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In which I blather on about laptops late at night

February 14, 2010 2 comments

I should be asleep right now, but since I downed three shots of espresso over the course of my evening shift tonight and then went to spend time with the visiting family afterwards, I can’t shut my brain off and am here, writing, instead.  Oh, morning café shift, how bleak you look right now.

I am still very much hurting over the theft of my laptop this past Monday, and part of my lousy mood all week has been feeling that loss during the day (especially considering that I lost it while at work), and then repeating the scenario in my head at night, unable to sleep for all the alternate paths that day could have taken.  If only I had… I should never  have… I could have…

All of it hurts.  The fact that I had gotten so accustomed to the familiarity and friendliness of my workplace as to have let my guard down.  The fact that this was something I had so wanted, that I had hinted I wanted to my mother, that she then gifted to me for the holidays: this big, expensive laptop.  The self-battering of my own negligence, carelessness, and blatant disregard for city culture.  The fact that it’s my first significant theft to impact me so strongly on an emotional level.

Sure, part of me scoffs: all for what? A hunk of replaceable and exorbitantly expensive metal?  The fact that I even have a backup laptop, my old college Dell, is suddenly a blessing.  A part of me relives the scenario purely to be able to imagine punching in the faces of the two kids who lifted the computer.  It is unfortunate that it’s when I am tired and ready for bed that the defenses strip away enough to get to a point of pure emotional vengeance, and it’s enough to kick up my adrenaline and make it that much harder to fall asleep.

It doesn’t help that I’ve continued to get mildly intrusive and disturbing phone calls from someone in response to the craigslist ad I placed, asking about my missing laptop.

In the midst of everything, I am debating whether to get a new laptop, which seems more and more necessary given the kind of work I am doing, and if so, whether to replace the Macbook Pro or shoot for a more ergonomical and economically-feasible PC.  Most PCs with similar specs to my Macbook are equally powerful at a third of the cost.  I recognize that if I bought a Macbook, a large part of the money is going to the brand name tax and the aluminum unibody.

Yet, as so many Macbook owners can attest to, having used one now makes it extremely hard to go back to PCs.  I can rationalize wanting to replace what I’ve lost in an attempt to keep my new status quo.  And Macbooks are so different from PCs, whereas I’d have no issue switching between, say, a Dell and a Lenovo.  This is purely on the body design, because, as a third option, I could also buy a cheaper PC and install Snow Leopard or Ubuntu to run on it instead.

So many thoughts running through my head.  And there are a bunch of Valentine’s Day sales on electronics over the weekend, which makes it tempting to just bite the bullet and purchase a $500-600 laptop now.  (Though why electronics should go on sale for Valentine’s Day mystifies me; are iPads the new rose bouquet and chocolate package?)

I doubt I will, though.  I’m not a very impulsive shopper, even in thrift stores.  I hate accumulating more physical “stuff.”  And yet, I still want another Macbook Pro.  Ugh, I reek of consumerism.

The other topic that I’ve been considering seriously is developing a more regular climbing and workout regimen.  At the moment I have been trying to make it to the climbing gym once a week, and I’d like to also attend their weekly yoga classes as well, though so far the 7:30am class time remains a daunting goal.  And this entire concept of a regular exercise schedule is so foreign to me.  For a while, in my teens, I shunned the idea of exercise for the sake of physical fitness, believing that physical fitness should be maintained through actual labor that also accomplishes something else.  I so disdained the idea of pure, abstract exercise, with its tinge of privilege and class.

Yes, I had rather quite a few high headed beliefs as a teenager.  And I’d like to think I’m not so self-righteously perched on that marble pedestal anymore.  However, a direct consequence of this belief has been that I’ve never prioritized exercise mentally, nor have I formed habits for keeping to an exercise schedule.

Surely it cannot be that difficult.  And since my climbing gym in fact is a full workout gym as well, I have very little excuse to not get in better shape and increase my flexibility.  On a bright note, despite not having climbed for the past couple of months, after just a few trips to the gym I’m already getting on 5.10b routes, which I never attempted while at school.  And I get a better endorphin high and have more fun climbing than I ever will running or working the ellipticals.

And, yes, for anyone who’s already thought this, a large part of my increased level of interest and awareness of my physical fitness is, indeed, to be able to handle more as a rope bottom.  What can I say?  We all have our vices, alas.

(Oh, let me amend that.  At the last Exiles munch, I arm-wrestled with three of the attendees, and lost to two of them.  There’s plenty of motivation right there!)

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Categories: dream, firsts, life lessons

wet dream

November 9, 2009 1 comment

Veering off radically in topic from my last two posts is this little snippet:

A few days ago, T sent me a link to this Public Disgrace video.  Later that day I sent the video to Dov.  Dov reciprocated with this, another Public Disgrace short.  To complete the near-incestuous porn-sharing circle, I sent that video back to T.

Is it a wonder, then, that I dreamt last night of having to walk around in public with my underwear around my knees, right below my jean skirt?  I was in a little open plaza flanked by stores, bars, and cafés, and I walked through each, trying to avoid the glances of the people around me.  Forced to take small steps because of the underwear, I couldn’t run, and I could feel my entire body flushing from the mix of embarrassment and arousal.

I began looking for a bathroom stall as the arousal grew into a desperate need for release.  Yet I would enter a stall only to find the door disappear, leaving me exposed to the store or restaurant patrons.  Even that amount of humiliation couldn’t deter me from moving on to the next store – only to have the same thing happen again.

And, as dreams so often do, the scene shifted and I ended up in my childhood bed, legs splayed and fingers working furiously to bring myself to climax while, through the bedroom windows, I saw and dismissed the mailman walking past (he shouldn’t have had to walk anywhere near my bedroom to drop off the mail…)

The sunlight seeping through the window brightened, until white bordered the periphery of my vision.  Everything focused on the buildup in my groin.  And just as I could feel the impending release, the cresting of the tide,

my eyes opened, and I felt like I’d just climaxed.  In my sleep.  I reached down to where my underwear was still on me and not around my knees.  At the very least, I was incredibly, undeniably wet.

So, back to that second Public Disgrace video.  Given my history of sexual and service-oriented experience, it doesn’t surprise me that a video with sexual objectification and humiliation in it would affect me so strongly.  But, wow, I was surprised at how easily I could imagine myself in Charley’s place (I was also smitten with the way Princess Donna drawled her name).  To take, as T put it, “her role as party playtoy.”  Yum!

It really is a pity that I can never realistically apply to any of the Kink.com sites, due to the obvious issues of exposure.  Moving to San Francisco and getting the opportunity to visit the Armory and meet some of the fantastic people that work there just makes me all the more disappointed that that is not an option for me.  I am pretty sure I’d have an insane amount of fun, and they just have the most incredible set-up for making fantasies like this a reality.

Categories: dream, fantasy, links, submission

Burning Man 2009: Evolution

September 8, 2009 2 comments

After I left Black Rock City and the playa of Nevada, I had a hard time processing everything at once.  Dov urged me to just write, stream-of-consciousness style, and just see what happens.  So I got out my sketchbook, drew a bit, and then started to write.  This is as far as I got before sleep overtook me last night.

And, unfortunately, the camera I took to Burning Man is currently MIA, and it would be so much easier to express this with accompanying photos.  I took the liberty of browsing through the Burning Man Flickr account to link to some of the gorgeous, breathtaking photos that have already appeared there.  So, no, none of these linked photos are mine.  Take a look through the galleries, though – because none of this writing even begins to break through to what I experienced on the playa.

What is this place?

Everything and everyone seems wilder, crazier, and kinder here.  It is a Carnival, lit up in LEDs and fire, where alcohol and stories flow freely and endlessly.

The Temple Burn.  Imagine over 40,000 people, waiting in absolute, reverent silence, all facing a beautiful, lotus-shaped, inscribed, burning Temple.  Gasp and cheers accompany each falling petal.  As the last wooden supports begin to topple, one shrill, animal scream pierces the air, somewhere in front of me.  One man has made that noise.

The whirling, dancing flames release a collective catharsis.  Like a rolling wave, shouts and howls and screams rise up from the circled mass of people; a crescendo of raw emotion.   All around me are people hugging, people crying, people laughing.  The agony is intense and sharp.

That is what I remember feeling most strongly: Agony.

I still can’t believe the time, effort, and money put into creating mutant vehicles and art cars.  I still can’t believe that 50,000 people materialized onto a high elevation, desolate, dry lakebed.  Half the time, I felt like I was on a movie set for a sci-fi, post-apocalyptic film.  There was so much leather and metal.  Piercings and tattoos.  Sculpted idols and personal gods.

The city is most alive at night.  Lights shine from domes, tents, decorated vehicles, and people.  The atmosphere is festive and wild.  There are blue mohawks, cowboy hats, wrist cuffs.  Sometimes on one person.  There are LED fairies, unicorns, grotesque steampunk-esque creatures that paced the playa on stilted limbs.  There are Victorians, nudists, fetishists, pixies and elves, drag queens, gypsies, hippies, ravers, rennies, pirates, vampires, and everything in between.

I have never seen so many intensely beautiful people.

What is this place?

I spent the afternoon – one afternoon in a place where time ceases to function normally – tying people up in the Lamplighter lounge and watching others get tied up in my rope.  Others watched on, or complimented a tie.  I got to teach a few, encouraging those who came up to me, expressing their interest and enthusiasm.  I have never felt so relaxed and comfortable in my own skin.

Order doesn’t matter.  It seems chaotic, but somehow, things don’t all break and fall apart.  A community is formed.  Many smaller ones, as well as the greater playa community.  It is both spoken and unspoken law: “We are here, together, in this harsh, inhospitable, unforgiving place.  We look out for each other.”

HNT: Through the Looking Glass

March 12, 2009 4 comments

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I wrote a story once about a girl, just entering the age of puberty, who discovers a restricted room in her house.  She finds the key to the room and enters at night, finding a dusty storage room with one large, full length mirror being the most striking object.  She wipes off the grime covering the mirror and realizes the mirror reflects her as a boy, with the full set of boy parts.

I never really finished the story, but I’ve always been intrigued by mirrors, and by the biology of sexual dimorphism.  (Though of course, sexual dimorphism in humans is not as simple as male and female anymore.)  I wonder if it has anything to do with the tomboy roots of my childhood giving way to my emerging realization that I actually like looking feminine now.  My 12-year-old self would be aghast and disgusted.

There is another story, of another girl who finds a hidden doorway in her house, that was recently made into a movie; Coraline.  The story is written by Neil Gaiman, so I’m really very eager to see the film.

Yesterday I woke up from a dream where I licked and tongue-fucked a friend before guiding a waiting cock inside her.  I could feel the tremors coursing through her body while my tongue was inside her, her moans echoing in my head through the morning hours after I woke up.

Smorgasbord life

November 7, 2008 2 comments

Two nights ago, I left a crowd of crying, cheering, clapping, hugging young college students at a frat house to walk across campus, where my car was parked.  As I breathed in the frosty autumn air, chills ran down the back of my neck and down my spine, not because of the cold, but in response to the echoes of shrieks, shouts, car and air horns reverberating through the air.  War cries of victory swept down the roads, from common room to common room, and people hugged and danced in the streets.

Yes we canYes we did.  The chanting began, and soon thousands of students were marching through campus to the president’s house, demanding a speech.  The message was clear and loud: We Won.

And, scattered throughout dorms and houses, in smaller groups that remained quiet, other students cried different tears, turned their televisions off, and maybe downed a shot of whiskey.  The message was clear there, too: They Lost.

While I am thrilled that the candidate I voted for has been chosen to lead this country, I did not share in the revelry of so many others.  Instead, while walking the short distance to my car to go home that night, I wished that there wasn’t such a sharp contrast of Us versus Them in the political sphere.  I guess it is instinctual as the social animals we are to divide things into such two distinct parties: with or against.  It is survivalist, it is conservative, and it preserves our traditions.  Humans, in general, do not like, appreciate, or support change.  And we are, always, aware of the Other.  There always has to be an enemy, right?

I’ve realized this in terms of how I personally deal with breakups.  The guy has to be an asshole, and I mentally emphasize his assholish traits in order to sever my emotional attachment to him and to rationalize the breakup.  Not that the whole thought process is rational, but it makes sense, in a way.

But, as with the whole political atmosphere, I’m starting to realize how harmful and self-destructive that can be.  SR recently e-mailed me, after a month-long silence, asking after me and whether or not I was still planning the threesome.  I immediately went on the defensive (hackles raised and everything, because why would he ask me about sex except to get me riled up?) but it wasn’t until he contacted me again asking why I had blocked him on instant messenger that I unleashed a month’s worth of anger and stress upon him via e-mail (sprinkled liberally with sarcasm that was amplified by my being so sick these past few days that I can’t swallow without feeling like I just drank a rusty razor blade puree).

And again I feel the impasse building between us.  I wish he had just left well enough alone and never contacted me.  I wish I didn’t feel like I have to label him the Enemy.  How do I deal with this mess, when there are so many other things demanding my attention and energy?  I feel so very tired, and I just want to be able to swallow normally again.

In other news, I had a most titillating dream a few nights ago, in which a friend of mine sat crying, hair covered in sudzy shampoo, in my childhood bathtub.  I don’t remember why she was crying, but I remember reaching over and half-smoothing her hair back, half-washing the shampoo away.  We were both naked and alone in the bathroom.  And then she leaned in and bit/suckled on my nipple, and I gasped in pure pleasure and lust.

And there was a moment of pleasure before I awoke to razor blades in my throat.

Where is Bob? and dreams

August 21, 2008 Leave a comment

May I never experience the managerial idiocy that the poor souls at Where is Bob? have to face daily.  At once hilarious and depressingly sad, I’ve become instantly addicted to this blog that details the misadventures of working in a university IT group under a completely incompetent manager.

In other news, I had a most unexpected dream last night.  I was in some kind of shadowy replica of a dorm room, chatting with a shifting number of girls.  At one point, there is only one other girl, also Chinese, sitting on the bed.  I can’t stop staring at her eyes, and suddenly we’re making out, lips pressed and drawing air like we depend on each other’s breath to live.  My ears and face feel hot where her fingers press into my skin – and somehow I know that my physical, dreaming body is reacting to the imagery.  And then her hand dips down between intertwined legs and against my groin.  I mimic her movements, and feel my fingers sinking into soft, wet flesh.  I push further, feel her muscles tightening around the two fingers now buried inside her.  The contact is overwhelming.

I wish I could remember more of what happened afterwards, but the image fades from there.  I may have been on the cusp of waking at that point.

It must be all this teasing to SR of how I’m going to get a girl with a strapon when he’s not around.

Categories: dream, fantasy, sex, the bi within

What would Freud say about all this?

May 30, 2008 Leave a comment


In this page out of Sandman: The Doll’s House, the female character, Rosie Walker, says, “Say, whoever you are. Do you know what Freud said about dreams of flying? It means you’re really dreaming about having sex.”

To which Morpheus, Sandman, and Lord Shaper of Dreams, replies, “Indeed? Tell me, then, what does it mean when you dream about having sex?”

I had the most vivid dream last night. And it was about having sex. This dream, however, has stood out in my mind, probably partially because of the lack of any actual sex, and the fact that it feature one of my girl friends. And the fact that we were sharing one guy.

One scene out of the numerous dream-scenes I remember especially clearly was that I rode this guy, helpfully condomed, on top, and I could feel my orgasm cresting with each undulation of my hips. I’ve no memory of who the guy was, but he was thick and hard, and that was all that mattered because I was coming in shallow gasps.

But, no, even that was not the most memorable part of the dream, because it soon cut to my friend’s turn with the guy. And, it still fills my head and my ears to remember it now, they both tore at each other, rough and loud and panting. I watched, awed, as the guy thrust his hands into my friend’s pussy, stretching it and manhandling her, while she moaned for more, harder, faster. It was disturbing, grotesque, but I couldn’t turn away.

And then she is gone, in a room somewhere with another guy, and I am inexplicably filled with a deep and brooding envy, because I want to be in that room. I wander aimlessly around the giant house of endless rooms, ending up in one vaguely reminiscent of my kitchen at home. And here things get even funkier, as dreams often do, because I am suddenly determined to make Jell-O with another friend who has appeared in the kitchen. We mix the powder and add pieces of fruit, but I want it to be sparkling Jell-O, and add flattened seltxer water and Sprite in the attempt.

Whew.

Categories: dream, fantasy, sex