Archive

Archive for October, 2008

Double, double toil and trouble

October 31, 2008 1 comment

Happy Halloween!  I have my costume all prepared, and tonight I plan to have some sugar- and alcohol-induced fun.

As an extra treat for tonight, I made a poll for your ex-bashing/loving pleasure.  This is from my last IM conversation with SR, in which I was trying to get him to come visit me on campus.  Part of me was severely hurt by the implication of his simple message, but another part of me wonders if I didn’t take an immature, frat boy’s comments too close to heart.  What would your reaction be?

Ugh, WordPress’s polls are all fucked up.  Vote here please!

Advertisements
Categories: graphic girl, memories, poll

lustlustlust

October 30, 2008 32 comments

Happy HNT!

Something I thought of doing but which, regretfully, never became reality was for SR to enter my room and find me on my bed, lying on my stomach facing away from him, with my knees tucked under me and my hands cuffed behind my back.  Wearing nothing but garter and stockings.

And I’d have my comforter covering most of my body, so he’d have to get close and move it to see what was going on.  I wonder what his reaction would be.  Would he look at me like I’m a freak?  Or would he grab my hair and stuff his quickly hardening cock in my mouth?

I like to think it would have been the latter.

Along that line, I was lying on my friend’s couch earlier, fantasizing about a scene I have played in my head since I first started masturbating.  I imagined myself struggling to get away from a man who has my body pinned down under his, and is slowly tearing away at my clothes while I wriggle slowly away.  And, like a cat with its prey, he loosens his hold and lets melets me try to scramble out from under him a few inches before he pounces again, and tears away another piece of clothing.  And it’s not long before I feel his cock against my ass, but only briefly because he shoves it into me without word or warning.  All of my struggling only enhances that feeling of utter violation and penetration, of his cock filling me against my will.

And even though I know rape fantasies are among the top female fantasies, I can’t help but feel a little guilty about enjoying them so much.  I like struggling and feeling overwhelmed by someone so much stronger than I am that I can smell the testosterone on him.  The act of being penetrated while struggling, for me, makes it all the more arousing and, strangely, even more intimate…perhaps because he is taking away all power from me, and forcing me to accept his control.  If I can overpower my partner, I don’t think I would be able to feel that level of intimacy with him.

In Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead is a scene that I think illustrates this point pretty well.  It is a rape scene between the protagonist and his love interest.  He pursues her because he knows he wants her, because she is intelligent, beautiful, powerful, and confident – “had she meant less to him, he would not have taken her as he did; had he meant less to her, she would not have fought so desperately”:

He came in.  He wore his work clothes, the dirty shirt with rolled sleeves, the trousers smeared with stone dust.  He stood looking at her.  There was no laughing understanding in his face.  His face was drawn, austere in cruelty, ascetic in passion, the cheeks sunken, the lips pulled down, set tight.  She jumped to her feet, she stood, her arms thrown back, her fingers spread apart.  He did not move.  She saw a vein of his neck rise, beating, and fall down again.

Then he walked to her.  He held her as if his flesh had cut through hers and she felt the bones of his arms on the bones of her ribs, her legs jerked tight against his, his mouth on hers.

She did not know whether the jolt of terror shook her first and she thrust her elbows at his throat, twisting her body to escape, or whether she lay still in his arms, in the first instant, in the shock of feeling his skin against hers, the thing she had thought about, had expected, had never known to be like this, could not have known, because this was not part of living, but a thing one could not bear longer than a second.

She tried to tear herself away from him.  The effort broke against his arms that had not felt it.  Her fists beat against his shoulders, against his face.  He moved one hand, took her two wrists, pinned them behind her, under his arm, wrenching her shoulder blades.  She twisted her head back.  She felt his lips on her breast.  She tore herself free.

She fell back against the dressing table, she stood crouching, her hands clasping the edge behind her, her eyes wide, colorless, shapeless in terror.  He was laughing.  There was the movement of laughter on his face, but no sound.  Perhaps he had released her intentionally.  He stood, his legs apart, his arms hanging at his sides, letting her be more sharply aware of his body across the space between them than she had been in his arms.  She looked at the door behind him, he saw the first hint of movement, no more than a thought of leaping toward that door.  He extended his arm, not touching her, and fell back.  Her shoulders moved faintly, rising.  He took a step forward and her shoulders fell.  She huddled lower, closer to the table.  He let her wait.  Then he approached.  He lifted her without effort.  She let her teeth sink into his hand and felt blood on the tip of her tongue.  He pulled her head back and he forced her mouth open against his.

She fought like an animal.  But she made no sound.  She did not call for help.  She heard the echoes of her blows in the gasp of his breath, and she knew that it was a gasp of pleasure.  She reached for the lamp on the dressing table.  He knocked the lamp out of her hand.  The crystal burst to pieces in the darkness.

He had thrown her down on the bed and she felt the blood beating in her throat, in her eyes, the hatred, the helpless terror in her blood.  She felt the hatred and his hands: his hands moving over her body, the hands that broke granite.  She fought in a last convulsion.  Then the sudden pain shot up, through her body, to her throat, and she screamed.  Then she lay still.

It was an act that could be performed in tenderness, as a seal of love, or in contempt, as a symbol of humiliation and conquest.  It could be the act of a lover or the act of a soldier violating an enemy woman.  He did it as an act of scorn.  Not as love, but as defilement.  And this made her lie still and submit.  One gesture of tenderness from him – and she would have remained cold, untouched by the thing done to her body.  But the act of a master taking shameful, contemptuous possession of her was the kind of rapture she had wanted.  Then she felt him shaking with the agony of a pleasure unbearable even to him, she knew that she had given that to him, that it came from her, from her body, and she bit her lips and she knew what he had wanted her to know.

I need a drug, and it’s called sex

October 26, 2008 3 comments

I’ve been fighting inertia the past couple of days and trying to push myself to exercise more.  I find it (ironically) depressing that my only motivation to exercise is to fight off depression.  I know the endorphins from regular exercise ease the effects of depression somewhat, and doing it regularly can start a positive feedback cycle.  I need more discipline to follow some kind of exercise regimen.

This is why I need a dominant man in my life!

Well, just kidding.  Though a strong warm man could give me a good workout, in the best way possible!  And I would be very vigilant about doing it on a daily basis.  And the endorphin rush!  Mmmm, the endorphin rush…

I have rarely woken in the morning for most of my adult life without the desire to have sleepy morning sex.  A side effect of my morning bladder pressing against my vag, I know, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to wake up every day with a warm body and ready cock pressed against my back?  From my experience, morning sex is always hot, pure lust, and satisfying.  I’ve never turned down those early advances, instead letting the sensations wash over my still sleepy body.

I guess I am also turned on by the thought of being “taken advantage of” while not completely awake.

Sigh.  I need to get laid, stat.

Categories: emolicious, reflection, sex

hypersexuality, et le cercle est complet

October 25, 2008 Leave a comment

I finally came out last weekend, our campus’ Homecoming weekend, to a girl I barely knew at the beginning of the day.  But by the end of the night we were sharing the kinds of personal stories I’ve never even told my oldest friend.  At one point, we were talking about making out (half-seriously, but the potential was there), when she asked me how I know that I’m interested in girls.  I blinked, thought for a second, and replied, “I get sexually aroused by them and by the idea of kissing and going down on a girl.”

And it was that simple.  As soon as I said those words, I knew that I no longer belonged in the grey area of “bi-curiosity” anymore.  I really do want to be with another female sometimes.  Though I wonder if, for me, the sexual arousal isn’t so much a product of bisexuality as it is a product of hypersexuality.  When you’ve got a sex drive like mine, gender doesn’t seem to matter much anymore.  I’ve started to realize that I am just obsessed with the sensuality of people being together.  Two beautiful boys kissing, two beautiful girls kissing, a guy and girl kissing – the combination doesn’t matter, it’s just a beautiful thing to watch.

(Yes, I am such a voyeur.  And I got so hot listening to neighbors in the next apartment over fucking while I was in Boston.  But I was also getting ass then, so now I’d probably just be cranky and grumpy listening to people having sex.)

***

On a related note, I just reread an e-mail I had sent to SR last month, and god would I love to do this to someone right now:

Once I get those pesky clothes off and get her into my bed, I will kiss all up and down her body, spending some quality time on her hopefully perky breasts.  I will trail my mouth down her body slowly, spread her legs with my hands, and start kissing the insides of her thighs.  I won’t go near her pussy until she is begging for me to touch her and grabbing my hair with her hands to pull me to her crotch.  Only then will I start licking in slowly narrowing circles around her clit.  I’ll press my lips in an O around her clit and suck.  Hard.  She will probably be bucking and grinding her hips into my face at this point.  I’ll use both hands to spread her legs as wide as she can go, so that I can really get a good view and lick her completely.

Then, once she is really dripping wet, I’ll tongue fuck her and lap her juices up.  I’ll slide two (maybe three if she can take them) fingers inside her, bent at the knuckle to hit her G-spot.  I’ll keep fingerfucking her with one hand while I work my way back up and kiss her on the lips so that she can taste her own pussy.  If she lets me, I would take her nipple in my free hand and pull and pinch it.  At this point, she will probably be thrashing in the bed, and might already have orgasmed a couple times.  I’ll be able to feel the muscles of her sex convulse around my hand.
When she’s calmed down a bit, I’ll slowly ease my fingers out of her pussy and have her lick my fingers clean.

Mmm…

And, finally, I think I should print this out and put it on the door of my studio:

Categories: the bi within

“There is nothing more depraved than a man on an ether binge”

October 22, 2008 2 comments

Initially right after breaking up with SR, I stopped thinking about threesomes completely, because it reminded me of my failed attempts to get him involved in one.  You’d think any man with balls would be pretty gung-ho and supportive of his girlfriend trying to get a threesome together.  But after hearing him laugh about it and mention how surprised he would be if it actually happened, my enthusiasm dried up, along with my libido.  I could tell it would be a one-person effort, and really, why bother trying with a guy who is so dismissive of the possibility?

And this is all, of course, besides the simple fact that the only reason he would ever visit me would be to have a threesome.  No thanks.  I’d rather go local if that’s truly the case.

Fucker.

(Who, bitter?  ME?  I don’t know what you’re talking about)

I guess I am not as over him as I had previously implied.  I still get the urge to kick any Audi I walk by in a parking lot.

In any case, threesomes are now back on my mind, and I can’t stop thinking about having one.  I certainly don’t want to do anything foolish or that I know I’ll regret, but on the other hand I think I need to do something completely sexual to fully transition out of my summer fling.

Does that make any sense at all?  I guess I am looking for a transition man (or couple) for mostly physical gratification, with a slight sprinkling of emotional comfort as well.  I wish sometimes that I had the ability of one of my closer friends to separate sex and emotion.  I recognize the physical desire, but cannot separate it from my emotional needs.  I have tried the hookup/one night stand thing, and the sex has never been satisfying*.  Perhaps it is just a case of not finding the right kind of man.  But I doubt I will be descending into the depravity that is college frat houses anytime soon to look for that satisfaction.  I am done with frat boys.

I suppose the one good thing that has come out of all this is that I am channeling a lot of this mental frustration into my artwork.  Not to say that I am making art related to my “internal conflicts”; more that I am converting all the drama, stress, and sometimes-depression into energy I can use more productively.  I guess the stereotype of the tormented artist does have a point to make.  Earlier this month, I attended a talk where a close friend revealed how sexual assault affected the art she made, even though she did not make that connection at the time when she was making her work.  It got me thinking about how my own artwork is affected by my personal life – something that I surprisingly have never considered before.  Is the fact that I am suddenly making wooden bird sculptures and woodcarvings a reaction to my summer in Boston and the messy aftermath?

Who knows…

*Oh, I did get close with one nameless blue-eyed Kiwi I met at a pool party in Taiwan.  He had the most alluring crystal eyes and tousled boyish hair.  The foreplay was amazing (he went down on me underwater!!!), actual penetration not as much.  He had great recovery time though.  After the first blowjob, we played around in the pool and got worked up enough to slip into the woods and fuck (condom-less and with his promise of pulling out.  Yes, I know, terribly irresponsible and dangerous, and I luckily came out of it clean and none the worse for the experience, except for a million fucking mosquito bites).  And after he came and we cleaned up and returned to the pool, he was completely hard again within 15 minutes.  After two complete orgasms.  But things turned sour quickly when we were caught mid-fuck on top of the waterslide, and I refused to finish him off while a lifeguard yelled at us from below.  He ignored me for the rest of the time I was at the party.  Figures.

Sketchbook stories

October 17, 2008 2 comments

I recently felt inspired to draw a little comic while thinking back to conversations I had with SR over how smoking pot might affect his ability to climax. He was worrying about how he often has a hard time coming, even when he really wants to.  I, of course, didn’t complain about his “problem,” since it gives him great stamina. But I suggested that his heavy use of pot might be part of it.  I wonder now if he is on any antidepressants or similar drugs, since those also can make climaxing more difficult.


(In hindsight…God, what was I thinking? Going out with a druggie and thrill seeker…Shakes head at self.)

I have been slowly getting back into the groove of drawing and woodworking.  My next project: learn how to weld in the metalshop (perhaps take a lesson from a certain tall scruffy sculpture student), and take advantage of the computer lab in the architecture studio to get more comfortable with CAD software.  And to get to the pottery studio at least once before the first snow.

It feels great to be learning new and interesting skills, and I’m going to take advantage of everything offered on campus while I can.  Tonight I will be attending a joinery session in the woodshop, learning to cut dovetail joints.

Life is good, life is getting better, and I don’t feel like this anymore:

Here’s to another Homecoming Weekend to remember!

Categories: art, graphic girl, sundry

Today’s HNT

October 16, 2008 Leave a comment

Ah, the artistic B & W classic nude.  Can’t really go wrong with it.

Is it really Thursday already?!  And how is it not even 7pm yet?!  I am ready to pass out in a hot tub with big beefy hands massaging my neck and back.  Mmmm…

Categories: nipply, photos