Each time I write I take this "thing" a little further. And I am emboldened in my "real life" to test my limits.
Where will I go from here? For what purpose? What am I getting myself into?
Why do I continue? What do I hope to accomplish?

I do not write to provide jack off material.
I do not write to "fuck with" anyone's head.
(Unless specifically requested)

If you've been reading from the beginning, and watched the evolution of this Beast, the monstrous "thing", this Frankenstein creature which has given a host body (of sorts) to my sublime inner freak -- then perhaps you understand that it's not for pure entertainment purposes - like a phone call to a psychic.

Behind the cyberveil I am every bit as small and unassuming and full of whirling thoughts as I represent myself to be.

On days like today I feel I've been talking for a very long time, my mouth is getting dry, and I'm very thirsty.
I want a satisfying cool glass of quenching lemonade.
Or the figurative human equivalent.

I am much more relaxed today. Thanks to the ministrations of a new friend.
Lavendar oil and strong hands, the only pressure I felt was healing pressure and the strong steady thud of his heartbeat.

A moment of sweet solace, trust, acceptance.

In a world of angry City people, that quiet moment between two strangers was more intimate than just a grope in a dance club.
And for the dirty minded, no freakiness ensued.

Sometimes it's better to keep the freak on the leash, to experience something far more profound.

Another letter to my invisible Darling:

I want to feel everything you bring.
I want to feel your energy. Fueling me.
Not just sucking my energy away.
And that doesn't just mean your shell.

Being that I suppose I am a fantasy girl of sorts, despite my disclaimers that I am not a fantasy girl, I am not the voice you reach at the end of a 976 number or someone you pay a quarter to talk to. . . . I'm left quite out of the fantasy altogether.

It reminds me of when we used to play that
"if you were stranded on a desert island with one other person and one sex toy, who and what would they be?"
No one ever chose me as the "person". But lots chose me as the "sex toy".

But what about something to excite me?

Young Mistress seeks Master. To further my education.
I need a Master who is also my slave.

Who gets my brain fuckhole all wet, triggering unstoppable silkiness between my legs.
Gets me salivating, lubricating.

And I know you're out there. Waiting, watching, lurking.
Amused by my (sem)antics.
Pleased by my precocity.

I don't train anymore. Others I mean.
But I talked to a friend. And we may be holding "auditions".
Don't know whether or not I want to take that to CL or not.
I don't want to have to wade through the assholes again.

What we will need:

Unattached or guiltless male
Older than us (we're all 26)
Likes Asian women
Decisive, imaginative, discreet
Can move/feel/dance to hip-hop, R & B, jungle, drum and bass
Knows how to switch
Can pick up the cue because he is attuned and attentive
Pussy connoisseur (loves to smell it, eat it, fill it)
Available for sporadic, mind-blowing booty calls
Does not live with parents
Has living space to play in (I live in a freaking co-op, so no privacy there)
Equipment a plus
Understands safe words
Can chill in non-sexual environment and not be awkward
Knows how to give and receive punishment.
Knows how to give and receive pleasure.
NOT POSSESSIVE.
STAMINA.
A DIRTY MIND.
A DIRTY MOUTH.
Can hang with me, or maybe me and a friend, and maybe another friend, without
blowing his wad too early or losing his erection.

I guess that's just for starters.
But there are hungry girls out there.
Lots of kitties. and titties. and clitties.

What do I mean by auditions? I know it sounds absurd. But this whole blog is absurd.
And having to sneak around to get what you want is absurd.
But if you ever read Ionesco or Albee, you know that absurdity is all good.

My first posting to CL was an experiment.
I moved to this blogspot as an experiment.
Looks like this might be another one.

I haven't chickened out yet, despite my self-loathing remarks of being chickenshit.

Sometimes I just want to writhe on sheets with a hot naked man.
Sometimes I get so turned on, I'm a live wire and thoughts, music, a choice word, brings me to cumming.

Being small I love crawling onto a big man's lap.
To be cuddled, dandled, diddled, fondled. Crushed.

Two ex-lovers talked about me in my presence. Making fun of me.

- Did she ever call you Daddy?
- Yeah she loves that little girl shit
- And she always wants to lose her virginity!
- She's tight though. Real Tight.
- And noisy! She cums so loud!

Sometimes I can stay wet for a full day. Not even
touching myself.

Being on a man's lap also facilitates dry humping,
which girls love to do, "innocently", enjoying the
feeling of a stiffening cock as they grind their
little bottoms, squirming.

I can also play "chairy" like Chairy from Pee Wee's
Playhouse.

Sitting perfectly upright, legs pressed tightly
together. But when the legs beneath me spread apart,
my legs are also forced apart.

And it is easy for me to be open and fondled. One hand
working on my snatch {!} The other hand fondling my
tits, and my ass squirming obscenely on a "turgid
prick." Teeth sinking into the flesh of my shoulder.
Rasp of a tongue against the sensitive flesh of my
nape.

If I were impaled thus, stretched open and full, I
would want in this fantasy a women to watch us, watch
as I am stuffed and fondled. Watching her salivate
as I am worked out from the inside, deliciously
stroked to helpless gasping as my spot is relentlessly
caressed inside me.

I want that woman to be fascinated by the shaft
disappearing into me. So fascinated by my engorged
plump little clit that she is inexorably drawn closer,
excited by the cries of pleasure and the gyrations,
the bouncing flesh.

I want her hot breath on me. I want her to put her
mouth on me. To softly suck on my clit as my twat is
stretched and pounded.

To feel the combined sensations knock me out, beyond
all cumming.

Until I am left as limp as a rag doll. A real live
naked steaming sated sweaty rag doll.

And then, to be whisked away and bathed.

Self-critique of this blog:

The character Dopamine Junkie, while displaying human frailty, inconsistency and desire, still lacks a certain depth.
The reader understands that she is a sexually aware and yet repressed young woman in a long term relationship with a man she loves for reasons other than sex.

Madame Bovary?
Anais Nin?
Edna Pontellier?

"I'm jealous of your thoughts tonight. They're making you a little kinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if they were not here with me." She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued silently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers.

It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire.

- Kate Chopin, the Awakening


DJ: Sex is easy. Pleasure is hard. Ultimate satisfaction takes dedication, determination and courage.

Critic: DJ is clearly a slave in search of a Master, a Master looking to apprentice, and a slave to Passion overall.
Her struggle with her inner yearnings are palpable, and the middle class sexual mores with which she was raised are clearly the invisible bars which keep her caged, even while she stuggles with Love as an opiate to keep her unfed carnal animal sedated. She "paints herself into a corner", and locks herself away inside a box "papered with desires". She is aware of her ability to suppress, to repress. And she is aware that doing this to herself is exhausting, and that her "rescue squads is exhausted" as Bjork would say.

But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is
necessarily vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing.
How few of us ever emerge from such beginning!
How many souls perish in its tumult!

The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering,
clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in
abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward
contemplation.

The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea
is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.

- more Kate Chopin, the Awakening

***********

Spend most of the weekend in bed, sleeping, reading and writing.
Thus the literary mood. The foghorns and the crashing of the waves lulled me into a lackadaisical suspension.
I was feeling a little depressed this weekend. More melancholy I suppose. The weather creeps into my mood.

I went through a period of depression that lasted a few months and wrecked an entire quarter of college for me.
Thus the dopamine junkie. Meds helped.

I spent a lot of that time in a catatonic state, crying all the time, ceaselessly, for no reason in particular.
My young and tender and loving boy did not know what to do with me.
He would listen and wait patiently at my side, waiting for the tears to ebb.

And so it developed that he would hold me to comfort me, cradling me in his arms, on his lap.
And the sensation of my small warm weeping body would stir him.
He would nuzzle my neck, my ear.
Licking my tears away.

In my catatonic state, I would find solace in the distraction his seduction provided.
Sex is the antidote to death, the affirmation of life.

Slowly, as I sobbed and hiccuped, he would undress himself, he would undress me.
And each kiss he gave me melted me a little more.
And every shudder he drew out of me shook me a little more out of the daze.
And the warmth would spread over me, the blood coursing through me hot, again and again, he would
coax me out, at least the me who was flooding his relentless tongue.

He wasn't satisfied until I was shaking in his arms.
And when the sobs turned to moans, he penetrated me.
Watching the tears dry and my eyes refocus as he stroked me.
Fucking me back to life.

The Aural Seduction Mixes by the Dopamine Junkie are under way.
Where is the thick vibe in the City? Where can I go to melt? To dance away the toxins?
It's Friday afternoon and I am listening to Madonna - Justify My Love (XXX remix).
Wanting. . . Needing. . . Waiting. . . .

Oh shit. Today I had 2 lunches, both with 2 gorgeous females. Both who aren't sassified (as Clarence Carter would say) with their men. About to cut them loose. About to get back into the ring.

And I feel their urges, those urges are strong, and they're mixed with my own and I feel like I am breathing in desire.
And that any man who got in my path on a day like today would be my snack.

I am so small too. So tiny and crushable.
Sweet and Sour.
Full of little gasps and sweet little moans.
Soft and tender and sweet meat.

I'm just me underneath all the veils. It's really me.
I'm a girl you'd pass in the elevator.
The kind of girl who smiles back while looking at you right in the eyes.

And I'm confused. As confused of the rest of the passive relationship seekers.
As conflicted as the rest of us who wonder about what's more important - Love or Sex?

It's hard to want to reveal my true self.
Because if you listen, what if you're the One?
If you listen, what if it goes beyond lust?
If I listen, I can't close my eyes to shut out Truth?

Because I know that "all these years" and the beauty of an "evolved love" are too precious to throw away just to have the sweet taste again of all night long until the break of dawn exploration of a new bodyscape.

I rarely mention quotes from the Inbox of Desire. . but I have to pass this one on --

Everybody wants to be a porn star until it's time to take their clothes off.

Thank you. You know who you are.

Vox 1: Dopamine Junkie, are you ready to turn your fantasy into reality?
DJ: Baby steps for a babygirl.

Vox 2: You know that Jackson Browne song from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Somebody's Baby?
DJ: Yeah
Vox 2: Got to be somebody's baby . . .
DJ: I guess.

This weekend I am going to write, chill and listen to music. Hide from the rain. Write some more.

Everyone get your cuddle on. It looks mean and nasty outside.

I scanned photos last night. Putting my shell on the web. Instead of just the meat inside.
I would suppose that it's better to be imaginary and formless and undefined.
Imaginations are usually better than reality.

Looking at myself, I think, well, not drop dead gorgeous, but "pretty" and "cute" are reasonable adjectives.
As one man put it long ago, "Not strikingly beautiful, but adorably fuckable".
That's one of the best compliments I've ever received.

GRAHAM
. . . . . . I remember reading
somewhere that men learn to love
who they're attracted to, whereas
women become more and more
attracted to the person they love.

- James Spader as Graham in sex, lies and videotape

:Pensive:

Do I project dominatrix? Would this written voice of mine correspond to an image of a high ponytailed, pointy-shoed, leather or vinyl clad, red lipped kitten with a whip?
I guess I could be. But do I want to be?

Today I am in blue jeans and braids.
Smooth and simple on the outside.
Chewy and complex on the inside.

I have a healthy appreciation for the sexual objectification of both men and women.
I like to think of male and female faces expressing pleasure.
Sometimes, when the MUNI ride becomes utterly unbearable, I look around and imagine -
what does that guy's cum face look like?

On another note. . .music uplifts my morning too. This morning, Jill Scott, Spooks, Koffee Brown, Musiq, D'angelo, Michael Jackson.Music is a powerful tool of seduction. I remember a college lover who had his "Ultimate Panty-Melting" seduction mixed tape. Aka the Sex Mix. I've been thinking of compiling one of those myself.

Side A: Foreplay

Prince -
Rose Royce - I wanna get next to you
Major Harris - Love Won't Let me Wait
P.M. Dawn - I'd Die without You
Maxwell - Wherever Whenever Whatever
Massive Attack - Protection
Massive Attack - Teardrop
Hooverphonic - Inhaler
Sade - Flow
Sade - Someone already broke my heart
Pizzicato Five - Baby Love Child
Depeche Mode - Question of Love
Janet Jackson - Anytime Anyplace
Art of Noise - Moments in Love
Jodeci - Feenin
Prince - Adore
This Mortal Coil - Song to the Siren
Stevie Wonder -
Lewis Taylor - How would you like to be done?
Lewis Taylor - Blue Eyes
Kahimi Karie -
R. Kelly - Bump and Grind
Marvin Gaye - Sexual Healing
Lauryn Hill f. Bob Marley - Turn your lights down low
Erykah Badu - Didn't Cha know
D'angelo - Untitled (How does it feel)
Lauryn Hill and D'angelo - Nothing Really Matters
Air - You make it easy
Musiq Soulchild - Love

Side B: Fucking

Fiona Apple - The First Taste
Notorious BIG - Fucking you Tonight
Raze - Break for Love
? - French Kiss
Prince - Sexy MF
Wu-Tang Clan - Hollow Bones
Lil Kim - Don't Want Dick tonight
Aphex Twin - Girl Boy Song
Sterolab - Miss Modular
Esthero - Heaven Sent
Bjork - Big Time Sensuality
Esthero - Country Livin (The World I know)
LL Cool J - Doin it
Esthero - Superheroes
Madonna - Justify My Love
Madonna - Erotic
Jungle Brothers - You make me sweat
Lords of Acid - Rough sex
Esthero with Michee Mee - Slave

Just thinking about it makes me want to fuuck. With my headphones on.
I'm sure I'm missing some, but that's the off the top of my head.

Too much sexy thinking today!!!
I watch Lolita.
I want Lolita.
I am Lolita.

In my workplace I always enjoy the look of shock that registers on a grown man's face when I meet him for the first
time. I know over email, and on the phone my tone seems much older and more business-like.
Ruthlessly cutting the glib sales-guy chit chat and getting to the point.

Only to then be disarmed when meeting me face to face, a small Asian girl/woman, with a young face, a strong handshake, and
a mind like a steel trap.

And when I choose to turn it on, an abundance of disturbing sexual energy.
Simply by taking off my glasses, uncrossing my legs, running a hand through my hair.
Closing my eyes for a second to think as they "submit" their proposals.
All within a space of a minute or two.
Deliberately innocuous.

And if said Mr. So and So caught that split second where my eyes fluttered open to peek at his reaction,
and leaned back in his chair with a knowing smile. . .

And if neither of us tried to cover up the thickness in the room.
And he scooted over closer to me, next to me now, instead from across from me. . .

Neither of us thinking that I am old enough to be his daughter.
Only that I am old enough to know that something is stirring in his lap.
And game enough to let him see me bite down on my lower lip, and give a barely audible moan.

Again, imagination exalts the mundane to the sublime.

Kitty is purrrrrrring. Stretching out and yawning for a nap after getting a tummy full of cream.
Now, to find a ray of sunlight to sleep in.

Kitty was nigh insatiable this weekend.

"Sex is natural, sex is good
Not everybody does it, but everybody should"
- George Michael.

In my house, there are many couples. Who all hit it on a fairly regular basis.

To the point where we can ignore the banging and the screams and the grunting and the moaning, and just turn up the tv.

In college I used to get stoned with my then-boyfriend and I would have him sit across the room from me.
We'd turn on music and he would just watch me while I sat across from him, on a chair facing him, in a
little black slip of a dress.

I would undulate for him, run my hands over my arms and my legs, over my neck and my collarbones and then
graze my palms over my nipples, let one of the straps fall down. Exposing bits of flesh just pink from a hot
shower, glistening with baby oil. Pull my knees together, fondle my tits and then let my knees fall
apart just a little, then wider, and wider. Till my legs were spread. And he couldn't see me, not with my
slip still covering me, but he saw the spread of my naked thighs, and when my fingers reached down to test
the honeypot, the scent of my dripping box would hit him hard.

And I watched his eyes go black. His green eyes. And the patience in him would give way to something else.
And I could sense the stalking in him, his readiness to pounce on me.

- Come here, I commanded softly.

And he would approach me with his hard on tenting his pajama pants, stroking it slowly.
He's so tall that his crotch is eye level to me sitting down.

He expects, perhaps that I will suck him.
But I have other plans.

He is looking down at me, I am looking up at him.
Soo fucking horny.

- Smell me, I say.

He's surprised but he drops down to his knees between my spread thighs. Runs his hands up my calves, my
thighs, pushing up the slip until he sees me, my glistening little snatch, ripe and juicy, smooth [ he shaved me ] and soft.

I watch his blonde head between my legs. His hot breath is on me. I love it I love it.

He brushes his lips briefly, softly, on my clit, making me jump, my hips involuntarily pumping towards his mouth.
But he pulls away too, smiling.
Switch.

I close my eyes and feel the scarf securing my arms to the back of the chair.

Feel my ankles being secured to the chair, and I am prone and open and about to be thoroughly served for my tease.

My ass gets wet from my sweat and my juice. And he's ignoring my honeypot now, except for 2 fingers which are skimming across my slit, soft enough to drive me mad. He enjoys watching me squirm.

I am still watching him, and it's too much.

- Blindfold me, please. I ask.

And he rummages through my drawers and finds stockings, which he ties around my head, covering my eyes.

Now I am helpless, bound and blindfolded.

- You're gonna get it now.
Soft voice in my ear. Sinister chuckle.

Blind and open and so fucking turned on.

I can feel the tickle of his hair against my knees, my thighs.

My hips are pumping to him. My ass grinding into the chair.

I feel him take down the straps of my slip, exposing my tits.
He palms them, squeezes them softly and firmly and take a nipple in his mouth to suck.
Kitty is twitching and dripping.

He drops again between my legs and breathes on me. I am choking with want.

- Please Please Please, I hear myself beg

One lick on my whole slit and I'm almost out of the chair.

- Please what, he asks in a hard voice.

- Please baby, come on, eat me, eat me, I plead.

Pause. I feel him moving a bit, taking off his pajamas.
I think.

- I'm not the baby, you're the baby. My little baby slut.

- Right? Say it. He commands as his fingers slide over
my slit. Say it.

- I'm your baby, I'm your baby slut. Come on, eat me eat me please.

The fact that I have given myself up to this desperation is curious to me.
If I wanted to switch now, I could have him eating me in a New York Minute.
I'd be cumming all over his face.
But that's not the point, is it?
Sometimes it needs to get played out.

His well trained tongue slides over me, into me, licking me well until he begins his soft sucking
assault on my clit. And I am groaning and gasping, out of my mind and I can feel that ache inside me
building, wanting to feel his cock scratching that deep deep itch.

He takes his mouth away and blows cool air onto me.

- You're not cumming yet, little one.

I hear him stand, he stands astride me, reaching down to grasp my chin in his hands, and I feel his cock
head rubbing my lips.

- Open, he says.

And I obey, greedily sucking the head and his shaft into my mouth. He's holding the back of my head now,
pumping softly as I try my best to ensure that every stroke is a different sensation on his cock - flicking
his spot, swirling the head, sucking the head, deep throating his shaft.

He leans down and spears two fingers into my sopping
little snatch, groans, uhnnn.

Pulse. Throb. I can feel him getting ready to shoot.

Then suddenly he is out of my mouth. and I am being untied. He picks me up, sits down on the chair, and
faces me astride him, and drops me onto his hard shaft.

I feel my eyes roll back in my head. I am sitting on him. Rocking on his lap with his dick shoved straight
up inside me. And he's working out every inch of space inside me.

His hands are on my ass, pushing me down further onto him.

I'm sucking on his tongue.

. . .to be continued . . .(maybe - I know I'm kind of "done" with this story)

Feeling beaten down and a little soft and wistful.

Writing to an unknown Darling:

Darling,

I've been listening to the new Sade album:

. . .

i've been torn apart so
many times
i've been hurt so many
times before
so i'm counting on you now

. . . . .

girl you are rich
even with nothing
you know tenderness
comes from pain
it's amazing how you love
and love is kind
and love can give
and get no gain

it's down a rugged road
you've come
though you had every reason you didn't come undone

. . . .

So I'vc been feeling a little tender lately.
Love is such a strange thing.
Never really sure how to tell if it's real, if it's right, if it's the end.
Never really sure how to tell when it's worth it, worth the compromise, worth the sacrifice.

. . . . .

I've also been listening to Bjork - 5 Years:

I'm so bored with cowards
who say they want
but they can't handle

. . . . .

Song lyrics pierce through all the rest of the babble. Early adolescent music echoing in my memory. Painful memory.

. . . . . .

Darling I have so much to say, so much to show you, to whisper to you, to sing to you.
To murmur to you with my lips pressed against your skin.
I want to walk with you in dreams again.
I want those simple mornings of quiet and contentment.
I want to dance all night with you and watch you peel sweaty clothes away from your skin.
I want to see your face with your eyes closed in pleasure. Pleasure I give to you.
Smile with you watching a sunset.

_end of tenderhearted dopamine junkie_

Now back to your regularly scheduled dose of fantasy and cynicism.

When I woke up this morning from a nightmare that my mother had died, I knew it was going to be a shitty day.
When I woke up this morning and my boyfriend was already angry at me, I knew it was going to be an even shittier day.
When I got into work only to find that my promotion/raise had been frozen until April due to company-wide layoffs,
I just shut my door to my office and bawled like a child.
Not even my little fantasy world can bring me out of this muck today.
What do men do when they feel like this? What can I do to not cry about this?

I'm counting my blessings. I'm trying to get a grip on perspective. I'm trying to breathe in and breathe out.
I'm trying to find my happy place. I'm trying to keep my cool, laugh it off, put on a happy face.
What the hell else can I do?

I remember that Stepford Wives movie, and one of the daughters twitching on the ground in an apparent malfunction in her programming:

"I am such a lucky girl. I am such a lucky girl. I am such a lucky girl."

I am displeased with the world today.
I will be walking the streets with a scowl.

I also feel that my security has been compromised and so I will be deleting this website altogether,
and moving to a new url. I would very much like to continue writing, if not for anyone but myself.

I suppose anyone who is still interested in reading can email me and I will send you the new url.
All the old posts will be there, as well as what I've been writing now.

At work, at home, and here in this little cubbyhole, I am on a rampage.

Thank heaven, for little girls,
they grow up in the most delightful way . . . .
Maurice Chevalier made pedophilia charming and acceptable with a French
accent. I wonder what he did with that cane. I bet it wasn't just for walking
around.

It's energy-consuming to be "pathologically sexy".
I can see how some people get tired of the games that they themselves invent.

There's Roman Polanski's film Bitter Moon. Oscar and Mimi - the May December romance - from the first glimmer to sexual obsession, up to the height of sensuality, then through the descent and the forced fantasy, the shredding of the veil, to betrayal, hatred, bitterness, cruelty.

"Where is that little piggy?"
"Have you been playing with your zizi while I've been away?"

Even the most charming eyes lose their twinkle.
And like Viagra, after a while, having a perpetual hard-on gets stale.
After you've seen it all, does it get boring?
Sometimes I'm jaded. One of those "cynical" people.
But it's not that. I think I'm just an old soul.

But it's interesting -- is this why age feeds on youth?
To vicariously experience the reawakening?

To lead another, less experienced one, through the awakening to pleasure.
Feeding off the generated sexual energy, an newly tapped oil well.

Greedy for flesh, tender and fresh.

Looking at the young meat, the way I do, imagining the clothes melting
away from the taut and rounded young curves.
What must the skin be like beneath those clothes?
Would her legs feel silky smooth in the night, wrapped around my waist?
And what does her yielding shoulder taste like, the one beneath my hand?

Young woman standing in front of you, yielding silently to your inspection.
Hoping her reactions to your touch do not give her away.
But to you, a seasoned veteran, you miss nothing.
Not the slightest twitch or shiver, stifled moan or choked gasp.
Not the kitten tongue darting out between the parted lips to moisten.
Not the slightest change in breathing.

In the center of stillness in a silent room.
The power of experience pervades the room.
As does the sweetness of submission.
Pleasure echoes. Pain echoes. Power echoes.
A transference of energy is about to take place.
Deliberate. Primal. Symbiotic.

Perhaps it is the rain and the empty house I am in.
Perhaps it is the shudders that course through me, from the cold gusts from the open window. Perhaps it is the sensation of my bare feet on the carpet.
But I have a channel open, a frequency, to the room inside where this scene is being played out.
It is being played out whether or not my physical body chooses to act it out.

But that doesn't mean I don't feel the sudden shock of pain as my erect nipples are being pinched.
It doesn't mean I can't feel the hot and terrible commands being whispered in my ear.
It doesn't mean that beneath the sweat that I know is running down my body in rivulets, I can't
smell my own arousal.
It doesn't mean that I can't feel the scraping of a fingernail drawing goosebumps
on the backs of my arms.
That I can't feel the tensing in my buttocks before the strap.
That I'm not watching too.

Breathe in, Breathe Out.
Slippery intermingling of tongues.
Kitty aching all the time.
Kitty needing something to suckle, to pacify her hot wet little mouth.
Kitty needing to be possessed.

Once a lover told me that he loved to hear my voice on the phone because the timbre of my voice triggered a sense memory in his cock - so when I would talk to him at night he said he could feel a vibration in his cock - as if I was moaning while I had him in my throat.

Something is on fire in this room.

Dropping the veil from sexuality is a vibekiller.
Watching HBO's Real Sex, an episode on finding your Spiritual Sexuality. Chakra balancing, stroking, etc.
Chakra = Energy Vortex?

I don't want to be closeminded about anything, but it doesn't looks like it's for me. It looks good, it seems like people are having a good time, but the whole chakra emerging is not really something I feel would be right for me.

*Note: Subject has anhedonic response to Chakra Emergence.

Also there's this piece on this Japanese pornographer Yoyogi-san.
He's the self-proclaimed "Master of Orgasm" and makes movies of
"amateurs" who participate in his non-contact based sexual channelling orgasm experiments.

What does seem interesting on this show is a blowjob workshop.
Well it's a blowjob/handjob workshop.
Lots of interesting techniques.
It appears I'm familiar with lots of these techniques, thanks to my gay men friends and my nasty girl crew.
Basket Weaver. Hmm.
Pulse.
Of course the flick and swirl.
Suckle.
Hand Pocket
Soft stroke twist.
Testicle cupping, stroking, okay. . got it.
Anal stimulation. . .uh huh. I find this is one of those ass by ass basis things too.
Ice. Altoids.
Smeared Cherry Red lipstick.

But it's this kind of thing, that whole Dr. Ruth type, polyamory commune type things that makes sex less sexy.
Or maybe it's my middle class sexual mores again reasserting themselves, but when you remove the restrictions, the boundaries, the repression, the whole Victorian aspect of sex, you lose some of the sensuality.

Like all the secret thoughts.
Secrets are sexy to me.
Forbidden is sexy to me.
Fantasizing all the time, while I'm in the supermarket, on the bus, walking down the street, in a meeting. . .
A constant montage of erotic images swim before my closed eyes, haunts my daydreams.

A flash of thigh
+An exposed collarbone
+The swell of a breast
+A nipple budded to the cold
+The nape
+A sheen of sweat
+Knowing smile
+Half closed eyes
+swollen wet lips
+tender earlobe
+cherry
+long pigtails to wrap around your hands
+aching instep
+audible gasp
+curve of a woman's calf
+lush laugh
+fast cars!
+my favorite men's colognes:
Burberry, Chanel Allure pour Homme, Unleaded (?) by DKNY.
+taut wet skin
+mouthful of rose petals
+big stick popsicles
+darkened movie theatre digital stimulation

But this is not what I am thinking when I masturbate.
I have a different montage - in no particular order, the scenes flash, each one wringing something out of me, something deeply rooted, savage desires of violation and domination. It is not lovely or sensual. It is raw triple X footage.

Lesbians sharing a double headed dildo
+young man sucking off a policer officer while handcuffed to a chain-link fence
+doctor examining a young female patient who is still a virgin but is worried that she might be pregnant from swallowing cum asks "do you want me to pick up where your boyfriend left off?"
+standard babysitter fantasy
+standard sexy niece horny uncle fantasy
+standard my stiletto heel in a postulant's anus fantasy
+losing my virginity fantasies
+earning my extra credit fantasies
+taking dick-tation fantasies
+standard orgy
+standard sandwich

I'm rethinking my "efficient" orgasms. It's so results-driven and goal oriented. What's happened to me?

Beautiful Asian women on the bus today. Beautiful black boots. Shiny black hair.
A gorgeous Asian man. Tall, well dressed. Wool pants. Great Shoes. Tan.

Me, I'm still illin' a bit so I look a mess. Undercover. The inner freak always goes incognito.
I got my headphones on, I'm chillin.

I don't understand how people can sit completely still while listening to music.
I can't. Why do they fight it?

On my headphones:

PJ Harvey/Thom Yorke - This Mess We're In
Bjork, 5 years
Robbie Robertson - Somewhere down the Crazy River
Roni Size Reprazent - Dirty Beats
Too Short - Blow Job Betty
Notorious B.I.G. - I'm fucking you tonight
Monifah - I Can Tell
Lauryn Hill and D'Angelo - Nothing Even Matters

Being comfortable with your body is proven in 2 venues, I think..

On the dancefloor.
and in the "ring".

On a "satisfying" night out, I will be out with the girls, flying high on something (I am a dopamine junkie after all),
I'll be at a bar or a club or a party, there's bumpin beats going on, [ if it's my choice then it's jungle drum and bass, or just jungle],
and I'm somewhere in the thick of it all, crushed in the throng of gyrating bodies, sweating, pulsing, feeling the music driving my hips into a grind.

Somewhere out there someone has been watching me.
Somewhere out there someone is picking up my rhythms, the scent of my pheromones.
And although I don't see him, I sense him, I am conscious of leaving myself open.
Conscious of leaving a frequency open like a silent siren call.

Silently stalking me through the crowd like a smug predator.
If I look up then he's there, waiting to catch me in his stare.
Friendly, open look, cognizant.
Getting closer but not right away.
Letting the tide of bodies bring him to me.

Enter Sade [ the singer, not the Marquis de ] : Feel me. . .flowing. . .like a river. . .to the sea.

And he arrives right in front of me, not touching me, just smiling and moving with me, bodies close but not touching.
His eyes looking right at me -- my eyes, my mouth. He closes his eyes. Smiles again.
Moves behind me and for a minute my heart skips with disappointment, thinking that he's left.
But he's still here, behind me now, his hands slipping over my shoulders, sweeping down my arms to enfold me to him.
His hips pressed against mine, and I feel his heat, so nice, so inviting, the front of him along the back of me.
And he's not just grinding me in that sophomoric way, he's just pressed against me, and we're moving together.

It makes me want to turn around, to nuzzle my face against his chest [of course he's taller than I am]
So I tried to wiggle around but he won't let me, just keeps his arms wrapped around me, his chin on the top of my head, his mouth bent to my ear.

- Just wait, he says.

And his breath in my ear, his lips brushing my earlobe, his soft voice, unravels me.
I relax into his arms, close my eyes. Breathe in his smell. Let his strength support me.

My dance partner is patiently and deliberately stoking my fire.
His control makes me lose control.

But I can pull myself together. I don't have to Yin to his Yang.
But he just smiles in a teasing way because he knows I'm just trying to be cool now.

It's cliche. It's typical. It's a fantasy.
Just like that song:

Guess he's discovered we are truly lovers,
Magic from the very start, 'cause love just kept me groovin,
And he felt me movin even though we danced apart.
So we started dancing and love put us into the groove
As soon as we started to move

I like to meet a person on the dance floor to get a sense of their physicality right away.
That's one litmus test I guess.
Now I want to go dancing again.

Not all my fantasies are dripping with sex juice.
Not all my wishes are so profound.
Sometimes they're kind of simple and girlish and wistful.
Like a teenager reading Tiger Beat magazine and sighing over her favorite movie star.
Except I'm NAKED!

It's Red Day today. I didn't go to work because I'm illin'.
A perfect and beautiful day to stay home, sleep, porn, cereal, sleep again. Luxurious.

The wave of Winter Break-Ups begins. Even the most solid couples fall. I'm surrounded by it.
Time for Spring Cleaning. Time for Change. Time to come out of hibernation.
Spring is coming and with it, the desire for freedom.

The veil's been down for too long maybe, and I am no longer a fantasy girl. Good.
It's too hard to maintain that anyway, and this is not Penthouse Forum.

I'm still a mess, but at least, less of a disaster. The knots in my head are unravelling.
And my brief hiatus snapped me back into reality, back into myself, back to the Love I have.
Finding a little bit of peace.

I accept that I am in flux. And I believe that writing, here, to one or no one, is my stepping stone for change, but also my canvas where I exorcise the disappointment and dissatisfaction I feel.
And exorcise the self-loathing cycles, splashing it all up onto a messy canvas Jackson Pollock style.

Contradiction, Cowardice, Co-dependency.
Messy Multiplicity.
Self-loathing, Chickenshit.

Seething with Desire and Cringing from Change.
Exhausted from the Cognitive Dissonance.

Reading a bit of Freud -- about women being failed men, the penis envy, that women's libido's are inherently masochistic.

Fuck Freud.

In my head, there's an interview going on:
Let's have a peek:

Vox 1: Dopamine Junkie, you write about maximizing your inner freak, and yet you're such a chickenshit.
You stay within your little boundaries, you play it safe, you cherish your precious security and love. What's the deal?

DJ: I evolve in my own time, in my own way. Why do I need to justify it to you? And do you have a manual somewhere that has all the rules for this sort of thing? I'm still in the process of eating my discarded exoskeleton. Who are you to challenge me, to rush me?

Vox 2: You talk a good game though, DJ. You want people to believe that you're some kind of sex goddess, that you're down to get freaky. But when you're confronted with the flesh, you sublimate yourself!

DJ: It's easy to get laid. But I'm not desperate. I can efficiently get myself off when I need to.
And part of me is still wrestling with the Buddhist "desire is the cause of all suffering" thing.
And I still love him, respect him, love him. He's changing too, responding I think to the subtle changes in me. I do not purport myself to be a sex goddess. I think this little online journal is a testament to my sexual dysfunction, don't you think? If I were a sex goddess, I wouldn't be writing about my repressed fantasies.

Vox 3: So are you down or not? To "explore your options" ?

DJ: Hmm. Tough call at this juncture.
I have guilt issues, but I've dealt with those before.
I suppose if I found someone with whom I really felt I could let go, someone I could trust,
someone to respect the delicate ecosystem of my emotional life, I would go for it.
But I am not down to get with just any stranger who claims to be my soulmate.
I waited till I was 18 to lose my virginity. And I made that boy wait a whole year.
I don't like feeling used. I don't like using anyone else.
I've been there before, done that before, and the psychic scars still sting me.

I hunger yet, though. For all night long till the break of dawn, learning the landscape of a new body.

Vox 4: I'm surprised -- I wouldn't think someone like you would believe in Regret.

DJ: I know that I did what I had to do for myself at any given time. At this time, I know what I am capable of, what I need to do for myself, and it's not about throwing away everything I've built with this man just to feed my freak. I have plenty of desires, I don't need to act on all of them just because the opportunity is there.

Vox 5: The more you suppress your freak though, the larger she will grow. Right?

DJ: And when she is big enough, she will do what she needs to do. Until then, she gestates. And I write. I record her gestation, day by day.

Vox 6: You sound like you've got it all explained away, figured out. Like you're backing away from the fire you lit.

DJ: I had to get a grip. This is my grip. If it seems like a sacrifice or a compromise or total chickenshit --
well -- who's got the right to judge me? I am awake. I am sentient. I decide. I will not accept pressure to do what I am not ready to do.

Vox 7: Does this mean you're giving up your daily dose of sexy thoughts? Does this mean that you'll never realize all these complex fantasies?

DJ: Hell, no. Fantasies exalt the mundane to the sublime. And when She is ready, she will bring the mind to the flesh.

. . end interview. . .

Red Day is a powerful day for me. My birthday usually brings an inevitable negativity that I can't shake.
But Red Day always reminds me that with every year of growth, every layer I add to my pearl, I am stronger.

Could I resist writing on my birthday? Nope. [ Today I am 26 ]
Could I resist commentary on Valentine's Day? Nope.

What's Romantic to the Dopamine Junkie?

George, my husband...George, who is out somewhere there in the dark, who is good to me - whom I revile, who can keep learning the games we play as quickly as I can change them. Who can make me happy and I do not wish to be happy. Yes, I do wish to be happy. George and Martha: Sad, sad, sad...Whom I will not forgive for having come to rest; for having seen me and having said: yes, this will do; who has made the hideous, the hurting, the insulting mistake of loving me and must be punished for it. George and Martha: Sad, sad, sad...Some day, hah! Some night, some stupid, liquor-ridden night, I will go too far and I'll either break the man's back or I'll push him off for good which is what I deserve.

- Elizabeth Taylor in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf

Leaving Las Vegas

(in a room, Sera is talking to someone that we can't see or hear)

Sera: I think the thing is we both realized that we didn't have that much time and I accepted him for who he was and I didn't expect him to change and I think he felt that from me too. I liked his drama and he needed me. I loved him (pause) I really loved him.

- Elisabeth Shue, in Mike Figgis' Leaving Las Vegas

Fucked Up Love. Acceptance of Mutual Monsters.
Is there a way to achieve this kind of acceptance, without there being a wall?
I don't see it. I don't see it in anyone. No relationship I've seen, monogamous or polyamorous, has got it.
Does that mean that there is no One? Because I myself am not just One?

I would like to live the purest life, the most honest, but I don't know how. I've had love before and I messed it up -- because I was young and I wanted more, because I have always had an ideal, a sense that a soulmate was out there, so my standards were so high.
And I've fucked around before, feeding myself with snack boys and snack girls, trying to figure out what it was I really wanted. High on my own sexual powers. But that was before. And I am supposedly older, and wiser now.

I know that someone like me is unstable. And I need stability. Anais Nin needed Hugo and Henry. I have my Hugo.
I will protect him and love him with a pure love. I don't care who judges me, calls me a liar.
But there is something dark I need that he cannot give me.
There is a chamber inside into which my Hugo cannot descend.
It's a broken place, a messy place, of carnal and savage desire that needs to be fulfilled.

Once I vowed to give up this secret life.
Once I vowed to live with simple needs.
But in sublimating, in denying those things that have always existed within me, I have hit a wall, a glass ceiling.
Now I'm boxed in, trapped, painted into a corner.

This year I want to strive to step graciously, sensuously, quietly and deliberately, outside.
It took me years to forgive myself, years to sort this out, years to come to terms with that sad and abandoned "freak/thing/desire" inside me, that has been trying to speak up, only to be chained up again, by SuperEgo. By Safety. By Security. By Fear of Change.

And that freak has been writhing inside me, twisting and tearing at itself in chains. Poisoning me with an unnamed melancholy.

What does it all mean? What am I trying to do? Life, Love, the Essence of Living. Fullness. Before this life is over. Living for my Self.
Energy wanting to transfer to Energy. Not out of selfishness, but just wanting to experience something more than 2.5 kids, 2.5 cars, house, mortgage and a week's vacation every year. Because I'm sorry, I'm just not that simple. I have whole worlds that I want to consume.

Romance for me is not perfume and roses and chocolate (although I love all of the above). And it's not just the sunsets and champagne and holding hands.

I'm not the first one to know this, but I had to get here by myself, I know.

Romance to me is being enfolded in my soulmate's arms, releasing the tension, bringing down the walls and the shields, yielding, becoming vulnerable, letting the tears flow and the laughter ring and the breath mingle and the flesh to merge. This I need fulfilled more than any corporeal desire. This I need fulfilled to achieve any corporeal fulfillment.

Is it just One? Or is it a lifetime in a minute with many?

My body is aching, my head is spinning and I'm breathless with epiphany.

Deep. Deeper. Deepest.

Coming Home to the Safest Harbor in the Universe.
Wherever that is.

: (

I've officially driven myself mad with all this.
And before it gets any worse, I've got to shut down.
I'm sorry if that makes me seem chickenshit.

Thank you for reading, for participating in this strange support group for inner freaks.
I hope at least you were maximized.

Me? I opened a Pandora's Box and all the beautiful and ugly things came out.

I just need to take a break, clear my head, and get healthy again.

If you care, please email me if you want to be notified of when I'm back.
I will send you a personal invitation. I will also be checking and answering any emails sent to me.
But just not posting for a few days.

Thank you Thank you and Good night sweet Prince.

My Ferry Building fantasy is getting more and more potent.
I want it.
Is it strange that buildings make me horny?

Beautiful day outside yesterday wasn't it?
I went outside for a few moments.
And yes, I had a cigarette.

Stared at the Ferry Building.
Watched the passerby.

Had to close my eyes to contain the maelstrom.
I feel like the protagonist of an endless, wordless
black and white french film.

The kind where a woman is driven mad by her own desire.
I wondered, that suited man over there, talking on his cell phone and smoking a cigarette, what would he think if I approached him to say,

Excuse me sir, how would you react if I told you that I've been sitting here for the past 10 minutes,
fantasizing about stripping you down, tying you to a chair, and making you my sex slave for about an hour?
You wouldn't have to do anything. I'd just like to commandeer the use of your body.
If you're interested, we can go and find a place to do this right now, or I'll have my assistant call you and we can schedule a time that works for us both?
I can guarantee that I fuck like a bunny!
I assure you we could walk away from this totally anonymous and unscathed.
What do you say?

I think he would look at me, dressed down and kind of nondescript, wearing a beanie and braids,
and say, umm..that sounds intriguing ma'am, but no thank you.

These were my thoughts as I smoked, my face turned towards the sun and my eyes closed.
A heavy sigh, then I stared at the ground some more, glanced at the clock, and headed back inside.

Today is a new day, yes? Another day of wanting.

I was just thinking that it would be pretty cool if someone would invent glasses or goggles you could wear out and they would expose the erogenous zones of everyone you met in uv or infra red.

Yeah I got some this weekend. A few times actually.
But I didn't get served.
My head's all clouded up now.
And there's a disconnect.
Because it's not him I want because I want something else, something he can't give me.
I built this box, this cage for myself, papered with desires.
Now I have no way out?

Oh and by the way, if anyone is interested, you can always view this page securely [ and no I do not work for them, but I do use their services ], by going to Safeweb.com.

I feel as if I have painted myself into a corner.

A daily dose of the purging of my desire by writing is something I can reasonably walk away from, return to my "normal" self, and my placid relationship.

Confronting the reality and the power of those desires is not something I can easily and neatly put away.

It's strange for me to tell, but I have to write it out. I apologize if this is not the lascivious account of my Friday night with the girls. But once again, this is my confessional, where even though this is a secret life, I am still real.
Veil Up or Veil Down.

God, why why why did I have to read all the Anais Nin diaries? Why did I study Nietzsche and read Joseph Campbell and Hermann Hesse? Why did I have to be awakened?

If you have been reading this from the start, please fasten your seatbelts. We're headed for a downward descent. Spiralling.

I understand what it is to be empowered by sexual energy.
I know what I would do in reality, and what will always be an unrealized fantasy.
I know that sex isn't everything.
It's not about bodies or equipment.
For me, when my mind is alive my body is alive.
Trying to find the proper hole in which to mindfuck somebody is as exciting, and more challenging, than just hooking up.
Find my twist and wring it out till my eyes roll back in my head.

But I'm feeling locked in, locked up, locked down.
And something dark is brewing.

This weekend I pushed myself out a little further. Gave myself a little more of what I really want. Freedom to explore.
This weekend I had my hands on skin that was so responsive, so heated and alive I was afraid of my own desire.
Lust hit me so hard I salivated the whole weekend. Salivated, lubricated, everywhere.

Most women are afraid of what a strange man might do to them if they got into his car.
I am afraid of what I might do to that man if I got in the car and drove away with him.

Today I am here, trying to begin another week. Totally distracted by images of tongues and fingers and skin.

Theme Songs to get me through my day and get me ready for tonight:
(this is not representative of my holistic musical tastes)

Next - Too Close.
Why?

"All the songs on you requested, you're dancing like you're naked, oh it's almost like we're sexin. . ."
"Girl I know you felt it, boo you know I can't help it. You're makin it hard for me. . . "

Montell Jordan - Get it On Tonight

Digital Underground - Freaks of the Industry

Why? Oh there are so many reasons.

"So you're freakin' [freakin'], the furniture's squeakin' [squeakin']
She's tweakin', sayin' that she's weak in the knees.
Cheek to cheek, and pound for pound,
You're taxin' it and waxin' it and workin' it around,
'Til the booty starts makin' that clappin' sound"

" . . My head under her leg under my arm under her toe. "
" . . I hit it and split it, lick it and quit it. "

YESSSSSSS. I am very excited for this evening I must say.

Here comes the weekend!
Tonight I will be in the City, dancing, on ecstasy.
Dangerous Dangerous Danger Girl.
The bloodlust is making my mouth water.
I'm out on the prowl tonight.
Looking for some fun.
Getting my dance on.
Trying to sweat it all off.
Breathing life.
Unleashing myself on hapless passerby.
Feeling predatory.

Tonight I have written about sex, talked about sex, read about sex and watched porn.

Did I have sex?

No.

Tonight I'm a little crude. Must be the porn. Just watching it makes me need a tongue in my honeypot and a hard dick working me out. No talking. No fantasies. Just raw pounding.

Must be the porn.

I took a long hot shower. My skin is clean and pink.
And I just want to back my ass up onto something.

No gothic or cosmic tones tonight. No philosophical ramblings of longing.

I need someone to break me off, work me out, tap my ass.
Someone who can sit still while I get buckwild in a hot tub.
Or pull over to the side of the road, lean me over the hood of the car, and pump and plow me until we both explode.

is that asking too much? i mean, really?
is that demanding or needy?


[ back after a brief interval, pressure relieved ]

Ahhh. Masturbation is efficient, but only to stave off the hunger for the real thing.

The backs of my knees have filed an official complaint. Neglect.
The undersides of my breasts, as well as my shoulders, have joined in to make it a class action suit.

I am surfacing to the night, something I can't do as often as I'd like. With some yummy girlfriends.
We'll travel as a prickteasing entourage, make a spectacle of ourselves.

I remember the feeling of a slim thigh slipped between my own, pressed against my kitty, letting me ride it a little. Knowing the right spots, the pressure. Leaving a wet spot.

I need a sleepy fuck to send me into a blissful sleep, rocking me gently, long strokes, deepest impalings.
A cock to stay nestled in the crack of my ass all throughout the night, occasionally slipping inside me while we sleep, so we are fucking half-awake, half-asleep.

I need a tongue to slip into my mouth, for me to suck gently on.
I need the rasp of a tongue around my nipples, which we will both observe hardening.

Uhn. Now I need to take care of something again before I go to sleep. And then maybe eat a cookie or some ice cream. Or maybe a slice of processed cheese. Mmm. Cheese slices.

Dinner with an old lover last night.
It's been years.

We chitchatted, caught up, etc.

I remember his cock.
So vividly.
How it felt, it's shape, the head so bulbous it really got in there.
I used to love to sit on him to feel his full length stuffed inside me.
He used to work me out, all the nooks and crannies.

And what a tit man he was.
Always fixated on my tits.
Could play with them for hours.

And the stud in his tongue would drive me mad as it flayed my clit.

I was sure my eyes were turning black as we talked over dinner, watching him try to keep the telepathy from reaching him. throwing up a firewall.

How's work? How's life? How's everything else?

I remember his smile as I would grind him. Or the way he loved to take me while I was facedown and bite into my shoulder.

Work is hectic. I'm stressed out a lot. Yeah, me too.

The veil drops so that the friendship can continue.
Necessary. Boring. Safe.

Father forgive me for I have sinned.
It's been a lifetime since my last confession.
Because I'm not Catholic and I never was.

But I've been having impure thoughts again, about having
relations out of wedlock, relations with someone other than the
person I am already having relations out of wedlock with.

Punish me. Give me a penance.
Soothe me. Satisfy me.
Kiss it and make it better.

Switch Switch Switch
Today I need to be Petulant.
Penitent.
Daddy's Girl.