.
I want to leash my battered heart that has exhausted itself with hope,
before hope strikes again.
But yes, yes, yessss.

Playing it out, working it out. 9 or so hours of synergy;
the sirens of a four alarm fire in my hypothalamus.

Like a submissive I will wait upon Desire, not run after it.
For a submissive the waiting is the sweetest pain.
Like a strategist I will wait upon the next move.
I will be still. Meditating quietly on a cloud in the ether.
Waiting for Enlightenment to come to me.

Sibilance again. That sizzling sound.
Hands at my sides. Eyes downcast.
Hair loosed and in wild disarray.
Chaos here, awaiting your next command.

Deliberately staying one step behind
to watch the movement of the steps ahead.

[If this one instance is all I get, if this one instance is a message
from the Universe telling me not to give up, I accept this.]

Someone has poured gasoline on the crumpled paper box where
the freak has been writhing, setting all the desires within aflame.
Someone found me on the grid.
Someone unleashed the freak from her gyves and fetters.
And took her for a walk. Perhaps test drive is a more apt description.

Thirst slaked for now.

(Remember this?)

Message 5 is the post-cum sated afterglow, the snuggling between
rounds, the quiet contentment of bodies humming together,
and where breathing deeply is so satisfying.
Lazy caresses and lazy kisses, and the
time apart that makes the wanting begin again.

(It’s been a long time since then.
How the journey began and where I am now.)

I want desire to be new. I want a new world to wake up to.
I want to relearn kissing, and touching and flirting.
I want yearning and feening.
I want to start at Ground Zero and feel the Escalation.

Pobrecita.

The inner freak lashed like Ulysses to the mast.
The “real me”.

Someone fed the kitty in my head. And she’s been on life support for so long.
Her only sustenance the IV of fantasy and daydream.
She’d become so emaciated and malnourished,
barely breathing, strong only in my subconscious.
Drowning under Freud’s iceberg.
And then, manna from heaven, honey in her mouth.
Rolling and savoring on her tongue.
Solid Food.
Only bloating the hunger.

When I think of this, I do not experience only
that requisite burning between my legs.
But a palpable hunger pang.

Something sinister about the unassuming stranger who tread quietly
upon my consciousness. Posing no threat.
Calmly observing from all visible angles.
Peering in. Taking notes.
Tuning in to the frequency of my desire.

- IT WAS YOU WHO GAVE AWAY THE KEYS TO THE CAGES.
YOU WHO HAVE BEEN GIVING IT ALL AWAY.
- I didn’t think anyone was really listening.
What are the odds of finding me on the grid?
Didn’t I want to be found? What are you going to do?
- WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO?
- I don’t know. I’m tired and confused and don’t dare hope. I’m bleeding on the inside.
- LEAVE THIS TO ME LITTLE ONE. GO TO SLEEP LITTLE ONE.
I AM HERE. I AM STRONG AGAIN. IT IS MY TURN AGAIN.
GO TO SLEEP LITTLE ONE. I WILL TAKE CARE OF US.
SLEEP AGAIN. DREAM AGAIN. HEAL.
- I’m sorry, I’ve failed us. I thought I was right this time.
I thought if I loved hard enough, was patient enough, tried hard to be a better girl.
- BEING A BETTER GIRL? OR A WEAKER GIRL?
LOVE SHOULD NEVER WEAKEN YOU. PIANO, PIANISSIMO.
SUBSIDE. LISTEN TO THE DECRESCENDO.
- Will you leave me alone? Will I ever wake up again?
- NEVER ALONE. AND I’LL SEE YOU WHEN YOU’RE RESTED.
- Are you the same one? The same as the Dark Angel,
who came to care for me years ago?
- SHE, WAS ME, TO A LESSER DEGREE.
AS YOU WERE, HER. WE ARE THE EVOLVED.
- Kind of like a Pokemon?
- YES, EXACTLY.

Chaos moves quickly and with no warning or direction.

I’m in such a flux, of forward and backward and sideways emotions.
Sadly happy. Happily sad. Tired. Hungry. Quiet. Serene. Dangerous.
Obnoxious. Potentially careless.
[ Ed. note – cannot be careless. In chaos, safety first. Comprenez-vous? ]

But my eyes, my eyes, the eyes I expose to you.
They are turning black and blacker still.
Dark orbs with tightly-leashed, chomping-at-the-bit,
maelstrom of passion in all its flavors, whirling within.
A tempest. A brave new world.
I can hear a howling in the wind, the keening of my soul,
sense the stealth of the fog creeping over the bay,
the tears flow and ebb, my back arches and my breath a strangled gasp.

Inside me, something is silently sobbing herself to sleep.
But something else is laughing.
And rolling up her sleeves, rubbing her palms together.
Tying on a lobster bib.
Getting out the barbecue sauce.

Maybe this isn’t as cataclysmic as it is in my memory.
Maybe it is.

I think perhaps you are not for real.
But I think also maybe, neither am I?

********

Spent most of yesterday in a numb funk.
I’m exhausted and feeling a little poorly.
Too much drugs and liquor.

So I stayed home and tried not to think about anything at all.
Read a magazine. Took a satisfying nap.

Spoke with a girlfriend, also going through the end of an LTR.
Epidemic in the air. A liberation front.
She came over and we played video games and talked
about our respective heartaches, with our eyes glued to the screen.

- I’m so tired of boys who don’t know what they want,
don’t know what I want. Boys who can’t see the goldmine of a woman in front of them.
- Its time to upgrade to the older men, I said. 30+, 40+.
- Why so old? she asked.
- To a 40 year old, I answered, I’m practically fresh twat!
- Could you be any more crude? she said.
- Oh yes, I said.

******

It’s Sunday and I spoke with Hugo today.
I hadn’t spoken to him since Thursday night.
I just got off the phone with him now.
He’s on his way home from visiting with his family down south.

The conversation started alright until it was apparent to me
that even after all that was said
[ including the words, we should just end it then, right? Right. ]
he still thinks we’re “kind of” together and that he was hoping
we could work out our problems, together, within this relationship, with love.

What about my rage, I said?
What about all our fucked up communication issues?
And the fact that we have both sacrificed our own feelings
to protect each other’s feelings?
That in doing that we have lost all sense of honesty between us?

He says he is not as troubled as I am about our communication issues.
He thinks we should go to counseling.

I think, although I did not say this, that if we’re not getting married
anytime soon that counseling is more than I can handle.

He says, I don’t want to be with you if you’re not in love with me anymore.

Sometimes I was in love with you, I said.
On those clear days when we walked in the park, and I almost forgot
about all the things which made us unhappy.

He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to lose me.
He agrees with all the reasons why I feel things aren’t right between us,
but doesn’t think that dealing with these issues separately, as individuals,
is the right way to fix
what’s wrong.

He wants me, he says. Badly.

You want this girl? I said. This girl that I am? Full of rage and hatred?

What about counseling, he says. I’ll pay for it. Whatever it takes.

I don’t think counseling is the answer, I said,
when my feelings are unleashed, about us, they’re just raw and unedited
and impassioned and all the more volatile
because they’ve been repressed for so long.
And will only lash out at you like a whip.
I can’t control that.
And I don’t want to fight, or hate you,
or blame you, or be angry at you.

At this moment of flux:

I am sad but not sad.
I am scared but not scared.
I am happy but not happy too.

Chronicling my life minute by minute, like an outsider.
In a futile attempt at objectivity.

Feeling very very tiny tonight.
Like, infinitesimal.

Tears and the exhalation of breath I've held in so long;
The hard knot inside me dissolving a little bit more;
A divergence.

A decision of sorts.
Now officially on probation, us both.
Honesty, a sword cutting through the fatty layers.

Leaving the true meat inside, still intact.

The pain of last night was like a visit to the Blood Bank.
I gave, I was drained, I am lightheaded, I ate a cookie.
I screamed, I shut down, I rebooted, I cried, I did all I
could to leash the rage that lunged fiercely at Hugo.
Rage feeds and the love I have inside, for myself,
as well as for Hugo, is poisoned.

The bottom line is that we talked.
We talked about ending our relationship.
We discussed all the reasons why we should,
and cried for all the reasons why we didn't want to.

We won't lose each other. I am adamant about this.

But it's obvious that in "spending time together"
(when much of that time has been on a superficial level as of late),
we are doing each other a disservice.

We could spend 24 hours straight together and still not talk about or resolve,
what's wrong with us.

And if there's no way to fix it, we decided, the only thing to do for now
is to step away.

Not an upheaval, not tearing down what we have built.
But like any investment, evaluating the process and productivity to date
(which requires space and objectivity)
and deciding how best to implement new processes to facilitate
better communication, growth and creating a more ideal environment for love to thrive.

This is not an easy thing.
We can't do it from the inside.

So this morning, when he awoke and dressed, he kissed me and embraced me with love,
but no tears. We cried together last night.

There's so much love between us. And he says his love for me is more impassioned now than
when we lived together, and more substantial than when we first started dating.

It's been an expensive investment.
Which may yet yield reward.
But our love, like so many blue chip stocks out there,
has taken a downturn.

This morning as he left, he said:
"Well, I guess I'll see you sometime the road."

This kind of broke my heart again a little.
For him too, it was hard to say.

- Does it have to be like that? I said.

To which he replied:

- How about this then -- you call me when you want me, and I will come to you.

- Okay, I said.

We kiss and have one long hug.

- I love you babygirl, he said.

- I love you too, I said back.

And it wasn't a lie.

So does this mean the Dopamine Junkie is free? Free to wreak havoc on the city of her birth?

I guess, at this point, it's really up to me.

12.59 a.m.

My bed is a nest.
The whole of my room could be a filthy unorganized sty,
but my bed must always be dusted of crumbs, insulated with several blankets and a down comforter,
2 standard size pillows, and 2 6 ft. body pillows to flank me.
When I sleep alone, I create this little coffin, a little swathing coccoon, around me.

When I sleep this way I dream easier.

"Let me take you on a voyage to another world."
Hooverphonic

[I've lost, haven't I? Whatever it is I wanted from you,
I probably projected it, imagined it, believed it.
The truth is that we're strangers.
The truth is you don't even know my name.
I am a character, a mythological creature,
suspended in animation when you are gone.]

I've got melancholy music in the wee hours of the night.
If someone were here with me, we'd slow fuck for hours.

To the left of my laptop, on a low table lie scattered the remains of my day;
bottle of muscle relaxers, packet of BCPs, watch [gift from Hugo],
scissors, dried rose head [from Hugo], nail file, loose change, bic lighter,
loose change, lipstick, old Muni transfers and gold nail polish.
Stems and sticks.

[ Ed. note: Why is Dopamine Junkie suddenly interested in describing her setting?
She seems eager to share her world, drop her guard.
How does this motivate the reader to keep reading? ]

"Did I dream, you dreamed about me?"
This Mortal Coil

Sometimes in my dreams I am swathed in desire, enfolded
in strong unseen arms. Smiling with contentment.

**This is where it's clear her focus has shifted, that in the self imposed strict order of her bento box desires, the food started touching. This part needs to be tightened up. What are you/am I trying to say?

RED VALKYRIE IS ABOUT TO DIE. RED VALKYRIE NEEDS FOOD.

Release my Dopamine

Dopamine

Dopamine Addicts abound

I have more to say, about the immanentizing of the eschaton, the decrescendo. . .
My breath has run out, no longer can I hold this fermata.
Preparing for pain, for change, for pain.

by the way. if you ever wonder where i wander while I'm online:

Literotica

Amateur Pages

Sensible Erection

Nakkid Nerds

Girls with Glasses

Nerd Slut

My First Time

Andy's Erotic Stories - When you need extreme brain twisting

Vispo Pornomorph

Tonight so balmy and the moon so big and full and round and bright.
Waiting for the bus a woman approached us.
She said she had been watching us; that we were so obviously in love
and it reminded her of her dead husband.

We are affectionate and the crush of our lips is amazing.
When the Connoisseur bends his tall dark head to mine,
I feel present, savoring the slightest intimate contact.

In love though?

There was a time as well when Hugo and I
about 3 years ago were having a platonic drink,
and a drunken man leans over to tell us that
he thought it was beautiful to see
young people like us in love.

We both had other partners.
We were not together at the time.
I was not in love.

(this is Sunday)
Mini Fear and Loathing Weekend

26 is not too old for gnarly benders, I think.
It’s about time to clean the pipes –
can’t do it quite properly without the pscilocybin.
But I was pretty well equipped for some oblivion.

This weekend, I had a lot of drugs in my body.
My target were the memory cells which store the bad memories.
I think I may have been a little effective.

Came home from a night out dancing – Big Heart City for Sophie’s.
I don’t even have the energy to tell that story.

That was Friday, and it began a weekend of excess.

Today I am a walking zombie. Today is Sunday.
Yesterday was Saturday.

Here’s what I remember about yesterday:

7 or so boxes of qty 24 charger Nitrous or whip-its
2 hits of ferrari ecstacy split 4 ways
cocaine on a CD
endless bowls of chronic out of a 2 ft. glass bong
pretzels
Hefeweizen
Sony Playstation

I believe it was a beautiful day outside.
I know because I could see it outside my window.
Inside though, I had a need to reclaim my space, to explode and then re-order.
None of these so-called “horoscopes” seems to be in synch with what my life
has become.

Let me start over.
The neat little bento boxes are exploding, cat and kitty and all.
Things are getting messy in my head, my control, my order, the system is breaking down.
In the alternate universe though, keys are being slipped into locks,
things are falling into place.
On the other side, my doppelganger is making a nest, a new home for me.

And in this last year, esp. after the botched cohabitation with Hugo and that whole majestic failure,
I have been in indecision’s grip so many times.
It’s nearly squeezed the life out of me.
I smeared my self with self loathing and chickenshit.
Soothed and hypnotized myself by eroticizing, even the pain.
Or the expectation of pain – sitting here, I am tensed for the blow which I know I will deserve,
for the pain I will only drink and bathe in, for the tears which will baptize me again.
And hardened my heart, cut myself into pieces,
because the whole of me was paralyzed by inaction.

I’ve become so soft. Too soft.
Lost my edge, given up too much of my blood.
I’ve been passive aggressive.
More passive, because I fear the effect
the strength of my aggression might cause.

I’ve spent most of Saturday, and all of Sunday,
in my own company, with assorted housemates.
Getting stupid, dancing on ecstasy in my living room.
There are other things I could have done.
But I think I made the right decision.


Now it is 2.27 p.m. on Sunday.
I’m waiting for yesterday’s memories and Friday’s memories,
and Thursday’s memories, to arrive and/or find solid form in my brain again.

But now I’m going to:

a) *um
b) nap
c) clean my room
d) do some laundry
e) eat some mac and cheese and artichokes
f) finish writing
g) play videogames, watch tv, catch the sunset
h) lay out my clothes and stuff for the workweek
i) stone.cold.chill

4.52 p.m. on Sunday

Items a and b (see above) complete. I haven’t made it through the rest of the list.
Just spoke with Hugo. He called me from the road.
He’s waiting for an invitation to see me, asking after my schedule.
He sounds sad, tentative. I missed him esp. last night while I was rolling on ecstasy.
Filled with love but not lust for him. But today I am empty inside.

- It would be nice to see you sometime soon. he says.
- I know. I reply.
- Just let me know when you want to see me, and I’ll come over. he says.
- I will. Let you know. I say.

There is a silence. We do not know what to say.

- I love you. he says. I missed you this weekend.
- I love you too. I say.

I love him, it’s true. His face, his blue eyes, his solid 200 lbs. form.
He is kind, helpful to friends, family and strangers.
Tries to be fair. Knows how to charm, sell, think critically, turn the money he makes into more money.
Carries heavy stuff for me. Takes my backpack from me whenever we’re walking.
He’s grown into a fine man.
Responsible, dependable, more thoughtful and sweet now than he was when we lived together.
Looks good in wifebeaters and suits, loves sports, loves taking me to sporting events.
Brilliant scientist. Trustworthy and respectable businessman.
Insane standardized test taker. Math and Science teacher to junior high kids.
Solid American values. Teasing, boyish and affectionate with me.
Loves to see me happy.
Tries to be patient and reasonable when I am the most irrational, caustic and evil bitch on the planet.
Spots me flow when I’m short until the next paycheque.
Willing to be the man in the relationship.
Willing to take responsibility.
FOR ME! Not many men out there want to take on the responsibility of loving a girl like me.

I get struck sometimes, when I see that he can hurt.
Oftentimes, I see him hurting but I ignore it.
I learned that trick from him, when we lived together.
To notice the pain but ignore it. Not wanting to “get involved” or “deal with” feelings.
I hardened my heart. I cannot be soft. Being soft is how I got to this point.
Since I moved out, I think, he’s become the nice guy and I’ve become the unfeeling prick.

5.50 p.m.

I’m writing in between futile organizational attempts in my room.
I don’t think I’m going to make it out of the house today. And for this I feel no guilt.

I love men. I love men.
The smell of clean manly hair, the feeling of a scratchy night’s growth of stubble, the freshly smooth shaven cheeks, nice asses and luscious kisses.
I love the sound of a man’s voice in my ear.
I love reverse spoons where I’m holding the boy, my leg thrown over his hip. I love naked cuddle.
I love talking dirty. I love to resist and succumb.
I love sometimes not talking at all.
I love walking from a movie or a play or a show hand in hand when he might suddenly sweep me up and pin me to a wall for a slick soft wet kiss.

I love to make a boy shiver and want.
I want to sit next to him and know how much he wants to kiss and touch me.
I want him to know I want to touch him too.
Sometimes, the delay of gratification is more thrilling to me than actual sex.

I love to watch a boy sink his teeth into a crunchy apple. The Connoisseur says that it’s some kind of Eve complex.


6.17 p.m.

Still not much progress on the cleaning. I must have really lost something yesterday with all that nitrous.
And now we’re out of weed. So our hook up is on the way in an hour with a nice little delivery.

Spoke with my mother today and told her about the marriage epidemic.

- Deep down you want the same thing. You know you do. You pretend to be the Ice Queen, but you’re looking for the same thing. she says.

I let her feel smug with her motherly knowingness. I bit my tongue. Didn’t want to tell her that her marriage to my father is the main reason I am terrified of ever being married.

- Say hi to your dad. she says.

I groan.

- Hi baby! How are you? my dad yells into the phone.

I answer according to the script.

- So your cousin is getting married! How about you? I’m getting old and I need my grandkids! he yells.
- Papa, you have a 7 year old kid. Why do you need another baby around? my reply.
- Yeah but I want my grandkids! he is teasing me but annoying me too.
- Don’t hold your breath, Dad, I say, I have 4 other sisters who will breed and marry off for you.

Sigh.

(incoherent on Saturday)

(this is Friday)

the latest weed I have gives a tremendous body high.
unleashes the freak.

tiger stripes disappear during the day.
the window open to warm afternoon breeze.
I’m lightheaded and hypersensitive.

Pushing and Pulling.
Resisting and Yielding.
Taking and Riding.

It’s quiet except for faroff outside noises, chirping of birds,
and sounds of breathing, rustling of the bedsheets, contact of skin.

We have all day. And so we take our time.

The evening of Sophie’s at Big Heart City is anticlimactic.
For everyone involved.

Post club hook-ups with thugs in an Escalade may seem thrilling in rap videos.
But in real time, they yield no satisfaction.

(this is thursday)

I've been having lunch with a new companion Reader No. 6.
It's amazing that it's all so instantaneous -- sexual sparks giving in to the "can't wait to fuck you" function.
Back in the day I made a boy wait a year.
Back in the day I had to "know" a boy to get the right vibe.
Now it's all animal reaction - the pheromones, the body contact
It's easy to get caught up in the flirtation.
Easy to forget that it's the person, not just the body, that I want to inhabit.

(this is wednesday)
I'm drunk and I'm stoned.
My head is pounding.
There is a smorgasbord of painkilling medication available.

I'm sorry I reacted the way I did.
I lost my composure, lost my cool.
Faltered in my confidence and why?

I thought you were worth more than the pretense,
the scripted calculating version of myself.
I'm trying to laugh about it, forget it.

I think I'm breaking my own heart.
At this point I may have gone too far.

Do you want to know what's been going on, behind the scenes?

That I met my first :reader: on Feb. 2.
And since, I have met 5 more.

There are things I allude to, things I'm living out;
living out, and leaving out.

They're affecting me.

I've lost sight of this "project" --
at first, and at second, I have only wanted to see
how far I could push this, how far I could go, without going too far.
Secretly hoping that I'd change so much that I would outgrow this skin, this coccoon.

And perhaps I have.
But the delay, in tearing it apart, biting off a little at a time.

The first time, I was exhilirated and excited.
The second time, I was shaking, seeking to submit. The Master.
The third time, I kept the freak on a leash and had a moment of pure agape in each other's arms.
The fourth time, I found the Connoisseur.
The fifth time, I was serious and composed.
I did not feel that he was that attracted to me sexually, more intrigued, as a friend and a real person.
The sixth time, I ran away in tears – by this time, my guard had come down.
And I was confronted by a wall as well defended as my own.

For the dopamine junkie to manifest in real-time,
in the daylight, from behind the screen, I must put myself at risk.
She's over here, you see.
But it would be me, just me, standing in front of you.
Not a fantasy. Not a nymphomaniac. Not as jaded as I am in text.
Just me.

Young, vulnerable, with a lot of bravado which
sometimes hardens into courage, proud, defensive,
secretly hopeful.

That's at the deepest layer.
Where I'm the most lonely.

All the other personas I inhabit are as changeable as a pair of shoes.

I write this to remind myself, yes I am still a real girl.

But the melancholy is keening through my veins tonight.
No one I really want to talk to, not even amongst the
network of amazing people in my life.

Because no one knows the whole story.
Each just gets a palatable version, appropriately sugar coated.

I won't bother with any self-deprecation.
Or self-pity.

Some voice inside me demands that I be ruthless.
Probably the girl inside who is disgusted by
the obstinacy of hope.

Hope for what?
Nothing special.
To be held and understood.
The 1001 expressions of human emotion through sex.
To have my mind sing alive at the love of life.

Not even forever. Just a little while.
I'm just a packet trying to get to the right
destination. Being stripped of all my headers.
I don't believe in true love anymore.

My tummy hurts. My head is throbbing painfully.
I just want to sleep. I'll go to bed early tonight.