Can you tell my Superego is working hard to suppress my raging libido?
Superego working overtime.

After work, my daily dose of herbal opiate to smoke away the desire, to deaden the physical ache.
But it can't stop the thinking.

My butterfly wings are wet
So I guess I can't fly yet.

My soul freak is howling for its mate
One lifetime ago we were together maybe
and then I lost your grasp when the crowd tore us apart.
And I've been searching for you ever since.

We've been watching each other from across the universe
Waiting for the signals to verify
that it's you

Like discovering the next incarnation of the Dalai Lama.

I think you're closer and closer
And that's why my desire is getting stronger and stronger
Awakened by your proximity

Each post is another breadcrumb.

And I'm checking the mirror in the sky for the answers to love.
Breathing deeply all the time for the scent of your pheromone.

Veil up
or
Veil down?

Drag
or Straight?

Or perhaps I will just sit quietly, cast aside my mask and see where my shadow follows today.
I exhaust myself from thinking. And I am equally sentient in the daytime.

What is interesting is that since writing like this on a daily basis, it seems that other people's sex lives have improved.
Everyone feeling randy.

And what a martyr I am for Love I guess.
Nary a kiss on my muffin.
Nary a nibble on my shoulder.
Nary a tongue in my ear.

Love and sweetness.
All these years.
Substance.
Acceptance.

How can I let go?
How can I jeopardize?
Why is my freak trapped in a box?
Why doesn't he want it?
I don't understand sometimes how such an offering of oneself could be unwanted, rejected.
How can I change this?

Because meanwhile Desire is seething and growing impatient, insistent, dangerously desperate.
Desire is telling me "He doesn't accept you, He doesn't understand you, you will never reach your level with him."
I'm young. I know I have a Lifetime yet [ I hope ] of exploring to do.

While my love sleeps:

I am a restless and caged tiger
Prowling restlessly
through the house.

I lay out the photos of past lovers like tarot cards, juxtasposing and supposing.

I think of all the different mouths. And all the different styles of kissing. I think of their cocks.

If I were a man, reading the sentence:

I think of their cocks.

my penis would immediately stir to attention.
"what? did somebody call my name?"

The sweetness of my love for my mate is like teeth sinking into yielding flesh. How is it that we can love each other so much, and yet desire between us cannot be cultivated in our relationship?

I am a small young woman sitting on a bed. I'm wearing cut-off denim shorts which are too loose on my hips because I have lost much weight in this past year. A large t-shirt from a trade show. No bra.
Hair in a loose black braid. Bare feet with painted toenails. Oh, and yes, the standard black thong.

A disturbingly real portrait?

And my mind is alive and throbbing. Or maybe it's my psychosomatic aneurysm again.

I have been sexually active since the age of 18. But as aforementioned, I have had sexual feelings and fantasies since I was a child. Sexual precocity. Wide innocent eyes masking a world of knowledge. Sometimes I feel like my brain is being gang-banged.

Of course, I am not proposing that a rich fantasy life is a panacea. But I find myself escaping more and more into my imagination, like the whole world in front of me is some sort of montage of dream sequences.

I know it's awfully egocentric of me to think in such cinematic terms. But we are each the star of our own reality show.

"When you're ready to turn fantasy into reality . . ."
At the center of a board game, like Trivial Pursuit (which I love), where do I begin?

Of course, turning my fantasy into reality would mean this proposed scenario (it's a complex fantasy):

(in this fantasy I am an financially independent young woman who writes, sings, throws dinner parties and designs cheeky outfits for a living)

I have a lover for every pair of shoes.
I have a pair of shoes for every occasion.
Or perhaps, my lover is so perfect that he
compliments my multiplicity perfectly.

A young and tender boy to train and discipline
An older man to be firm and strict with me
A woman with whom I can fully abandon myself to pleasure.

My appetite is a vacuum.

Sometimes I would meet one lover downtown, dressed like a typical repressed "businesswoman". Efficient and results-driven intercourse ensues. A 69 perhaps.
Must have 100% ROI.

Sometimes I would be a college co-ed, hanging out in coffeehouses highlighting a philosophy reader, waiting for my professor's "office hours". We would discuss Relativism while he bent me over his desk.

Sometimes I am a pouty teen brat asking for trouble.

Most of the time, though, in reality, I am a tightly wound sexually repressed and frustrated young woman with an overactive libido, "ugly talents" as George would say to Martha, a wild imagination, and a man I love but who doesn't understand/appreciate/seem to want my freak. He likes the meat and potatoes.

I know I am not the only one who suffers this cognitive dissonance, who wrestles with their id.

I sit on the bus, day after day, a coiled spring, a live wire. But I keep this energy to myself, always afraid that if I let go just a little, the wolves would smell me.

I really could use a cigarette right now but I threw mine away. I'll find something to smoke though.

A beautiful woman and I had lunch today. We talked of our respective relationships.
How they satisfied the need for love and security, but didn't satisfy the inner freak.

We also talked about the merits of relationships with older men. Older meaning 30 +.
Men who are pussy connoisseurs. Who appreciate younger women with insatiable appetites and pussy control.

She and I are the same age. Mid-twenties. Hungry. She is bona-fide gorgeous.
Lunch ended with sighs and sexual frustration. As usual.
If I don't feed the kitty soon, something bad if going to happen.

On the MUNI today. Lots of pretty girls.
Sat next to a girl with the angelic face of Bai Ling. Shiny shiny little mouth. She was drowsy, slipping in and out of sleep, her head nodding off. She looked like what you probably imagine me to look like.
As I passed her to descend the bus she looked up at me. And her looking up was sublimely perverse to me.

Sitting down I was at eye level with a woman's crotch.
She was wearing flat front gray pants which hugged her very tightly.
Probably she was wearing a thong.
She held on to the bar for balance, which made her shirt rise up a bit, exposing a bit of her tummy, her belly button (an inny) peeking through.
I imagined that her without pants.
I imagined her without panties. I imagined she was either shaved or neatly trimmed.
I imagined her with both arms tied above her head, shackled to the bar.

This weekend for some reason I was thinking about that character "Chairy" from Pee Wee's Playhouse.
The talking chair?

I like to play "chairy". To sit upright, knees pressed tightly together on a man's lap. Playing ride the knee. Until he spreads his legs apart, and spreads mine with them. And I get to abandon myself to being fondled. The seated reverse cowgirl.

My insteps ache again. How lovely it would feel to feel the rasp of a tongue against the tender flesh there.

Today, lunch with a beautiful woman.

I love how fantasies can make even the despicable MUNI sublime.
Dirty minds travel well.

I haven't been spanked in a long time. Or punished really.
I suppose that's why I have such an acute persecution complex lately.
I haven't had a chance to repent.

It's been awhile since I was all tied up too.
and blindfolded.
and punished with extreme stimulation without release.

But don't cry for me Argentina.
O Susanna, don't you cry for me.

I need to get my dance on.
But it won't be this weekend so I'll have to wait until the next.
I like to dance on the stage.

Fools are less likely to step to me if I'm on the stage.

A challenge to myself and to whomever wants to take it on too:
Hands off your privates this weekend.
Hitting it with another person is okay, but no wanking.
At least not for me.

My hands are messed up enough already.

Happy weekend. . .Go . .Giants I guess. (sigh).

This is my official disclaimer (and apology) :
Read this blog at your own risk of being caught playing with yourself at work.

This morning there was a faint rainbow over Ocean Beach.
That was the bestest sign I seen all week: It's gonna be a good day, I said to myself.

My hands really are going out I think. Definitely the RSS/tendonitis. I guess it's best that I don't touch computers on the weekends.
Weekends are for going outside and having fun anyway! And I will watch the SuperBowl even though the day the Raiders lost it broke my ever-lovin' heart.

There's a new College Preparatory for Boys being built on Pine St.
Mmmmm. Boys. Young and tender. Full of youthful exuberance and stamina, enthusiasm and raging hormones and hard-ons.
To unlock all their potential freakiness, oil them and mold them to my desires as I would break in a baseball glove or a new pair of boots. And they're good to go all the time. Mostly, they're just waiting and watching (as any teenage boy does) for the go signal.

And if you get them fresh enough (the freshest I've had was 19 - but I was 20 at the time), you can train their game to be more than just the awkward adolescent "hey let's sit around then play wrestle and make out until you let me put it in."

Part of that training needs to be just sitting across from one another, in a room, studying maybe, looking at each other and building the tension and the energy. Until even breathing hurts soo good.

Proper training should also include submission and obedience, as always.
Blindfolds and Binding. The 2 Bs.
Oh, there's a third B, for Buttplugs, but that's really on a case-by-case, or arse-by-arse basis.

Young postulant must be stripped and oiled, kneeling in a corner with thighs spread apart to cause the buttocks and quads to tense, twitch, and eventually tire. Vision must be obscured. Trainee must endure, without climax, extreme stimulation of erogenous zones. Also, punishments will be meted out according to behavior.

I haven't smoked a cigarette in 3 weeks!

burning out like a supernova? sometimes I think so. my hands are going out, and I also think I'm going blind from too much, you know. This whole thing is like the beginning of a bad movie, like Sandra Bullock in The Net. Or the whole thing about crossing the line from reality into fantasy. It's all very possible. Everyone I know doubts my mental stability.

And my fantasy life is so attractive, too. Couldn't I just live in my dreams, where I can also fly?

I wouldn't mind kissing in the rain tonight.
And getting drenched so that my blouse sticks to my skin.
And has to be peeled off. Shivering naked skin covered in goosebumps.
Hard budded nipples.

Dopamine Junkie's Fave porn:

Jenna Jameson: Because she always plays a dirty, horny, one-dimensional slut with all the acting talent of Jennie Garth from 90210.

Asia Carrera: For obvious reasons.

Literotica.com: Because dirty dirty stories turn me on the most!

Barely Legal mag: too tasteful, but has good storylines to their pictorials.
Live Young Girls: dirty enough, some actual penetration, but insipid text.
**Tight**: this one is definitely my favorite of all the "barely legal" type magazines. It's hardcore, the girls look *down for whateva, the backgrounds are not too contrived but have enough hints of innocence that seeing a teddy bear on the floor next to a girl who's upside down and wearing two smiles, blows my mind. The storylines for the pictorials are interesting, too.

Club is good. So is Cheri.
Hentai comics are good, too.

Gay male pornos, with cops and young men always turn me on. Again with the power dynamics I guess.

Lesbian vids starring Lene. She always looks like she's really enjoying herself.

Blindfold me. Feed me.
Rub against my lips.
Till my tongue darts out like a snake.
Coax my mouth open.
If it tastes good I'll open up
If it feels good I'll open wider.
I'm so hungry.
It must be lunchtime.

I'd love to be kept.
A mistress.
A pleasure center.
Where you could run on your lunch break to escape.
You could eat me for lunch.
Or I could eat you.

An apartment outfitted for pleasure.
An arsenal of escapism.
A haze of sensuality engulfs and uplifts
far beyond the mundane responsibilities
and perfunctory motions.

I don't wish to become a prostitute
or a dominatrix.

And I'm too much of an ambitious young woman to squander my so-called career.

But my perfect day would begin under the covers
7.00 a.m. To cum as I awake
8.00 a.m. To eat a chocolate croissant and have coffee
Do the NY Times crossword
9.00 a.m. Stretch/do some yoga
10.00 a.m. Write/Update my blog/Listen to music/dance
11.00 a.m. Get waxed/Prepare for my lunchtime lover
12 noon - 2 p.m. Long leisurely lunchtime session
2.30 p.m. Take a bath/Exfoliate/Moisturize
3.45 p.m. Walk to the Ocean/Read
5.00 p.m. Catch the Sunset, smoke a bowl
6.00 p.m. Nap/Masturbate/Nap
7.00 p.m. prepare dinner/have some wine/listen to music
8.30 p.m. Cocktails somewhere with someone
Make out while I'm sitting on the hood of a car
10.00 p.m. Hit it in the car
11.00 p.m. Hit it in the shower at home/Moisturize
midnight Write/snuggle/chat/get fucked to sleep.

_end of dream sequence_

oh how I need someone to hold and kiss my ankle and instep today.

My most fucked up childhood masturbation fantasy (circa age 11?):

In my bed at night sometimes I would slip my hands between my legs to spread my labia apart.
I would close my eyes and imagine that boys from school I like were watching and probing me while I sang the Star-Spangled banner.

This morning on the bus I saw a woman who was seated, looking over some business papers. It was a middle aged, smooth faced Asian woman with very red lips. I watched her as a Caucasian young man walked onto the bus, and stood right in front of her, reading a magazine. I watched her eyes pulled to his crotch, which was at her eye level. I kept watching her trying to pull her eyes away, but inevitably her gaze would still be drawn to the slight bulge in his pants.

This is the only post for today. I'm not feeling very post-y.

I feel like I am a mess today.
I couldn't sleep last night, I had to rush to make it to work on time, I feel like a total disaster.
Are total disasters sexy? Like an earthquake, a hurricane, tsunamis, volcanoes, etc.?
Also I couldn't find my umbrella. My one and only favorite umbrella. And it's raining and cold outside. And I wish I were at home, in my bed, doing my "thing".*See 1/22, 1.22 p.m. post.

Leafing through my new porn. There is a "spread" of a young girl and the anemic intro storyline. What struck me was not the twat shots, or the acrobatics, the young fresh face and schoolgirl smile. It was more the setting, which was a grimy looking apartment, really, just a filthy looking broken down place, which was strikingly contrasted by her unblemished skin and "I'm young, but old enough to consent to being exploited for money" poses.

This turned me on. I'm not sure why. Is that my lowercase y chromosome asserting itself again? I'm not a "true" lesbian although I like to play with other girls -- I don't want to be in a committed lesbian relationship. So I wonder if there are other women, like me, who like going to strip bars, watching pornos, buying magazines, etc. Maybe it's that I can simultaneously project myself into these images, as well as be excited by them objectively. I guess it's safer that way?

I desire, I become desire, I am desired.

When I am on ecstasy I feel as if I am desire incarnate. Because I am so filled to overflowing with so much wanting, not only wanting for selfishness, but a wanting to give, to fulfill. It unleashes a powerful empathy and I feel like I am a magnet inside, being drawn outside of myself. And I want to give myself up, become a conduit and a sacrifice. Give someone the world inside me. Be sucked dry of all my love and life force until I'm a ravaged and empty shell. Finding fulfillment in that gift of myself, and the acceptance of that gift by someone who can consume it all.

I feel that way, on a smaller and less intense or overt way, every day. But I can't be consumed or digested by anyone around me. Most only want a small slice of my pie. And my complex taste is not always pleasing, I suppose.

Does this sound like the ballad of the co-dependent? Or just the "little girl who wants to be loved" bullshit again?

I think inside that I am very old, and that I have been travelling forever to find the other half of me. And sometimes the search is exhausting, frustrating, discouraging and lonely. And that the life that I have built is a temporary shack where I am hiding to conserve energy before I come out to search again.

What would Freud say about this blog?

Only Nietzsche would truly understand. Maybe.

You know about the passive job seekers? They're usually the best quality, most qualified, and they already have jobs. Of course they do. But they're always still looking.

What about a passive relationship seeker? Like me?

First thought of this gloomy damn Tuesday.

Maybe I'm just 2 demanding
Maybe I'm just like my father 2 bold
Maybe you're just like my mother
She's never satisfied. . .

Reverse cowgirl:

Male specimen lying on back.
Female specimen seated on male specimen's turgid member, facing away from male.
Female specimen perspective: facing away from male, preferably looking at a mirror.
Male perspective: Female specimen's posterior as it bounces up and down.

I thought everyone knew this one. Right? I'm not sure what this falls under in the Kama Sutra.

So this weekend I hit it and I hit it hard.

Nothing too freaky going on but I had a grab bag full of images in my head (both heads), ready to send me over when I needed the extra kick.

I have a mirror in my room so I can watch. Watch everything. Watching myself getting worked on. Watching myself go to work. Watching myself getting pounded and stretched out. Watching as each thrust made my titties bounce. My fingers working on my clit as I bounced up and down, reverse cowgirl style.

I didn't get to hit it on Friday night as planned, but I was a little tiger all weekend long. The kitty was starving you see, and it needed to be fed.

Somedays I need the sensual envelope, to be wrapped up in images of drawn out desire and power dynamics.

Somedays I'm purely carnal, animal, savage and just need a plumber to clean my pipes.

Somedays I prefer to stay at home alone with my collection of magazines and videos, stroking off until I cum, fall asleep for awhile, wake up, and do it again.

And maybe eat some ice cream in between.

What is this, week 3? Another week and I have the same reservations about continuing. Eventually I'm sure I'll become bored with this, just like everyone else.

But I've fallen deep into a well, and it will be hard to crawl out now. I am a pathological blogger. But
aren't all bloggers ridiculously driven to record their every shit, in hopes that someone will read them
and give a Shit? Most of these blogs are cries for attention out into that dumping ground for the obscure known as cyberspace.

Reading some of these other blogs here on Blogger.com,alas, each one carving out a bit of self-importance.
"Web publishing will make me a star!"

I don't wish to enter this particular competition for sympathy or recognition with the mindset that I would open this up for all the world to see. I've already received several suggestions as to how I could "increase site traffic" but I'm not interested in that.

I like keeping it "underground" so to speak. I like that not one of my "real life" friends knows about this little project of mine. It's only the curious that came over from CL that know. Barely a handful know of myif's existence.

My first dark and sexual feelings emerged as a child. Finding pornography hidden at my house when I was about 8 or 9. Not Playboys or Penthouses, but Cheri and Oui and Club and Odyssey, etc. So I've had this secret sexual life since childhood, the fantasies I would make up as a child while I masturbated, which in my religious household was considered very very wrong.

So I hid my desires in shame for a long time. And I guess I still am hiding.

I had a brief period, not too long ago, of complete sexual liberation. Of course, my circumstances then dictated that I separate all real emotion from my sexuality -- instead I felt more of a hedonist, an
instrument of sexual pleasure. It was easier to do when I had no real emotional involvement.

Since then my inner self has healed and I've achieved the kind of stability and contentment which has lulled me back into the Vanilla Zone; not that this is inherently undesirable, but I know now that I won't sacrifice potential lifelong commitments to casual freakiness. I just have to find other ways to express the inner freak.

This blog is it.

I still have a longing, though. To find everything wrapped up in one neat package, one person who can swallow it all, all of me; the just normal me, the freaky me, the childlike me, the badass sexual
predator me. Someone who gets it all.

Looking for that mythical creature, that unicorn with the big Horn.

I've wondered if I should stop, if this blog is overly megalomaniacal or misleading in its intention.

But I decided, this is where I can purge it all, get it all out, somehow virtually fulfill and become
desire.

And if the inner freak remains a secret until I am old and gray, like a diary, I hope to have this as a
record of a sexual vitality and passion. I hope when I am 60 I will read this to myself and still get off.

Speaking of getting off, I bought some new porn this weekend. I used it this morning.
I would review porn mags professionally if I could. A porn critic. Part-time job?

I crossed the Bay Bridge this weekend, and seeing Sather Tower on the Cal campus from the Bridge made me horny. Not just for it's phallic features, but because the East Bay, the Berkeley Hills, filled me with lust.

Last blog of the week. DSL is dead at my house, so I'll be back on Monday. Hopefully with salacious tales!

I don't axe much in return for this little cubbyhole. But I hope that around the city, or wherever you are, that something wickedly scandalous happens this weekend.

As for me, I shall spend this weekend trying my best to release the stress, be low-pro, kick it with my homies. I also have to buy some new boots.

If the weather's fine enough, catch a sunset.

I may be freaky, but that doesn't mean I don't like to "walk on the beach" just like all the other w4m's!

My parting list of things that get me:

Being called "little one"
Being fondled at the movies, underneath my coat
Giving head in a bathroom at a club
Getting head in a bathroom at a club
Stockings, garters, and no panties.
Being fucked to sleep.

Have a wonderful weekend.

chocolate croissant and coffee for breakfast. heavenly.
oops. sorry for interrupting. please keep reading.

btw, I sat next to a girl on the bus today who was wearing pigtails. it wasn't me!

Among other things, I am a bit of a hypochondriac. Dizziness, chest pains, flutterings in my tummy - I fear the worst but also hate going to the doctor. But most of the time, when I actually make it to the doctor, I am repulsively healthier than I think I am.

Once, the doctor checked my lungs and said, "Great! Your lungs are very clear. Not a smoker, right?"

I wondered if she was being sarcastic.

Don't even get me started about the gyno. One word that makes me cringe: DUCKBILL.

Power dynamics are very sexy, I think. I don't have any specific doctor fantasies, but I used to visit a very attractive older man, my chiropractor, for awhile. Balding on top, a neatly trimmed mustache and beard, always wearing comfy looking loose pants, Birks and socks, dark turtlenecks. He always looked so relaxed.

And his magical hands could pinpoint my sorest spots immediately and work out the knots with his strong fingers and hands.

He would first adjust me facedown on his padded bench. Then he'd instruct me to straddle the bench, and he did the same, sitting behind me.
I'd taken off my shirt to wear the hospital smock, open in the back.

- You'll need to remove your bra.
His voice behind me.

I reached back to fumble with the clasp.

- Would you like me to do it for you?
He asked softly.

- Please.

Warm hands expertly unfasten the clasp, brushing against the skin of my back.

I am thankful that he cannot see my face, see me blushing.

He moves to reach his tube of jelly, squirts some onto his palms, applies the cold gel to my back. The ultrasound wand is pressed to my skin, moving in circles. I relax, drift.

And suddenly I feel his hands massaging my lower back, sweeping down to encircle my waist, slipping forward to touch the skin of my stomach. I gasp and arch back into him, my head on his shoulder, and we both look down to see his hands moving over my chest, under the thin hospital gown.

I am waiting for him to cup his hands beneath my breasts, and stroke their undersides with his thumbs, to make me shiver and my nipples bud.

Then his palms directly on my nipples, grazing over them before satisfying me with the firm pressure of his hands, gently squeezing.

At the same time his tongue slips into my ear, and one hand slides down my stomach to my inner thigh, sweeping to cup my steaming little snatch, humiliatingly soaked with my cream.

- end of dream sequence -

Back to your regularly scheduled programming.

If I were a food, I would want to be a creme brulee.

O my darling reader(s):
I can die now having fulfilled my secret purpose of being a professional muse!

I am an unbelievably lucky woman to be possessed of so much beautiful art -- the fantasies, the stories, the baring of secret souls -- I'm truly astounded. What is this strange phenomenon that I didn't know existed until now?

When was the first post? I don't even remember.
Now I can't abandon this little "project" even if I wanted to.

Please, I want you to know that I am not trying to be self-congratulatory -- I am really really thrilled at the caliber of hope/material being expressed in correspondence with me.

That's the first thought of the day. Good morning. What a wonderful Friday. And hopefully, I'm getting laid tonight!

My apologies to everyone.

In the midst of some serious work related stress, which include some serious client ass-kissing, people yelling at me, and all around lightheadedness and frustration, I check my email and got some creepy messages.

Today I was easily agitated. In a not good way.

So I'm sorry. I promise I'll be back tomorrow after some serious alternative stress relieving methods tonight.

I feel bad. I feel like my head is going to explode.

Now you see why I needed an outlet so bad, needed to escape, needed to put myself in a bubble.

I'm so sorry. So terribly sorry.

Contrite, the little one.

someone out there is enjoying watching me unravel.
and almost made me lose my cool.
and almost made me lose my sense of humor.

pulling on my "pigtails" to get my attention.

You know who you are and I will be forced to release your email address to this posting board, punishment to be meted out by all my knights in shining armor out there.

How does anyone know who I am? Are you sure it's me? Do you know that I am most days totally unassuming in appearance?
Stop freaking me out with your "I've seen you and I know it's you" emails, I will implore but ONCE.
It's not encouraging me to continue what I have started.

so here's a dose of reality to support my dimensions.

if only i could eat lunch, at lunch, or anytime around lunch, the way I used to.
work sucks. it makes me have to be serious, stressed out, and hungry!

haven't been outside to eat in a week. haven't had even a half hour lunch in awhile.
always working. because guess what? I'm a hardddd worker. With a work ethic that I guess has been bred into me, although I have a secret wish always to be a slacker. Sometimes I get jealous of the hausfraus.

now do you think I'm for real?
is my work whining "sexy"?

probably not. but if you were my slave, you'd have no choice but to listen to it as part of my "torture."
Slave! Re-prioritize my action items list! Give me a status report!
And then recite to me our company's mission statement while I fuck you with my enormous strap on!

letters threatening that readers are dwindling now that it's just boring old me, out of the craigslist context. i guess when i'm not contrasted by the "where have all the cowboys gone?" postings i'm not as alluring. out of context i'm just a fish gasping for air on dry land?

Henceforth I will only assume there is one reader. And that even if there is no "site traffic" one day these recorded desires will be a gift -- a record of my search for my soulmate.

Spooky replies have made me uncomfortable; although I know the sadists out there are rubbing their hands together with glee at my discomfort, I think I'll need to protect my anonymity more if I hope to continue.

So no photos of me. Ever. I don't trust anyone out there. This self that I am exposing here is a vulnerable one.

And how long my stamina will hold out is another thing.

Today I was riding the 1ax since I missed the 31ax. A man beside me was fooling with his PDA. His thigh and arm were pressed against me. I kept my eyes closed, and my energy to myself as much as possible.

Riding the 31ax I think I see men looking at me more directly in the eyes, looking for something, observing hopefully. Or maybe I have become paranoid.

Poor little girl trapped in a bubble of her own desire.

Some days I am more real. Some days I am more fantasy. Somedays I feel invincible and aggressive. Somedays I feel like I want protection. Somedays I want to teach young and tender men. Somedays I want to be taught a lesson. Switch switch switch.

What's dangerous I think is that I am allowing more than the sensual facet of my personality come through.

what gets to me (Part I)

being a voyeur
gay fucking
2 lesbians, a double headed dildo, and an anal plug
DP scenes in straight porn
DP scenes in gay porn
literotica.com
Hentai comics
long road trips and a man who can drive with one hand
high school bleachers
pretending to lose my virginity
Tight magazine
Barely Legal magazine
Phone sex
Hot tub fucking

Good morning.

Thank you for hanging out. You are all perverts. Thinking about sex when there's work to be done?
I know. Sigh. Me too, me too. I am guilty.

I am not a boy. I am not a man. I am not some Machiavellian schemer trying to fuck with anyone. I've been repressed for too long, and I just wanted an outlet.

Thank you also for the messages that get me, that get to me, that take my breath away with their imagery, that hit me with a sudden jolt of desire, hard and quick, making me gasp as if I've been penetrated to the very depth of my womb.

Fond memories of a past lover:

A lover bought me a tiny and sheer white thong. We get to the truck, and I ask if he can help me slip it on. He reaches beneath my skirt (I'm not wearing anything underneath - that's why we had to buy it), slides his hands over my ass, down the backs of my thighs, knees and calves to my ankles, where he grabs one of my feet and slides the panties on, one foot, then the other. We are standing facing each other at the open truck door. He draws the panties up my legs, under my skirt, to my waist.

I feel like a little girl. A hot little girl.
Such a little thing, he didn't even lay a finger on my kitty. But I was liquid fire.

Later on, when we had driven back home, he parked in a faraway spot in the parking lot. He comes around to open the door for me. His truck is a bit high off the ground, usually he has to help me down. I am ready to slip into his arms to be lowered to the ground. But in the darkness of the parking lot, he grins at me and unbuttons his fly, pulling his pants and his stretch boxers down to reveal a massive hard on.

Grabbing me by the waist he lifts me until my legs are around his waist, and he deftly yanks those little panties to the side, lowering me onto him until I feel myself opening to his tip, then being fully impaled.

Niiiice.

I'm loud as he pounds me against the side of his truck, my weight fully supported by his arms. All I can do is hang on and savor each stroke and thrust, with my head knocking against the truck, my eyes rolled back in pleasure.

Sigh. back to work. or at least I'll try to hold out on posting again until after lunch.

Someone recently observed that I am in search of an audience, not just one man.
It's partially true. But I'm hoping that within the audience there is that one man, with keen hearing and a sharp eye, whose senses are attuned to mine.

Like the panoramic sweep of a camera before focusing on that one detail that catches the connoisseur's eye.

Who doesn't wish to be singled out of a crowd?
Who doesn't wish for an audience?
What's so difficult to understand about a woman who wishes to be wooed, to be courted?
That's the way it was in the old days, right?
And wouldn't it be nice to have a little bit of tradition in this world where so few parameters still exist?

I was tired of defending myself and being accused of megalomania.
I have a slight persecution complex that's been aggravated by recent hateful emails, and now this expulsion from the CL personals -- oh the blows to my self esteem!

Despite these minor setbacks, I have retuned the frequency of my desire to this url.
While all this fascist un-posting was going on unbeknownst to me this weekend, I was enjoying the quiet and meditation at Harbin Hot Springs in Calistoga.

Shed the clothes, shed the stress, shed the layers to walk about nude in lovely surroundings, immerse myself in the steaming hot water, going into the cold tub to cool off, walking to the dry sauna while the steam rose off my heated skin.

In the sauna, closed my eyes to let my mind drift away to a bare wood cabin with nothing in it but a bed and bathtub and a chair.
Barefoot and wearing a wifebeater tshirt and cut off shorts.
And those damn pigtails.
Had to control my hands from wandering between my thighs.

I knew the older naked men in the sauna were watching me.
I knew I was the only woman in the sauna.

Everyone was already breathing hard. In fact all you could hear was breathing.
That sauna was already a wooden room, with the barefeet and all the nudity.
Steaming hot skin and the sheen of sweat.

And the thoughts of submission creeping through my head. Lightheaded and dizzy I walked out into the open air to cool off.
And I thought again of meeting by the Ferry Building. And the 911 phone call. The freedom of anonymity. No names, we agree.
At least not for now.

In this way I do not exist, not as a functional proletarian, not as a dutiful daughter and sister, not as a doting girlfriend.
I exist only as an insatiable desire, constantly impatient and throbbing, frustrated and brought to my knees by this need.
To be controlled? To be understood? To be fed?

I am not the outdoorsy hiking companion or the cultured foodie.
I am not the girl to cuddle on a cold winter's day.
I am not the Saturday morning sleep in fuck with breakfast afterwards.

My desire is a guilty ephemeral pleasure to be savored like a sweet milk chocolate with a gooey center.
Melting in your mouth like the sweet ache inside me.

I love the replies which make me gasp, and twitch inside with wanting.

Not new, not improved, just still here.

Is anyone still listening?

Kicked off CL and forced to run for cover.
So here I am. In a little cubbyhole. At least this will be a gleaning.

As for my desire, it's still unstoppable.
As for the object of my affection, I'm sure he will follow my cybertrail here.
As for any further correspondence, I am as always, still here.

From: anon-619757@craigslist.org
Date: Fri Jan 12th 12:38 PM
Subject: from craigslist.org: (women seeking men) Max. your I.F. (VI)

Message 6 of 6

Are the sharks circling? Waiting to take another bite?

I wouldn't blame them. I like biting too, and to be bitten. It's like
the tensing before the strap, the squeeze of the grip on my hair by the
roots. A gasp of pain before it is eased and how delicious is the
relief that I want to do it again. And although I'm not a vampire, I'm not
averse to tasting a little bit of blood.

The average attention span of the american male respondent to these
postings seems to diminish by the hour.

But I know that when I've developed a fascination with something that I
can observe objectively each day, I am disappointed when it's not
there.

So I'm back for those who care, even if there's only one of you out
there.
And I'm also back for the critics, because I am a part-time masochist.
And for like the boys who pull girls' pigtails to get their attention,
I am the girl who wears pigtails ALL THE TIME.

Speaking of pigtails, I wear them often, even to work downtown, even to
the conservative stuck in the early 90s enormous shopping/office
building complex where I work. In pigtails, I think I pass for about 15,
when I'm totally fresh faced and shiny clean.

Sometimes I have the standard office fantasies, of desks and closed
doors and drawn curtains, and dirty memos. Of being called in to talk
about "my performance." Unfortunately since I'm in mid-mgmt, that doesn't
happen very often. But when I lunch across from the Ferry Building and
stare at that big clock, I often wish there were some sort of sign I
could throw, like a 3 word phone call, coded message to "meet me here in
15 minutes, I just need to kiss you." Listen in anticipation and watch
the clock, hoping not to run out of time, listening for the footfall as
you approach and I become a live wire as I sense your nearness. Kiss
delicious and deep against a cement wall in the shadows. Listen for the
clock tower to chime the one o'clock hour. Detach. Recompose. Feel the
tearing as we walk away. Suffer the longing back at my desk, with my
fingers pressed to my. . thinking of your silky tongue.

Sometimes I don't have the energy to be a femme fatale, to be a sub, to
be "somebody's baby". Sometimes I'm not aggressively and blatantly
sexual. Sometimes I need to be coaxed. But it doesn't take much. Esp. if
you know how to walk into my head and turn on all the lights. And find
me with my secret desires, one after the other, chained to a wall, or in
a box or coccoon, waiting to be freed.

I took a psilocybin induced trip there once, to that place I would like
to bring someone else to, and what a playground it was, full of Me's
waiting for their playmates. Holding teddy bears, in that infamous
fur-lined cage, standing next to a large dark wood desk, with a knife between
my teeth, astride another woman, waiting in line for my next
confession, or waiting to meet you "under the bleachers".

I saw the full moon the other night. Mmmmmooon. Full mooons. Taps into
the primal instincts to howl, to procreate like mad rabbits on e!

Incorrigible. Unstoppable. And now comes in Unapologetic!

Message V
http://www.craigslist.org/sfo/w4m/614739.html
Message IV
http://www.craigslist.org/sfo/w4m/612596.html
Message III
http://www.craigslist.org/sfo/w4m/610553.html
Message I/II
http://www.craigslist.org/sfo/w4m/609347.html


One person exposing desires can drive other people CRAZY (in a good AND
bad way.)


this is in or on your face

From: anon-614739@craigslist.org
Date: Wed Jan 10th 04:16 PM
Subject: from craigslist.org: (women seeking men) Maximize your inner
freak (V)

Message 5 of 5

Firstly, let me preface this posting: If you are going to respond to me
only to insult me, then don’t waste your time because your emails get
deleted immediately with only the thought “What a sad, pathetic
asshole.” Or if they are especially interesting, they go into the "sadpathetic
asshole" folder, revenge to be meted out at a later date when I am
bored.

So now the mask is falling away. That’s what Message 5 is all about.
How strange that I started posting to reveal a secret self, to expose
hidden and unfulfilled desires; only to come to message 5 and realize
that in this era of immediacy and be sad that no one can wait anymore.
But however wonderful too, to have struck a chord. And that’s what I’m
after really – revealing myself so that someone else will respond in
kind.

It’s only been 2 days and I couldn’t keep up the mystery. Does the
reality of my admissions make me less attractive? Less horny? Less
alluring?

I am not interested in the disappointment of total strangers. I don’t
owe anyone a damn thing. Especially not a late night phone call for “hot
adult chat”. There are 976 numbers for that if that’s all you want.
And if you’re looking for an easy lay, why don’t you scope out the
working women in the Tenderloin. I would tell those pricks to eat me except
that would be a prize.

Day 3 and I’m already too demanding. Day 3 and most everyone has blown
their load. Including me. Mmmhmmm. And I did it all by myself, too
Daddy!

But tonight I will still be floating in my dreams, wandering through
these dark chambers in my mind, wishing I could reconcile them with my
heart, wishing for my soul mate to magically appear on the 31AX. Wishing
for a quiet lunch break of clandestine kisses in one of these dark city
alleys where you can lose yourself.

I don’t know how long I’ll go on posting, despite the criticism. But
from the replies I’ve received, there are a lot less lonely freaks in
the soul, who understand and are still clicking.

Down for whatever. Down for whatever.

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. And lazy caresses and lazy kisses, and the
time apart that makes the wanting begin again.

Realer than Real Deal Holyfield.

Message 4 of 5

Exposing my desire has garnered responses ranging from sophomoric to
judgmental to accusatory to tales of cosmic connections.

If it's not obvious by now, vulnerability for me is a strength and not
a weakness. Even with my head bowed low, I am watching you from below
with my dark eyes.

The "gentlemen" who tried to call me pretentious and shallow only prove
that you get the amateurs with the professionals. Why do people respond
only to insult? I will come into your dreams and you will drink my
golden nectar.

In sum:

Message one: profound coquette
Message two: impatient and heated
Message three: more honest and desperate with desire as a result of
reading replies
that got me soaking
Message four: time to get relief
(alone in my room, with a lesbian vid and some hardcore mags)

I've already said more than anyone probably wanted to hear.

Would it have been easier to swallow if my posting went like this:

bi AF switch, tenacious but misguided, ISO twin freak soul to wander
this world
a consensualized state of suspended desire?


I'm not a one-dimensional *uckbunny. I'm a little unbalanced, like most
people around here.
I gots some issues. They gives me the extra flava. There's a flawed
human being behind
these messages.



Message 3 of 5

It's true. I'm casting out a net just as much as you are. Hoping that
through the clutter and the crowd you will recognize my face. On the
street, on the subway, on the bus, in a crowded restaurant, you'll see me
and know me, long black hair and yes "almond shaped eyes", petite but
not rail thin, soft pale skin and small pouting red mouth. Eyes looking
openly at everything around me, looking, seeing, trying not to be lost.

Would you come up beside me to ask me, are you her? the one? waiting
for stepdaddy in a fur lined cage? Would you speak this bending low to
whisper this against my ear? Would your breathe against the exposed skin
of my neck make me shiver? And would I look up to you, a stranger, into
your eyes and be found out? Would you curl your lips with the knowing
that I am a willing and supple body that needs only to be stroked in the
mind to initiate the wetness and the warmth and the breathlessness of
desire?

Do your fingers itch to brush away the wayward strands of hair that the
breeze blows onto my face, do your fingers itch to twine themselves in
the hair of the nape of my neck, grabbing me and pulling my head back
before grazing your teeth along my shoulders?

Will you feel my heat emanating from between my legs and inhale the
scent of my arousal? Will you make me blush with your knowingness? Will
you reward me or punish me? Will you push me up against a wall and rub
yourself against my ass to

I don't want your love or your issues. I don't want to heal or mend any
of your old wounds. I don't want to be your cuddlebunny who makes you
feel content.

Desire is a state of discomfort, of wanting, of aching to be fulfilled.
You're out there. Maybe you still are interested in me. Maybe you think
I'm a manipulative shallow fraud. I don't care. I am a careful woman
with taboo desires in a dangerous world.

I don't waste my freak on just anyone. I won't submit my desires to
just any guy who tries to challenge me in a response "can you back up your
claim of being freaky?"

Those men obviously didn't get me. But I know you're out there, and
that you get me. And that you'll know how to get me hooked on you just
through your words.

Message 2 of 5

Reading the responses I received to this posting, I wanted to be more
honest about my parameters.
I am not looking for true love. I already have one. The truth about it
is that it will always remain pure and
chaste. If you can understand this, if you can understand that there is
more than 1 kind of love, more than 1 kind
of need, which requires fulfillment, then you understand a little more
about me.

And although I am educated, I always believe in Higher Education.

Reading the emails today in response to this posting, I shifted in my
seat to let the warmth spread.
Stroke after stroke of endless fantasy, my eyes closed to imagine my
total submission to these collective
desires.

Stamina. Breathe. Stamina. Want. Need. Simmer. Simmer.

Dammit.

I can't respond to you yet. I want you to want me, not just cast out a
net of emails and hope to catch
something. I know you're out there. I just want to make sure you know
it's me, your Next Step, the one you where
meant to intersect with. It's a desperate world out there, but I want
masterful and focused desire. Focused on me.

I am a woman who knows that she is beautiful in the nude, who
appreciates the wet sluicing of water on
taut and naked skin, and who enjoys the sensation of warm smooth flesh
on her lips and a controlling hand on her hipbone.

I want a response that I cannot ignore or click through.
I want a response that will put me over the edge, not just warm me up.
I want you to blow my mind before my body.


Message 1 of 5

inside you
inside me

there is an inner freak.
can you help me release it?
can i help you release it?

First stroke through words, as the mind is our most powerful and
seductive organ. Looking for an
intellectual connection with someone who understands the darker
chambers of desire that we don't always
get to explore.

what do I mean by this cryptic plea?

I wasn't abandoned or abused as a child, so none of my sexual fantasies
have anything to do with that --
but I do enjoy sensualizing taboo situations, well actually
sensualizing anything. It works best with a safe
partner who doesn't have to be paranoid that you're a "pervert" --
who's equally immersed in the fantasy.
Why fantasy? Not necessarily to escape reality, but to
achieve/receive/perceive pleasure via alternatives to
vanilla sex.

Even if you're not interested in me, a bi-asian-femme subdom, employed,
without any major issues, and
not looking for a new person with whom i can be co-dependent, drop me a
line a let me know what you
think about this.

Mmm. Styrofoam packing kernels. Cherrywood tables. Red Ribbons in long
black hair. Red toenails.
Laughing. Chocolate. Melted chocolate. Being naked in the wind. In a
fur lined cage waiting for
stepdaddy!











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this is in or around back in the ring