January 2008 Archives

Couldn't stay away from Jack in the end. Decided I had to have her in my life somehow, even if it is only as friends. So, we're friends... sitting on top of a volcano. And there is alot going on beneath the surface, so it's not particularly safe, but then again I don't suppose it was anyway. There is alot of chemistry, see, and chemistry is never safe. I remember watching my mate accidentally blow the eyebrows off his face in the name of chemistry once, and he got a detention.

I'm going to risk it though.

This could obviously all change by tomorrow, what with me being as stable as a two-legged tripod, and all, but I desperately want to be understood (that sounds so lame), and I feel a bit like that with Jack, and if I can just push aside all these perverted cravings, and stop wanting to fuck her (or something), everything might be alright?

I quite like my eyebrows.

Apparently, I haven't had sex in two weeks. There are many things I could say about that, but mostly, I would like to say bollocks.

I have six tabs open on my Firefox browser right now, not including this one...

An MSN page entitled 'Change The Way You Think About Food':

Chronic dieting can also induce changes in levels of key neurotransmitters, according to research from Boggiano's laboratory. When she put rats on a "weight cycling" diet that simulated the on-again, off-again pattern many human dieters follow, she found the rats' levels of serotonin (a "feel-good" neurotransmitter) dropped significantly, similar to what's seen in the brain of an anorexic at the height of illness. Dopamine levels also plummeted, and the food-deprived animals had symptoms that suggested depression.

Sexegesis - 'Confronting A Fuck Buddy':

But one question particularly disturbed me. Why did my impersonal, silly, disinterested feelings so often grow into something more? Are feelings simply supposed to? Or was I weak? Or, worst of all, was I lying to myself at the outset about what I really wanted? Perhaps it had never been about just pussy shaving at all.

Well, come to think of it, I suppose it never is.

The swinging forum I use (that I daren't link to):

How long do your knickers last?
Someone's bound to come along and say not long 'coz they get ripped in the heat of passion, and someone else'll probably say they always go commando, but I mean in the course of normal wear and tear.

6 to 9 months seems to be about normal before they start to get a bit frayed around the edges in my experience although of course it depends how many pairs you have to rotate I guess.

Informed Consent (my profile):

I'm allergic to Penicillin and monogamy, and people who do A/all T/this B/bollocks. I sign my name in lower case, not because of some stupid D/s ritual thing - it just looks prettier that way. I love the Arctic Monkeys, and Radiohead, and women in boots. I'm inquisitive, aloof, silly, daring, and shit-scared. I'm turned off by facial hair (especially on women), and narrow-mindedness, and excited by guns and fishnet tights. I adore Quinten Tarantino, and when I grow up, I want to be Dita Von Teese.

My Amazon wishlist.

Latest addition: Innocent Smoothie Recipe Book: 57 and a half recipes from our kitchen to yours

What does this say about me? (Edit: apart from the fact that I can't count, ha ha ha. It was five!)

The boyfriend has bought some scales, in a bid to motivate himself post-Christmas bulge. He doesn't understand how hard it is for me to have scales in the house. It's like leaving a bag of cocaine on the table; so hard to resist. But I have to resist it, because as soon as I step on those scales the body-obsession will return with a vengeance. And major depression as well probably, as I haven't weighed myself in about 10 years, and I know I put some weight on last month (another reason to fucking hate Christmas!) and argh!!!

I need the scales to go.

There is just too much temptation in my life right now. It's making me fidgety.

I'm having thoughts about tattoos, and dying my hair red, and being a cock loving lesbian. I think "I'm going to buy some paper and a pencil and draw stuff". I don't know why, I'm crap at it. I'm writing - nearly all the time. Or crying. Or drinking. Or all three.

Is that a storm I see up ahead?

I don't do New Year's resolutions. Two reasons for this: one, I'm scared of commitment, and two, I'm scared of failure, which is where I invariably end up anytime I have attempted a resolution of any description. So this year, just like every other year, I shall continue to smoke, drink, get shitfaced, and make a great big bloody mess of everything (no doubt). With any luck, I might also see my way to getting fucked...

In a club.

Given that I'm a bit of a party animal, an exhibitionist and a slut, I'm quite surprised that I have yet to brave the world of swingers clubs. Especially when I consider the fact that I don't feel all that comfortable about swinging within a community, as such. I am too bothered about discretion to want to screw in small circles. Particularly on a casual basis. And casual anonymous sex really appeals to me, right up to the point of not even knowing their names. It's one of the things I love so much about dogging. Sucking a guy's cock, and not having a fucking clue who he is, where he's been, how old he is.... nothing except what he looks and tastes like. All under the cover of darkness. It's erotic, I'm telling you.

Just a bit fucking cold at this time of year.

So swingers clubs. I want to do one this year. I've always been curious about these places - is it sex on tap, or just full of wankers? Is it actually anything like a "club", or is it more like a brothel? Will I embrace it like a wanton slut, or hide in a corner and refuse to come out? Is a bodystocking and boots too much or not enough clothing? And have I got any chance whatsoever of getting a gang bang?

Speaking of which... got an email care of a Yahoo group advertising a Greedy Girls day. Basically, it's two girls getting gang banged...and like that isn't greedy enough, they're charging fifty quid "entrance" fee per guy!

I must be doing something wrong.

And on another semi-related note, I was absolutely delighted yesterday to find there's a fetish/BDSM club within spitting distance of where I live! Oh my God! If only I had some fetish wear! I've never been to one of these clubs either... and I so want to.

So that's my plans for the year, and don't any of you say I'm not ambitious!

Think think think. Think about Don. Think about Jack. Think about 'being' poly. Think about how hard it is. Think about the alternative. Think about recoiling in horror. Think about what I want. Think about who I want. Think about chemistry. Think about my 'type'. Think about vanilla. Think about strawberries. Think about the smoothie maker I bought, when I don't even drink smoothies. Think about my kinks. Think about my needs. Think I need more things to think about.

Think that everyone seems to be looking for something, or someone, especially. Think "do I?". Think I'm not specifically looking for anything, because I don't know what to look for. Think I'm as confused as ever.

Suddenly think that what I need, aside from a fucking good therapist, is a father-figure/mentor type man. Someone much older than me, and wiser (although that isn't hard!), someone I can confide in and turn to for some reassurance.... if that's the right word. I'd love that. No romantic or even sexual leanings, although I probably would also want them to give me a good thrashing when I'm feeling particularly shit.

Hmm. That looks more fucked up written down than it seems in my head. I need to think about that a bit more, perhaps?

Bloody typical... I make my first quick decision ever, and I think it was the wrong one. Arse!

And like that isn't bad enough, now I have had all these D/s things re-awakened in me, I'm finding it bloody difficult to put them back to sleep. Not that I want to, it's just Frustration Central if I don't. I want to keep them alive, I want to feel all that beautiful destruction... I don't want to deny what I am, or who I am. Not after it took me so long to admit it.

Things are just never that easy.

I am tentatively dipping my perverted toe back into the BDSM community. It's been a long time, and I'm not really sure why I'm even trying... it's probably just another subconscious form of self-torture. Remind myself of what I don't have, instead of what I do.

Of course, I'm also trying to depersonalize it all. Pretend it's just about a certain headspace. A hotel room. A hedonistic night of hotfuckery, or two, rather than a certain person.

I so want to jump.

Wellies. High heeled boots. Flat heeled boots. Any boots, to be honest. Gloves. Full-head masks/hoods. Knives. Guns. Leather. Cuffs. Rope. Fishnet tights (not stockings). Dirty vans. Scissors. Rain. Pillar-box red lipstick.

If... if... I ever get a chance, this would be my recipe for a perfect night of debauchery. Taken, torn, and terrified. Yummy. it's absolutely what I am all about.

Oh, and eyes. I'm about the eyes too.

But that's later.

That's after I've been captured, and hooded, and thrown into the back of a van (or dragged out of one... either way!), and had my tights and clothes snipped and ripped off me. It's after I've felt the blade of a knife against my throat, and a cock in my cunt. It's after my hair and make-up's been all messed up (think Amy Winehouse, heh) by the hood. It's after I've tasted my own tears and heard my heart beating like a drum.

Then there's the eyes.

Looking at the horrid mess I'm in. The eyeliner smudged. The lipstick smeared. The cheeks tear-stained, and the hair wild. And the words that accompany it. Say what you see.

I love all that.

I've just had a bath. I cried. And before you read the rest of this (if you do read the rest of this), please remember that I'm not a romantic fool. I'm perverted and neurotic. Ok? Good.

I am missing Jack. I'm feeling a void where there was once domination. I miss our chats. I miss our chemistry. I miss the dynamic, and I miss thinking forward to the filthy sex we were going to have. It's not just the filthy sex, though. That is merely an extension of what goes on in my head, and makes me who I am. But I miss it anyway. And while I'm sitting in the bath, thinking about all these things, I see the pattern. I see what happens everytime I break off a d/s connection. I fall into some empty space and feel incredibly.... lost. Like I have all this energy, and nowhere to direct it. It's a horrible feeling, even if I can't describe it very well.
I do things to try and take the edge off it. I look at pictures of rope bondage. I think how helpless she looks, and want to feel that, too. Fuck, I want photos like that, too.

(picture courtesy of rope magic)

I masturbate while thinking of my most secret and fucked-up fantasies. I think about putting up an ad for an anonymous man to come round and fucking use me. I think twice about that, because I don't imagine it being the best idea I've ever had, so I have another wank instead. I know, I'll have a semi-anonymous threesome. Don will be there to look after me, ie, to ensure I don't get murdered in some seedy hotel room. I won't know who the other guy is. He could be anybody. I'll wear a blindfold, and I'll get myself properly used. Yeh.

I don't be kind to myself. I am cruel and unforgiving. I try to be, anyway. Trying to fill a void, or just feeling crap? Who knows. I stand in the bath, and look at myself in the mirror. Naked. I have also gone completely body-dysmorphic too, these last few days. Picking, scratching, loathing... argh. I know I'm a fucking nutcase. I play with myself while looking myself straight in the eye. I look so different when I'm wanking. My eyes - I don't even recognise them. Do I look like this when I'm having sex? G*d help me.
I tell myself what a fucked up slut I am. I call myself names. I say disgusting things that I don't even remember now. I'm rambling, and wanking, and trying to make myself sick. Then I cum, sit back down in the hot bubbly water, and burst into fucking tears.

I can't hurt myself.

And I can't get this song out of my fucking head.

"Is there anything you won't do?" is a question I've been asked enough times during my time as a slut (most of my life) - I suppose because I give off the impression that I'm up for anything. Which mostly I am, heh, but there are some things I won't do, and a few things I will only do with certain people - D/s based activities for example don't work well on a casual level, because it requires so much trust and - for me - a very strong connection. That isn't to say I don't like my arse being casually spanked though, because I do.

But back to what I don't like and won't do. There are the obvious ones - scat, animals, and kids. And then there are the semi obvious ones.... I sometimes enjoy being fisted, but attempt to put a fist in anything other than my cunt, and I will likely swing for you. And I hate condoms, but try and fuck me without one, and, actually don't try it at all.

And then there are periods. I fucking hate periods. Mine, and everyone elses. And as a rule, I don't do fucky fucky when I'm on. Call me a prude if you like, but it's gross. That said however, my muse put some 'bloody' scenarios in my head that I would have let her act out with me, but only because I would have been mortified, and only because it was her.

D/s things, you see.

And while I'm on the subject... I'm quite a wimp, really. Have you seen tit bondage? When the tits are bound so tightly they look like they might go bang? I hate that. I hate the look of it, and I don't think you could do it to my tits anyway due to their size, but in case you could.... Just. Don't.

And needles. Argh. No. Nevermind the safety aspect of this type of play... they are needles. And the same goes for all this skin piercing stuff that goes on in the BDSM world. I've never tried it, and I don't want to either. Which is a little bit of a shame, because this looks fucking exquisite. Don't you think?

It's only week one of the new year, and I've had a period and a bust up already. Joy.