This Blog Has No Title...

Just words and a tune...

The revolving door that seems to have taken the place of my heart is at it again.

I adore Ace- I truly do. I'd drop everything at his insistence that he needs, wants, and misses me. My brain tells me he does- a catch in his voice when we phone says he does. I miss him badly- my heart is missing a huge part of it because we're apart.

Yet, I still carry on flirting with other people. Am I self destructive? Or does part of my brain already know something and won't let the rest of me in on it?

I've been phone flirting with a friend of mine from before (before being before marriage) for about a week now... through txt messages mostly, and a little bit of myspace messaging. This makes Krysta happy. It's fun to have an odd little text waiting for you... and not knowing if it's gonna make you blush or not when you're reading it.

How did people communicate before texting and messaging and phones? I can be ever so much bolder in a text than I can in a face to face conversation. I can say so much more in a little message than I can sitting across a table from someone.

________

"Get on the bed, damn you!" He growls this almost under his breath as I try to slow my beating heart. I slowly get to my feet and move over to the bed in the corner, resting my head against the pile of pillows at the top of the bed.

We'd been watching Spaceballs with the commentary on as he played one of his MMORPGs. I was sporting nothing but a towel from my very hot shower (one fit to boil the skin off of a lobster, but I love them so), and that laid loosely in a pile on the floor now. He'd rubbed me almost to climax with his rough worker's hands and positioned himself between my legs to bring me over the edge. This was for my gratification, not my own, and I was so close. He pushed in and in and in until I felt my legs were about to split wide open there on the bed... and I couldn't feel anything but that warmth that was permeating my lower regions... and then sweet release came quick and hard. My skin shown with sweat, and his face strained with exertion as he felt me come. Once again, we were together, and all was well with the world.
_________

I love my life. If I ever say I don't, please smack me.


By the way, if anyone can name all the songs and artists that I have used this year for my blog titles and references, they get an e-cookie.

Queen of Bling, you can't play this game, because we live/eat/sleep/fuck/love together and you know me way too well.

Shot Through The Heart

And he's to blame!

Ace is free. No more doppelganger girlfriend. No significant other... free!

Notice that I am ecstatic.

I am coming to the realization that I may be in love with him... and that doesn't lessen my love for King or Queen. He's my best friend, and I went to him when I needed a shoulder to cry on.

Please, goddess, let him realize he's the best thing that's happened to me since my breakup...

Chelsea Hits a Chord...

Chelsea Girl of pretty dumb things writes today:

The bad girl.. She’s generally inappropriately dressed, or dressed incompletely. She’s the one in the upskirt shots, playing all faux-surprise flashy-flashy with her panties or her naked nethers with the paparazzi. She might be the one who is admitting some truth a bit too titillating to be wholly healy to Oprah, or whomever. She poses in the nude. She admits to doing drugs. She steals other women’s boyfriends or husbands. She steals other women. She is not above neither saying “fuck” nor doing it. Gleefully.

She’s Lindsay Lohan. She’s not Mandy Moore. She’s Angelina Jolie. She is not Reese Witherspoon. She’s the old drinking short-short wearing Madonna. She is not the new world-hugging, duty-free accented, garden-mummy Madonna.

Bad girls of the past include spy, dancer and prostitute Mata Hari; spy, playwright and nominal prostitute, Aphra Behn. Dorothy Parker was a bad girl. So was Jean Rhys. Mae West is probably the ultimate bad girl, the bad girl to whom other, lesser bad girls like Pamela Anderson, Ariana Huffington, Sarah Silverman and Jenna Jameson should kowtow, toast with their glasses of expensive champagne and name their pets after.

P!ink is a bad girl, and so is Paris Hilton, whom P!nk has joyfully skewered in song and video. Bad girls can be smart as a dominatrix’ whip, and they can be dumb as a box of hair extensions. It’s not intelligence that makes the bad girl. It’s not something as simple as a lack of class or manners, either. Lauren Bacall is a bad girl, and the woman oozes class from every scotch and cigarette-soaked pore. Audrey Hepburn was not a bad girl; one could make a strong argument that Katherine Hepburn was. She’s on the fence, really. She was probably a reluctant bad girl. A really healthy, country-walking bad girl.

Bad girls are not without their contradictions. Being contradictory, actually, is one of the things that makes a bad girl bad.

The public imagination holds Marie Antoinette to be a bad girl. She wasn’t, really. She very much conformed to the culture at hand—she was even considered to be a bit of a prude by her contemporaries. However, she was queen, and anti-monarchists excoriated her for multiple fictive transgressions. She wasn’t a lesbian. She didn’t have multiple affairs—only one or two, which in the court of France was a positively puritan track to tread. She never said, “let them eat cake.” She didn’t play dairymaid to a stable of randy faux cowherds. In the light of a real bad girl, Marie Antoinette was a bit of a bore.

Being a bad girl is something that our culture has castigated women with, as much as we enjoy the bad girl. We love the bad girl. We crave them. We hold them close to ourselves, and we are use them to feel better about ourselves. Whether we’re comparing ourselves favorably with the hott mess that is Tara Reid or Britney Spears, or whether we’re identifying with the life struggles of Abby Lee or Elizabeth Wurtzel or Anna Nicole Smith.

We need the bad girls a lot more than we need the good ones. The good girls—the Katie Courics, the Doris Days, the Gwyneth Paltows, the Linda Evans, the—gasp—Anne Coulters—are just less necessary. They may be talented, they may be pretty, they may be smart, and they may even be inflammatory, but at the end of the day, they’re a bit tiresome. If a good girl reveals herself to be bad at the core, and perhaps just acting the bad girl, as Elizabeth Taylor did when she stole Eddie Fisher from Debbie Reynolds, she becomes infinitely more interesting (so too does the good girl. Debbie Reynolds gets a big blank check for bad-ass irony, and you really have to love the woman).

When a formerly bad girl goes good, like J-Lo in her recent matriarchal make-over with the zombie-esque Marc Anthony, it’s just tragic. Nothing’s worse than asking the entirety of pop culture to take an oath of oblivion and forget your bad-girl past. Plus, it’s mind-boggling why after treading the tortuous course of bad girldom any woman would choose the torturous course good girldom.

Because good girldom is, let’s face it, hard. It’s tough to say which path is harder: that of the good girl or that of the bad. I recognize the reductiveness of my argument here, for there are as many different paths of bad girldom as there are bad girls (George Eliot and Marilyn Mansfield were both bad girls, and they have little in common beside that trait), but there is only one way to be good.

Good is definitely straight and narrow. If you are good, you are monogamous. You probably have children, or adopt them if you can’t. You dress nicely. You comport yourself well. You keep yourself attractive, and you do what you need to do to conform to the cultural standard of attractiveness. You do your best to recycle. You don’t go too badly into debt. You tend not to have addictions, but if you do, you twelve-step and repent. You do not advocate radical points of view. You probably think PETA is going too far. You are good. Good. Good. Good.

You are Rosaline Carter. You are Betty Ford. You are Lady-Bird Johnson. You are not Eleanor Roosevelt. You are not Mary Todd.

There are girls who elide, escape, evade the boundaries. They play in the dark like cultural ninjas. Hillary Clinton? Good girl or bad? Charlize Theron? Good girl or bad? Virginia Woolf? Good girl or bad?

And clearly no small part of the problem is our incessant will to categorize women. We don’t put men in the same categories. A bad boy is charming. He is just being naughty. He doesn’t decimate the culture at large with his badness. No senator’s wife will ever call for Colin Farrell’s death as one famously did for Britney during her husband's 2004 campaign. A bad man is very bad indeed, but a man has to be really bad to be called “bad.” Idi Amin was bad. Mussolini. Hitler. Bad, bad men.

We women get very little cultural latitude. It’s really no small wonder, then, why so many of us now are venerating the bad girl, perhaps more than ever. It’s really pretty overdetermined to be a good girl. You have to be so much to so many; you kind of have to wonder when you get to be what you want to yourself. Good girls are allowed to like sex now, and that’s a new phenomena. However, they still have to like it only in certain prescribed regulated ways. Girls still wonder how many sex partners are too many, as if there’s a golden number and past that you are forever emblazoned with a big baroque “S” for “slut.”

Good girls can work. They can suffer life’s slings and arrows. They can emerge, maybe beaten slightly, but still smiling and they are still good (see Berry, Halley and Aniston, Jennifer). Good girls can divorce (see Garner, Jennifer), have children out of wedlock (see Flockhart, Calista), and be lesbians (see Bono, Chastity). Good girls seem to have a lot more leniency than they used to.

And yet, perhaps not. It might be that even in the third wave of feminism the old adage remains true: Good Girls Go to Heaven, but Bad Girls Go Everywhere. If you want real movement in this culture; if you want to be able to kick up your heels and enjoy your life on your own terms; if you want to speak your mind, good, bad or ugly; you’re gonna be a bad girl. Or you’re just going to look at them wistfully, wishing that you too had those invisible balls that makes all things—from the nadir of the upskirt to the apogee of art—possible.

What can I say that she didn't? I loved this post, and felt the need to share it with those who may not know of Chelsea and her greatness. I only wish I could write half as well as she does.

Time To Play The Game

And I don't mean Triple H (though I'd play him, too).

The Game is something I invented today to amuse myself at work. It simply consists of my privately assessing most of the adult males that I come in contact with as to whether they'd be a hard or soft fuck.

It's interesting to look at customer or co-worker and think to yourself, "What kind of a man is he in bed?" Some people just exude hard fuckability. Your bikers, mechanics, and athletes- most of them look like they'd enjoy grinding you into dust on their bed. Then you get the soft lays- the ones that send out that gentle vibe that usually reminds me of Angel from Rent.

Every now and again you get surprised. Some of those tough guys, once you talk to them, seem like they'd be the romantic softie type. And some of these geeky boys that I love to look at so much, once they speak, make me practically want to scream, "Take me to your house now and make me turn to mush!"

Amazingly enough, most of our techs seem to fall into the soft lay category. They all seem buff and tough, but once you watch the care they take with another person's property, you know that they'd treat you like a queen between the sheets....

Don't Let Me Be misunderstood

I decided, after thinking for a while, that the recent infiltration of my blog by undesirable people will NOT stop me from posting. I'm screening comments now, and that's an unfortunate thing. Ah well, what has to be done will be.

I was browsing other blogs yesterday and I ran across this wonderful entry over at AlwaysArousedGirl's blog, and I wanted to address the same issue over here.

I love being a girl, and I love having hott passionate sex with members of the opposite sex. I love having a big hard cock shoved deep inside me, driving me to insane amounts of pleasure. There's not another feeling like it in the world. Don't misunderstand me, I love sex with my girlfriend, and she's amazing at it (and so am I, she tells me.)

But one of my fantasies, just like AAG's, is having a cock of my own. I guess it the fact that I don't KNOW what it feels like for a man. I have the kind of personality where I have to KNOW everything about everything. I have to be able to tell you what the opening match of WrestleMania 1 was (Tito Santana vs The Exectutioner), or who played what role in what movie.

Not knowing things bothers me. Not knowing what an orgasm feels like for a guy bothers me. I mean, I can read the signs on him as to what it feels like, but I'll never experience it. And that bothers me.

Plus, if I had a cock of my own, being a bisexual girl would be ever so much more fun! No need of a strap on then! Just get hard and go! I'd need to wear skirts even more then, though, because I know I'd walk around with a constant hard-on.

My Imaginary Cock would be just about six inches long, and thick. Just thick enough that I'd know it's there all the time. Not too thick- I'd want someone to be able to suck it. I'm not talking salami here. Maybe a nice thick pepperoni, though. (giggle) It'd be softskinned, and easy on the hands. I've had my hand on at least one poor abused cock in my time, and it didn't feel that good. So definitely softskinned, but with those big veins that stick up just a bit to show you where they are. The head of My Imaginary Cock would be fat and sensitive, and just a little bit bigger than the rest of it. And I'd be uncircumcised, too. Ace is uncircumcised, and he's (as I've stated before) one of the best people I've ever had between the sheets. Or on top of the sheets... or without any sheets at all.

That's My Imaginary Cock. I'd hope to be as skilled with it as King is with his own- and I'd hope to be able to make Queen squeal just like he does. I'd just hope that I'd never embarrass myself with it.

*cluck*

Looking For Trade

Well, it's been an eventful day in the relationship category.

I agreed to go out on a date with a co-worker this coming Friday night. We've barely passed three conversations, and it took me by surprise. Had I thought about it, I'd probably said no on general principle of me not really being ready to get back on a dating scene, especially not in a town like this one. But my mouth works faster than my brain, and I couldn't take it back after I'd said it.


I also got the news that the ex and his whore had their precious ball of slime today. It threw me for a loop, but I should be okay. Here's hoping my papers get to me on time, or else there's gone be hell to pay. I'll make a scene like you wouldn't believe.

After I got the news, I got kind of depressed and called Joker in Newport. He brought me back up, and dropped a bomb of his own on me. It looks like I'm never going to get to satisfy my curiosity of knowing what he's like in bed- he's gotten serious with his girl. Ah well, you can't have them all.

Hanging up with him, I called Ace. Ace proceeded to tell me that his girl has been urging him to sleep with me. I don't know how I feel about that, but hey, if I can get a piece of him again, I'll go for it. He'll always be without a doubt my number one hey in my heart. I know that I can fall in love with him instantly, and that's power he wields over me like a club (albeit unknowingly). I knew that when I showed up on his doorstep nearly a year ago, I was starting something irrevocable.

Flashback: Two (or is it three?) years ago... In Ace's jeep, in Beaufort. Driving back from somewhere to our duplex- where he, I , the husband, and another friend stayed.


Conversation had gotten melodramatic, turning to his situation with his then-freshly left ex. He was depressed and sad, and I couldn't stand to see my best male friend (strike that, my best friend) in such pain. I was driving for some reason, and I turned to him and looked him straight in the eye as we were parked at a stop light.

"If anything happens between **** and me, you know it's you I'm going to go to, right?"

He stared at me from his hazel eyes (so much like my own) and was for once in his life, speechless. He nodded and asked, "What do you mean?"

"I think we'd have been great together, Ace."

"You're right."

Conversation turned to another subject and we let that lie for a long time.

Then comes the destruction of my marriage and life as I knew it. I got in my car the morning after it happened and told the car to take me where I belonged. I don't remember driving to his apartment, but I must have, for 5 minutes later, I was standing on his porch in the rain, banging on the door to be let in.

In conversation we had earlier, he told me that he knew at the moment I'd said what I did in his Jeep, that we'd end up sleeping together, and he was right. We did sleep together for nearly three months with no formalized relationship. It was a comfort to me to know he was there beside me. He also said that I was the best blow job he's ever had, and he finds it hard to believe that King claims I've gotten better. I told him that our sex had been good for me, and he said that it had been excellent for him. He also stated that he plans to come up here next week for a few days- and there's only one place in this house for him to sleep- next to me!

So I'll keep you posted...

I plan to cry on Mister's shoulder tomorrow (if he comes in) about the ball of slime situation. I'll keep you posted on that too.

A Quick One Before He Goes...

Well.

Well, well, well.

I hear so many stories from the other two about their goings on before Queen has to go to work, that I decided to do the same favor for King today.

I'm still a little shaky as I type, so bear with me.

He'd teased me mercilessly last night as we watched Rent... and I do mean mercilessly. I'd been lounging on their bed, and he'd joined me. We'd made it through most of the movie, and we started goofing around as we do. I ended up sprawled out behind him, kind of wrapped around him as he sat up.

Quick as lightning, he turned and grabbed me, turning me so that I laid on my stomach and winding his fingers into my hair, pulling it back just a little.

"I know what you want," he murmured. He turned himself so that he was laying on my back, and moved just a little so I could feel his erectness through my too big pajama pants.

"You'd be right,' I murmured back, just waiting for it to happen. I've had a pretty stressful week, and the night before he'd help me relieve that a little bit, but I ended up falling asleep with my head beside him, and my arm resting on his chest. I was incredibly horny, and I wanted him.Badly. I knew I was already wet, and I just wanted him to wrap up and fuck the shit out of me. But he didn't. He rolled off me and smiled that crooked grin of his.

"You asshole!" I said in the way that I do to let someone know that I'm just playing with them, that I don't really mean my words as intended.

"No, this would be being an asshole." He rolled back onto me, pulled down my pants and stuck his cock in between my legs, which were trapped together by his own. "Doing it so you can feel it is being an asshole." He rolled off and pulled my pants back up. We finished Rent with no more playing around, and when Queen got home, she seemed exhausted. Even after her shower, which usually invigorates her just a little bit. King still got his though, and Queen enjoyed it, and I got to watch. Just watch, which is unusual for me. I'm still breaking down a few of my barriers, I guess. I used not to be comfy with just watching, but this time I didn't even feel the need to run from the room and leave them in private. Good for me.

When they were done, we kinda played around a bit, torturing Queen and not letting her get to sleep, but finally I found my legs and made my way to my room, turning off their light for them as I left. I started an old vintage porn I'd found on limewire and got off before I rolled over and went to sleep.

That leads to today.

I was in a lazy mood today, which for me means as little clothing as possible. I didn't want to be bothered by the feel of cloth constraining me. Just a shirt so I can walk in front of the windows with little to no worry. It's a long shirt, and I've become quite the admirer of my own legs ( at least from the knees down, still working on the thunderthighs!). Plus, if I had my way, I'd be a nudist in the first place. Not because I particularly like seeing myself nude, but because it just frees up so much worry. Skin is skin.

Anyway.

King and Queen went out to lunch together and I took a nap. I heard King come back in and heard Queen leave for her mom's store to spend the day with her. That left me and King here alone.

Time passed. I'd surfed the net all day, watched an episode of MST3K, and played Fish Tycoon for a while, and still time dragged on. Finally I walked out into the main part of the house and whined, "I'm booooooored."

He was bored too.

He put a movie in the dvd player (Hot Shots) and I made some food for myself. After it was over, he stretched out on the floor. Here's my chance, I thought, and settled myself on to the floor next to him.

"I guess I can take a thirty minute nap before work," King said. "Unless you can think of something better to do." His pants were already unbuttoned, because they're just a little too tight, so I started playing around with his zipper, and letting my hand wander near his penis.

"Those're my pants."

"I know." Slowly I worked my hand into those pants, and found what I was looking for. Pulling it out, I commented, "Those pants are in my way."

"Then by all means," he said, moving so I could remove them. "I'm all naked."

"Yeah, you are." My hand was rubbing over him gently, and I moved to take him into my mouth. Mmmm, he said. Slowly, I moved up and down on him, taking my time and enjoying myself. I knew he was enjoying himself too, because he reached over and started to play with my already wet clit. "You're getting better at that," said he as he ran his hand up and down me. "Lots of practice," I replied, taking a moment to pause for air. "Feel freee to practice on me any time you want." "But I I did that, you'd never get to work." That's true." I tried to go back to what I had been doing to him but unfortunately for me, my hair kept getting in the way of having full enjoyment of what I was doing, so I said, "Don't move." I went to my room and quickly found a hair tie. I walked back into the living room, looked at him all sprawled out on the floor, and said," Why don't we move this in there?" I pointed to their room, and added, "Rug burn sucks." He agreed, and sprawled out on the bed.

"Where was I?" I took him back in hand and leaned down a little.

"Somewhre about there."

'I think I was a little closer to this," I said, wrapping my lips back around him. He moaned a little. He doesn't moan.

As I lifted my head back up to get my breath, he looked at me and said, "I think I teased you yesterday." I nodded, saying,"Yes, you did..." I turned over onto my back. He positioned himself in between my legs and wrapped himself up. I lifted myself a little so that he could enter me, and...oh, words fail me at time to describe what happens when he fucks me. I lose all sense of what's going on. I used to be quiet in bed, but no more. Now he makes me moan and yell, and whisper and sigh. King is very good at what he does.

He pushed my legs together after he'd made me come once, and put his hand around my neck, thrusting deep and hard, applying just the right amount of pressure on my neck to make me come again, then I felt him go right after.

So, for once, it got to be me sending someone off to work in a good mood...