Don't keep me on the backburner.

You're gonna regret what you're doing, playing me like some toy. Your apathy is transparent. Your disinterest is blaring. You're not really into me. I'm not skinny or have big tits. I'm not a ghetto Queens girl you feel at home with. I'm a woman on the move, taking over the world.

I don't have time for you to play that other girlie situation out. I'm not to be kept on the side. I'm not second best, bitch. If playing hard to get turns your key, then go waste away chasing tail in Richmond Hill. I don't have time to play games. I get to it.

You'll regret that you won't get to know me better. You don't know the whole story. I know how imperfect you are. I fell for you in spite of it. But you can go on pretending to be someone you're not. Go on being "The Man" with your PR-ian friends. Go on buying dope for them.

It's obvious you take nothing from your mother, and it's doubly obvious Skip doesn't share your blood.

Rules

1. Do not pull my hair hard.
2. Do not hit my face.
3. No golden showers or defecation.
4. Do not call me "bitch," "whore," "slut," "cunt," "twat," or any other degrading names that are out there. In return, I won't call you an "asshole," "dick," "motherfucker," et. al.
   
5. We always use condoms.
6. Anal is ok, if it doesn't hurt for me.
   
7. Videotaping is ok, only if we share the profits. ;-)
8. I cannot walk in stiletto heels, so I will not wear them in any context.
9. No third parties. That fucks up everything.
10. I'm only interested in a monogamous relationship, so never doubt my fidelity.
    

Do you really want to have fun?

I don't have time to play games.
I am a busy woman.
I think you are just a tease.
If you want me, you have to grab me;
If you want me, you'll have to pin me to the wall.
You've got to get up off your ass.

New Toy.

Pacific Beach wasn't interesting. All the guys looked like cookie-cutter dumb over-gelled jocks. The girls were nasal chattering high-heeled ninnies. It wasn't my speed. I didn't want to listen to ska or hip-hop and drink Buds.

In absence of hot human stimulation, my mission changed. I was on the prowl -- for a sex shop. I found only one on Garnet Ave. Doctor Love's.

It's been years since I bought a sex toy. Most were bought with my last live-in boyfriend, B--. Those were some good ole days. He was quite skilled manually and orally and always made sure I came. He was happy to use new toys on me. It was fun experimenting.

I had some trouble deciding. There was a lot to choose from. Some were way too intimidating. I didn't want to overwhelm my pussy. I knew I wanted something phallic and flexible, not too thick or long. I wasn't sure if I wanted a simple dildo or a vibe, ridged or smooth, with or without balls. Color was also an issue, because too realistic a flesh tone is weird for me, but too unnatural might be a turnoff too.

Upon the recommendation of the sales lady, I bought my first "rabbit," one with a penis-shaped dildo and small attached vibrating part for clitoral stimulation. (The part looks more like a platypus than a rabbit.) It wasn't top of the line, but something to get me through the week.

I tried to out last night it. And this afternoon. And this early evening. It's quite nice. Its modest thickness and length were spot on. It was nice feeling something almost like a good hard fuck. I'm glad I chose a waterproof version, so I used it in the shower too.

There were some drawbacks of course. I could never get a guy to really fuck me as fast as I can get my hand can go, but my wrist did get fatigued. Also the vibrator function is not very fancy and cannot be modulated like some other vibes I've had -- it's easy to overstimulate my clit, which leaves it nearly numb. The subtleties of a tongue or finger or penis are better. Because of this overstimulation, I was close but never actually climaxed. (I think if I upgrade to a better "rabbit" I'll get one with both clitoral and anal stimulation.) And I enjoy all the hair, skin, sweat, smell, breath of real sex too. I miss talking dirty and moaning into a guy's ear.

Overall though, I'm happy to have splurged. I am definitely going to have a some very fun nights and days till I get back to New York.

Jobs.

I wonder how long Edward is. What the shape is like. How much hair. How it feels in my hands, on my lips, on my tongue. Where the sensitive spots are -- and the new ones I'll discover. What he'd tell me to do with it.

Sometimes I like to swallow. But I wonder if he'd come on me.

The "bemusing" incident:

I used to watch her baby on their prescribed "date night" -- my son and I usually spend the night at their apartment afterwards. That night I wore a long silk floral magenta chemise to sleep in (I like feeling femme in bed). My son and I slept on the pull-out bed in the livingroom, adjacent to the kitchen.

It was late into the dark of the night, long after they returned home. My back was turned to the doorway, one strap down to nurse my son. I could hear something. The kitchen light was on. I knew he was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. I pretended to be asleep.

The next morning, as I was ready to leave, I knocked on their bedroom door. She told me to come in -- they were both more naked than I've ever seen them before (and hope will never since). He gave me a big grin as he sat up. She was disheveled and happy -- I've never seen an expression on her face like that before.

I have to laugh about it. I feel pleased in my own way, to do some relationship therapy and inspire a good fuck between this unhappily married couple.

I've found what I'm looking for:

To be taken in hand.

Read this link too: When rape is a gift

Masochist looking for her Sadist.

I can't advertise that on my Friendster profile. I'm afraid of the predators I might attract. I'm bold enough to write that my interests include, "light bondage, erotica, porn," sandwiched between all my other more banal hobbies.

This is frustrating, that I can't say what I really want. I'm not going to settle for anything less when it comes to sexual compatibility. I've had enough of "decent" lovers. I want someone unafraid, of both my libido and his own. There has to be a free, trusting symbiotic relationship if we are going to hurt each other.

I was HOT as a blonde:

Rough sex.

I can't stop thinking about it. Ever since I saw The Stendahl Syndrome, I've been on edge for it. Strike that, even before that. Uncannily, the movie illustrated my fantasy — to have this gorgeous, intelligent man get on top of me and hold me down. To be fascinated with me: the silk of my hair, the fold of my eyelid, the tip of my nose, the curl of my lip, the slope of my neck, the hollow of my collarbone, the solidity of my shoulders, the tenderness of my breasts, the softness of my belly, the curve of my hip, the roundness of my bottom, the wetness... everywhere in between. Bestowing this awful reverence to my body. To have him violate me on my own terms.

I know what he was thinking:

This is so funny. For lack of any casual clean clothes, I decided to "dress up" for my "retirement" dinner. I've been feeling kind of punk ever since Ash Wednesday. So I resurrected all my regalia. I never had a daily punk or goth "uniform" because that requires a heavy commitment, both in money and lack of personal comfort. But for special occasions, I can go hardcore.

I must have reminded him of one of his SuicideGirls on his hard drive. My jet black hair, violet-lined eyes, spikes and other metal on my skin, the printed skirt, the fishnet stockings, the black boots — I was a complete package. He lingered for a while at my house, even though I didn't need him to watch our son anymore. I was perplexed at first, while I tried to get comfortable, getting ready to retire to bed. I took off my stockings in the half-bathroom, and went back out to the living room, and when he was still there and silently watching me go through my motions — I figured it out. (Another contributing factor must have been the pictures of me when I was blonde which he never seen before, left out near the computer, waiting to be scanned.)

I don't remember ever dressing up like this for him, during our short relationship. He never requested it. I would have obliged.

But it's too late now, honey. I would never sleep with you again.

Another reason I don't like IMing:

I cannot type with one hand.