Dopamine Junkie says:
Why am I moving?

Not for a site re-design -- that will remain as simple and crude as ever. Content paints the images here, not Adobe.
Not because I want to get rid of any readers. Not because someone made me mad.

Things are spiralling rapidly out of control here at work, and also at home.
Maybe I missed a step, forgot to clear a cache. In any case, too many footprints.

If you want to come along, please write me with a brief explanation of why you wish to keep reading.
I need and want to know.

Thank you. Hope to hear from you soon. This weekend's posts are already up on the other site.

dope j.

Your attention please.
I will be deleting this blog as of EOD today.
All archived posts as well as new posts have been posted to a new blogspot.
I will be happy to give out this new url -- please hit my inbox and I will send it to you.
I apologize for the inconvenience.

The dopamine junkie

Inquiries about my other site abound.
And my apologies, if I gave you that URL I would be totally exposed, shell and all.
If I could send it to you as a streaming website and the url would evaporate after one viewing, I would.
It's just another little site -- not updated every day, and there's nothing much DIRTY about it.
I reserve all of that for right here.

What with all these crazy layoffs going on, I guess I should be working harder, better, faster, harder, yes yes yes!

So if I seem reticent today, I promise, dear reader(s) that I shall return after this weekend as prolific as ever.
I've been living it, you see, and not just writing about it.
And my mind is turned a little to mush by all the kissing.
I guess if I wanted to stay sharp I would be abstaining.
Like a Jesuit priest.

I feel limber and flexible and supple and worked out. . . .
And something inside me is gaining resolve.
I'm not sure what kind. But some kind of resolve.

In the background, LL is Doin it, too:

LL Cool J
You talk a good one shorty now you're makin me sweat
How a live nigga like it girl?
[LeShaun]
Nice and wet
We get it To The Break of Dawn, damn you're large
How a big girl like it Daddy?
[LL Cool J]
Nice and hard
Safe sexin it, flexin it, gettin that affectionate
Chewin it, oohin it, all while we're doin it

I used to listen to this song over and over on the drive down to L.A. from school with my (then) boyfriend.
We'd hang out on clouds in the truck, and I'd play this song so loud, over and over.
My thighs spread wide for him and the truckers to see.
I'd cum along with the girl in the song.
He'd reach over while my head was in his lap, I had him in my mouth,
he'd reach over my ass to stroke my kitty. . .
Driving down the I-5.
I'd sit up and look over at him and he'd look over at me with hot hot eyes.
Then he changes lanes quickly, pulls off at some random off-ramp. . .
We drive around till we get to a dark cul-de-sac.

Reclines my seat.
Says one word:

Open.

And I obey, letting my thighs fall open. I am not wearing any underwear.
Hot breath on my thighs. He inhales me.
Spreads me with his fingers.
And presses his lips against tender sweet flesh already soaking wet,
licking and sucking softly, plunging 2 fingers, palm up,
into a sweet little hole which constricts around him.
Inside me his fingers beckon, come, cum, come.
Sucking me softly, licking me methodically, come, cum, come on.

In the truck, in a darkened cul de sac
I was overcum
by LL Cool J
and his insistent mouth

To this day I cannot listen to that song without getting wet.

Everything was kind of alright this morning.
Stony MUNI facade. No rain. Good thing because I've lost my umbrella yet again.
Aphex Twin Girl Boy Song, coffee, got my towel and my goodies together for going to Osento tonight.
Then my bubble got burst.
I get to work. Osento out. Girlfriend had to resched. Boo.
Then here at work, staff meeting.
We're moving, again, back to the old office full of people who hated me for not "hanging out".
Staff meeting talks about taking personality profiles like it's a revolutionary new idea.
I am totally misanthropic today.
Personality profile:
Subject does not get along well with others.
Displays signs of anti-social and psychotic behavior.
Works best when left alone.

I'm also moving back into Cubeland. No more cushy little office with a door.
Back on CL once I mentioned that I was Realer than Real Deal Holyfield.
Anyone who's hung out long enough, who's met me, knows it's true.

I don't try to represent myself as something I am not.
You see, I do that so much already in real life.

I saw my man last night. He loves me more than ever.
Although he didn't break me off because he was too tired.
His 6 ft 200 lbs body cuddled up to me like a baby, squeezing me tight.
Why am I with him still?
When he loves me like that, I feel sweeter, purified, fortified.
He gives me Redemption and doesn't even know it.
If he knew, I'd be damned for sure.

Last night in the midst of sleep he threw an arm around me and groggily said:
Have I told you today that you're terrific?

My eyes fly open to the darkened room.
He sleeps. My heart is pounding.

Is it too late, I ask myself? Is it too late to hear those words? Too late to go back? Go back to sleep?
Try to forget?

All sobered up and consumed today by a dark cloud.

***

Thank you for a new phrase.

"Immanentizing the eschaton" refers to the heretical idea that the eschaton is in fact a state of being, accessible at any time, rather than some chronological event.
"Immanentize the Eschaton": Catholic term for the sin of most heretic groups who attempt to either create heaven of hell in this world instead of waiting for it in the next. The Gnostics are a prime example of people guilty of attempting to Immanetize the Eschaton.

***

I was alive on Tuesday night. I didn't write yesterday though.
Tuesday is stale now, but I try not to censor or edit myself:

Anyone else spend part of their Tuesday night watching Tron?

Spring is coming and the nymphs are coming out of their coccoons.
Girlfriends left and right. Breaking it off with their men.
Smells like graduation. I was never one to go with the crowd, though.

But all the reasons in all the conversations with all these brave selfish women echo the secret whispers of my own discontent.
Wrong word. Not discontent. Restlessness.
I've been mated for awhile, but I'm still a doe out here in the woods.
Sniffing and being sniffed.

(Space Paranoids! - Tron)

I've been much too heavy in writing lately.
I wish sometimes I still smoked cigarettes.
I would like to just sit and think, inhale and exhale, stare into space, tabula-rasa style.
Read. Be quiet and comfortable with silence.
Daydream. And my daydreams are rich.
As you know.

Did I invent my own complexity? When what I want, really, is simple? Embarassingly simple?
50% Dirty
50% Sweet

60% Intellectual Stimulation
40% Physical Stimulation

100% Pure Vibe

Not just a dopamine junkie. But an information junkie.
And I need input all the time.
I need input all the time.
I need input all the time.
Fresh input.
Choice packets.
Someone, something to wring out my hypothalamus.

I rarely include links on this site, I reserve that kind of brain dump for my other site, but I couldn't resist these ones:

Feel21 Pheromones for Men
Underwear for boys. Mm.
Toys for Babes - Hot Babes
Erotica customized for you!
Big Red Riding Hood
Breastee - For the Woman who has everything

- End of Line -

shhh. . .i'm making soup in my head and it's not ready yet.
sad a little because my plans to go to Osento tonight fell through.
Download of choice and fresh packets at 2 p.m.

Average weight of the human head according to "the Internet" - 8 lbs.
Mine feels at least 15 or more. Must be all that junk I carry around in there.
Or maybe it's the dissonance that weighs so much.

And now my life has become an experiment.
In my own endurance.
In karmic justice.
In duplicity.

If you're out there and contemplating "crossing the line", I strongly urge you to reconsider.
There's a pathetic dignity to honesty, to purity. The noblesse of the martyrs. The sleep of the innocent and the righteous.
Can you handle it? Walking the tightrope? Masking your eyes? Throwing up smokescreens? Feeling the 20 lb head hit the pillow at night, trying to smoke it all away?

If I were braver, would I just fly away?

At first I felt the world of DJ was borne out of deep seated repressed sexual desire.
My one outlet to express sensuality, sexuality, uninhibited fantasies.

Then it took on a life of it's own. I breathed life into it, and received responses that breathed life into me.
And it wasn't all about sex anymore.

New dimensions. I found that my sexual desire was not purely physical, that what I sought was a connection more profound.
Now I can see what you must have always seen --
even while I never mentioned the L-word as my goal and ultimate desire,
that without it, sex would be one dimensional, ethereal, ephemeral.

Freaky one night stands. Fulfilling someone else's fantasy more than my own.
This would leave me only with the empty and deflated feeling, soiled underwear in my purse,
sticky and stale smell of sex on my skin, hollow eyes, and a mouth too tired to smile.
I'm too young to feel so jaded, so cynical, so hopeless.
Sexual power is easy, so easy. For me, fulfillment of someone else's desire is so much easier than fulfilling my own.

Web refuge, internet cubbyhole, virtual confessional, fur-lined cage papered with desires, lonely tower.
The trite tale of the lonely dominatrix.

Sex can bring people together.
Sex can be isolating too.

Give to me Give to me.
Bring me something soul lover.
Something I didn't know I wanted, but that I always needed.

What I offer in return is on the altar.
Or the auction block.
Or the butcher block.

Dopamine Junkie, still wandering the earth, still looking for a safe harbor, invisible tears behind tough exterior, tired tired tired of this carefully crafted illusion that is my normal life. Wishing to run away and hide. Or disappear.

Or find a home for my heart.

"She repeated to herself, "I have a lover! I have a lover!" and the thought gave her a delicious thrill, as though she were beginning a second puberty. At last she was going to possess the joys of love, that fever of happiness she had despaired of ever knowing. She was entering a marvelous realm in which everything would be passion, ecstasy and rapture; she was surrounded by vast expanses of bluish space, summits of intense feeling sparkled before her eyes, and everyday life appeared far below in the shadows between these peaks."

Emma Bovary, Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert

****

I'm living in a parallel universe of my own creation. I am my own doppelganger.
I am myself at all times. (Thank you Nietzsche) I was born alone, I die alone, and my loyalties are ultimately to myself only.
My life, my experiences are my responsibility and I will not cheat myself of them when they present themselves to me.
26 and still vibrant. No kids, no ring on my finger, no reason to be a martyr for love.
Even if that means defying societal programming of fidelity and trust.
Passion is ruthless.

Kitty is purring contentedly. Guess why.

****
Conversation between me and ex-boy:

me I feel old and used up like something that was tasted and discarded, left behind by men who "loved me"

boy not even

boy I was trying to find a good metaphor but all of them came out sounding really bad

me well if all my ex-loves find me irritating and ridiculous - yet meaningful - what does that say about me?

boy I don't think you are irritating or ridiculous

boy you are more like a drug habit, going back for a taste is dangerous

me oh great

boy good high tho

me so I'm cool until you want to quit and do something better for your health

boy terrible withdrawls took a long time to go away

boy I wouldn't even say it was unhealthy

boy but it does dominate my time and conciousness

me : ( what about me though? what about the drug that gets cast aside?

boy I always thought there would be someone else who liked it as much/more than me

me it makes me feel bad about myself lately, like there's nothing I could give that anyone
would want to keep

me do you remember me?

boy mostly dirty stuff mixed with sweetness. That's the drug.

*****

Then I hear the voice of my boy, my partner, my man. Who is kind to me, loves my yucky and keeps me stabilized. Holds it down for me when I go to extremes.

Because I think I cannot live in Dopamine Junkie's world all the time. I like the (illusion of?) normalcy,
being a twenty-something Bay Area couple who takes drives up and down the coast.
He pets me and coddles me, takes care of me. Dependable, secure, loving, sweet.
We plan life, future, growth together. Intertwined.

My beloved Hugo, who holds me fast when I am whirling too much.

Oh and one more thing -- I don't really need any more pictures of dicks, thanks.
Some day we'll start a gallery -- the Penii of Craigslist m4w, but for now, they just take up space in my little (in)box.
In re: auditions, listen, I know it sounds like a totally absurd idea, but the possibility is out there.
I have interested parties on all sides, women who would love to make a meal of a man.
But I guess what I really should have put down as the #1 priority is VIBE.

Smokescreen up.
I am monstrous.
My monster is amazing.
It's alive, I built it, I control it.
Am I evil? Yes I am.
Layers deeper, but not deep enough.
Still waiting for the man who can strip me to the marrow.
Who can see beyond the smokescreens, who can see past my carefully crafted and brilliant duplicity.
But maybe that will never happen, because I'll never give it up, give up the pearl underneath the layers.
It was something terrible that got into into my shell, early on, causing me to secrete layer after glossy layer of
protective material.

When I first was broken, years ago, the damage was irreparable.
Poison of my innocence seeped into my wounds like a soothing balm.
And no matter how much I wish to be honest, to be pure, to be vulnerable and true . . if I'm not getting everything that I need, if I believe as I do now that no one man will ever be able to give me everything I need, then damn it, life is too short and I am young.
And I want to consume life.

*****

I realized the depth of my need for symbolic punishment the other day. I was late for a meeting.
I was mortified to be late. Myself, I hate being kept waiting and so I really sweat it when I think of someone waiting on me. And the torture of the awful thought that the awaiter might doubt me, might think I wasn't coming, when I was, while I was rushing as diplomatically and as composedly as possible.

Feeling so awful to meet inscrutable glare which I knew was composed of annoyance. Feeling contrite.
Head automatically bowed low. . feeling dejected.
Awaiting punishment.

Then the opportunity to repent. To beg for forgiveness, to be given a penance, litany of kisses. . over and over.

* * *
My blanket apology to any delay in responses to email. I'm not ignoring you. I've been in the cage and unable to think freely.
I appreciate receiving messages from the outside world. In this lonely tower I have built for myself, it's nice to know I'm not so alone.
There is no one in my "real life" who knows the Dopamine Junkie -- sometimes I am overwhelmed with the loneliness, the sadness, and the frustration. So every word of encouragement is beautiful, and absorbed.

Mmm. The kindness of strangers. Amazing.

* * *

Isn't there a gamer wunderkind out there that can create a video game like "Find Her Spot?"
Simple enough premise -- A woman lying on a large four poster bed, dressed. As you find her "spots" she moans and disrobes, one piece of clothing at a time. Find them all, save the princess, slay the dragon, and she gives it up.

I'd like to buy this game as a present to my man, who has been with me for over 2 years, and who knows little about my spots.

Languid and stretchy on this gloomy day.
Filled with honey. Sticky fingers.

Today I am soft, supple and a live wire.
The sexual magnetism I feel that I am exuding today
is soft, sucking, insistent, strong.

Today I am teenage runaway meets casual friday.
Disheveled, but beneath the unkempt hair and the jeans
I am soft black eyes looking up at you, swollen pout mouth ripe for licking.
And I exfoliated and oiled myself in the shower today.
So beneath the careless clothes and hair I am silky soft.
I would glare suspiciously at anyone who called me gorgeous today.
Maybe I'm not gorgeous, but I am insanely adorably fuckable. Unapologetically.
At least that's how I feel on the inside, and I think it oozes out my pores.
Good for sweet penetration in a soapy slippery shower.

It's been a month and a half since the world of Dopamine Junkie was born.
And in that time the freak has grown in power, glowing, throbbing, flexing, becoming more and more undeniable.
Strong enough to walk outside.

Dopamine Junkie was spotted outside late last night, in the rain, in the company of someone taller than she.
Glowing and flushed, she looked so flustered.
And the tall one with the infuriating grin, hand on the small of her back.

Today is filled with the sweetness of slow dripping honey.
The sweet twinge, the gasp of a tongue plunging deep into my mouth, after I have resisted kisses, and I need to resist the kisses,
even though I want them, I need to resist, to feel the passion increase, to feel the invasion of a silky insistent tongue, to feel the ravishing, my yielding, the conquering.
To suck on the tongue that's driven into my mouth with sweet force. Plundering kisses. Licking at my lips. Teeth softly nipping.
The delicate crushing of two mouths.

Nnnnhh.

Scratchy beard against my skin drives me mad.

It's a beautiful day and I'm going to live outside of the bubble today.
I will write the full report tonight, when I am mellow and soft and supple.

I was thinking though, whilst on the bus today, about 2 things.
Alright, maybe more, but these two are the ones I'm going to pin to the mat:

Thought #1

What if I created a "Finishing School" for boys? Not to be attended until the junior or senior year of high school. Or university.
I just see all these poor aimless boys who ride the bus. So much potential.
Stand up straight. Don't be so slovenly.
Pluck your eyebrows.
Smile.
Young Boys on their way to Washington High School.
Young and Tender and Ignorant.
Why did I never learn the power of my youth until I was older?
These poor boys need training! And they will be part of a powerful dating force of the 21st century!

Thought #2:

Salome and her dance of the Seven Veils.
Sure she danced, and it was sexy and all, but I just remembered that she also demanded John the Baptist's head on a plate.

Someone's head has got to roll for the dance to continue.