exhibitionist?

it seems that i have quite a capacity for public sex.

asleep

and the man i am fucking is sleeping in my room.

i didn’t have to fuck him.  he said he needed to lie/lay(whatever) down for a few minutes and then went to sleep.

part of me wants to wake him but most of me is thrilled.

lifetimes

and i love DAG so painfully….

need to see him.

he’s afraid. afraid to see me. he knows that there are certain things that are inescapable. he’s afraid that what he’s always believed means nothing. nothing in the face of reality.

and i felt the same. i understand.

it sucks to release the things you’ve held tightly.

and i will wait. i’ve been waiting for lifetimes.

easy

i really need to end the sexual relationship between myself and the man i am screwing.

he came over Wednesday night and i was planning on remaining clothed and chaste.  i had planned on telling him i could no longer sleep with him.

of course, this did not happen.

it would be one thing if the sex were enjoyable—for the most part, it isn’t.   i do not understand my motivation (can it be something as simple as loneliness?).

not okay

i woke up yesterday morning sticky with creamsicle flavoured lube. it was in my hair and on my face; the quilt had tacky spots.

the sadness was overwhelming.

*******************

three days ago i asked DAG if he ever thought about us and missed us together. he said, “yes, of course i do.” i believe him. he’s never lied. would never lie.

*******************

he called last night and we chatted. i was exhausted and miserable and did not feel like talking. his voice made me cry. he asked if i were okay. i said, “yes”.

but of course, i am not okay. he knows.

would like

i would like to get married.

and i’m not even divorced yet.

non-believer

i telephoned the man i am fucking–about 30 minutes ago. i invited him over tonight.

i stared at the photographs of the man i love and made vows that only a non-believer could make.

Platonic Ideal

he is one of those folks who have everything. he is stupidly, absurdly, fucking heartbreakingly good-looking, he is brilliant and educated, he has an unmatched easy wit, he has an awesome, fit, muscular body, he is perfect in bed, he is talented, he is a genuinely good person. oh, and yeah, his cock is the Platonic Ideal.

…i can’t stop thinking about him.

67 Bottles of Booze on the Wall

decided to take in the recycling.  counted 67 champagne bottles.  don’t know whether to laugh or get looped and not think about it….

shallow

i like the man i am fucking, just not in that way.  my shallowness is stupid and distasteful yet there is nothing to be done about it.   i am older and not looking for a man to father my children.  i am looking for a man who is physically beautiful to me as well as my mental match.  unfortunately, it now seems that the physical outweighs the mental—hence my inability to feel “romantic” or sexual about the man i am fucking.

finger holds

i wrote:

tonight i will let some guy paw over me.  i will fake passion.  i will do the things one is supposed to do.  all this because death is too close and i am desperate to grasp these, ultimately false, finger holds.

sober

i no longer wish to be sober.

show

he bought a $1000+ camera before the the last time he visited. he bought the camera to take photographs of us fucking—as well as other endeavors. we are perverts. i had no problem being photographed.   he had no problem.

the photos were taken. us fucking. shots of me nude. photos of my lips around his cock.

i imagine they are extraordinary.

i have never seen the photos.

a (gay) friend of his had expressed the desire to see a het couple fucking—which i would have done—and after being told of the existence of the photos, wanted to see them. he and i agreed that we didn’t care and the friend could see. i don’t know if if this ever happened.

he and i fucked in front of folks before. we went to a “sex club” in SF. we had been talking about going there for months. the club wasn’t what we imagined. he and i imagined a hedonistic paradise. we had agreed on certain “rules” before we went. he wasn’t allowed to touch anyone. wasn’t allowed to fuck anyone but me. i could let women blow him but he could only touch me. he wanted to have, “…tits all around [him]…,” and i was okay with that. he wanted me and another woman(women) to blow him and fuck each other in front of him. still that was okay. i had no problem with the whole scenario. was prepared to put on a show for him. you see, he was mine. it didn’t matter. as long as at the end he and i went home together…. and i wanted it as much as he did. make no mistake. fucking a woman in front of him would not just be for him–i’m a pervert and this turned me on. the whole thing was orchestrated so that i was in charge. i had no interest in any other man so we were not looking for some guy to join in.

things did not turn out the way our fantasies imagined.

we went to dinner at an upscale SF restaurant a few blocks away from the club. we drank a heartbreaking bottle of Bordeaux. we talked and were so fucking into each other that the air practically boiled. i can still see him there. his eyes were drunk with love and desire. we loved and wanted each other enough to span decades. and we looked so beautiful that night. i can’t even begin to tell you of his beauty. he’s short and small yet his chest and arms are muscular and developed. he has no body fat. his chest is the most beautiful thing, aside from his face, that i’ve ever seen. his lower body is tiny. his waist and hips are miniature. he has the smallest ass. his tiny waist gives way to tight muscles blooming upwards into perfect chest musculature. his chest can make me cry. his arms are muscled yet small. make no mistake, he is strong and large. i can not describe him. he is short and small yet so so big. the first time i saw him he opened his front door and was leaning against the inner hallway wall. he looked so fucking young and small and beautiful. i wish i had a photograph—though i remember it clearly.

i cannot describe him. he is beyond beautiful. his body is my ideal. naked with him felt natural. the first time ever. my small body against his……. my softness against the hardness of his body. can’t explain it. it just fit.

anyway, we entered the sex club. we toured the different levels and rooms. hardly anyone was fucking. most were voyeurs. we watched a quartet (along with a good-sized crowd) screwing. we messed around a bit while watching. then we left and found an empty (tho’ public) room. i blew him until we both wanted more. then we started screwing against the iron framework of the biggest bed you could ever imagine. i unbuttoned his shirt and my dress was up around my chest. i wanted him on the bed but he was nervous. so we fucked against the framework. i was basically naked as my dress was up. i didn’t care. we fucked like we were the only ones left.

i knew we had drawn a crowd. this made me more turned on. i loved that people were watching us. i loved being undressed and fucked in front of others. i leaned back against the bed frame to better give a view of my chest.

unfortunately, despite his bravado, he didn’t get off on the whole fucking-while-being-watched thing—we discussed this later. it was funny and odd to us that i–who had been reticent about the sex club visit–would be uninhibited while he–who had really wanted to fuck in front of folks–felt awkward. he was worried about me before we went. he was afraid that i would not be able to relax. i was afraid that he would be too out of control…. we left soon after the giant bed fuck. i think it unnerved him to look up and see a wall of people watching us.

outside, walking back to the car, a group shouted, “thanks for the show. you guys were great.”

last chance

though this–weblog thingy–may sound like the naive shit of a young(er) woman, i can assure you that not only am i older (almost fucking middle-aged) but have been young and felt the angst of of a young woman.

i am not young.

in a way, the raw love and desire and hurt i have for him makes me feel like a kid again… and i am ashamed. folks at my age should not have these desires; should not have this amount of passion. we should feel restrictively. however, it is nice to know that passion doesn’t end. though, i must admit that i am more afraid than ever. if i can still feel so despairingly as i do and did, if i can still love as if Death was looming over my shoulder, love as if i had never felt this before, what will it be like when i am even older? when there will be no-one?

i need someone. i am not young and beautiful. men my age want younger women. even him, who knows better, is seeing someone 8 years younger than i am.

my age is suddenly a fucking curse. i never cared too much about age until recently. never cared until i was alone. now it’s become a constant reminder. the men i find attractive want someone younger. and then there is the opposite. i’ve been propositioned by very young men lately. though they are beautiful and undoubtedly nice fucks, i have no interest. young men are beautiful but i need/want more. and then there are all the “older” men—i.e. over 50. i could screw 20-somethings and 50+ somethings–and yet not one of these men are my “fit”. nor do any of them care about me as a person. both groups see me as a nice fuck and a way to show off.

why the fuck can’t women and men at a certain age want each other.

i keep trying to tell him this. but men are simple.

i am so fucking scared. my desire is so narrow. my ideal man is becoming further and further out of my reality. i can’t settle. can’t do it. yet i am fucking older. i have children. i have nothing to offer.

He was my last chance. and i truly thought we’d be together.

kills

so what happened?  everyone wants to know.

i don’t know.  he doesn’t really know.

there are a lot of things.  the distance, my children, his self-doubt.  my insanity.  his insanity.

i’ve been over this every day for the last five months.

it would have been better had we parted acrimoniously.   we did not.  in fact, we are still best friends.  and it kills me.

tomorrow 2

and tomorrow i will fuck a man that i am not interested in.

my thoughts are 3000 miles away.  my love is in New York.

my love will never be anywhere but with him.

tomorrow

and tomorrow i will fuck a man i do not love.

last

the last time i was with him was at the end of March in the Oakland airport.

we had spent the afternoon enjoying each other. fucking and loving. the optimism of the previous week together had become dulled by our impending parting. i had removed my necklace—the joke that i had been wearing for the last ten or more years but had somehow become my totem—and placed it between tissues and tucked it into a card for him to be read later, on the plane. my necklace was the only thing i could give him that truly meant my love.

we stood in the airport clinging to each other. we were both dying over yet another fucking goodbye.

lost. again.

i love you Dave. David. DAG.  Darlin’.  i miss you. miss you and the things we never did. miss the fucking chance we had. miss the simple synchronicity of our selves together.

and it was the fucking same for you.

you know all this. we are lost. again.

****************

long ago

the loss of my lover wasn’t/isn’t the reason for my wish to die. at least not the only reason.

i can no longer hold it together. for my children.

we regularly have electricity and water turned off. i have the fucking DA after me for a few “bad checks”. we’re living on $500.00 a month. i can’t find a job. i’ve been selling off my record collection to buy groceries for my kids.

things have gotten to the point that my death would be beneficial to all. it’s problematical. i need to make it look accidental so my children aren’t further burdened. it will be hard enough, they don’t need need to know the truth.

a month or so ago, i left my Will with my oldest and dearest friend and my true love. it was written coldly and i was planning on death within the next few days.

my kids. they stop me. they don’t seem to understand that we are on the brink of being out on the streets. they don’t understand that their father is threatening to take them and leave me on the streets. i go back and forth: it would be better for everyone if i died…  my death would destroy my children….  i can’t do this any longer….  they need me….  i can’t do this anymore—i fucking can’t.

i fucking tried to make it and i fucking failed. i thought i could do it.

i should have died long ago.

weak

and perhaps the weakest thing i have ever done was to beg and cry for my ex-husband to give me another chance.  this was done out of desperation and loneliness.  done out of weakness.  tho’ i love him and always will, our relationship ended four years ago.

this was weeks ago when i had been planning my death.

he told me that he didn’t love me and didn’t care about me.

i was so close to suicide before and even closer after.

if

if there had only been a fight, a deception, a betrayal….  if we had parted with hatred in our eyes and on our lips….

Best

i wrote:

i wanted to be hard and never talk to you again. i can’t do it. was honest when i said you have become my best friend—actually wasn’t really aware of it myself until i said (wrote) it. yes, i want you as my lover as well as, and in addition to, my friend—and i will always want this—but you are too much of a loved one to let go (of). however—and i don’t know how to say this without sounding retarded—i will never give up hope that you and i will be “together”. there has never been anyone like you, no-one i’ve wanted this painfully and profoundly. i feel as if i’ve been waiting (and slugging through bullshit) for you for years and years. you said you would not want to be selfish or whatever and expect me to wait for you (or however it was said), but Darlin’, i’ve been waiting a long time and will continue to do so. there is and, and i’m pretty certain, will be no-one else (at least no-one i will settle for in any meaningful way). you showed me how it could be. anyway, thank you for everything you’ve done for me.

He replied:

You are, without a doubt, my best friend. You have been for some time now. You’re an important part of my life. I don’t want that to change. Thanks for always being there, even if only to listen.

love, always,

Queasy

He wrote:

I have a very queasy feeling that you’re never going to talk to me again, and I can’t tell you how miserable that makes me.

I wanted to tell you these things on the phone or in person, but I at least want to write them to you. I owe you some kind of explanation.

I honestly and truly love our time together. I have not felt about anyone the way I feel about you. The way I feel about you is the way I wanted to feel about people in the past. I practically broke down when I read your card in the airport. I didn’t want to leave you. Again. The necklace was….I can’t find the words. I felt so certain about you.

When you were worried that I felt overwhelmed or whatever by your home life, I honestly thought, “no, it’s cool. I’m fine with it.” When I got home…I don’t know…it kinda put things into perspective a little. And then when you left all those messages on friday and then again on saturday of last week or whenever it was, I felt different. Part of me wants very badly to be with you, but another part of me WAS overwhelmed. I thought I knew what I was looking for. I don’t right now. I don’t mean that to sound like a cop out. I could have very easily not said anything about this to you and just strung us both along for months. But this is where I get in trouble. I always have the self-destructive urge to say shit. To say to the one person who knows me better than anyone that I wasn’t sure we’d work out.

At this moment, I don’t feel like I can commit myself to anyone. Could that change tomorrow? Possibly. Could it change in the future? I hope so. But I feel completely lost. I thought so very certain and comfortable with you that when I felt the doubt creeping in, it really threw me. I felt like, ‘how can I feel this much of a gulf with someone whom I absolutely love and adore.’ (god, i wish i could write this better.) All the issues that we talked about when we first started talking on the phone have resurfaced…my frustration about my career, my self-loathing, my frustration about relationships, and this horrible, self-destructive sense of doubt.

I don’t expect you to agree with my explanation or anything, and I’m sorry I’m not a better person. All I ask is that you please don’t read this as some sort of excuse on my part to screw around. I don’t do that. Never have; never will.
I joke around a lot about arrogance and self-confidence, but I always cringed a little when you would say things about how I was perfect. Now you know why I’m not, and I wish I could be better for you. it breaks my heart that I’m not.

replacement

i need a lover that will dull my love for him.  the man i am screwing cannot fulfill this role—i do not lie in bed at night and think of him; i do not long for him.

i wish it were as easy as replacement.  maybe it is and i had the stupidity to choose the wrong man for the job.

suitors?

oh fer christ’s sake, i just received the following email from a COMPLETE STRANGER:

hi girl
well how about comming to nassau, bahamas to goofoff for a while??
have lots of room for you and lots of beaches to explore here..
talk soon
[name and profile info. deleted to protect the clueless]

i receive these things regularly.  men find my profile on one of the numerous websites i utilise and feel it’s A-Okay to email.  this particular gentleman is 56 (i checked HIS profile).   actually, to tell the truth, i don’t really dislike the attention, i just wish for once it was from a gorgeous, dark-haired, 30-something year-old punk-type guy…..

abuser

i make no secret of my (pharmaceutical) drug and alcohol use. however, i have told no-one to what extent i am an abuser. i drink multiple bottles of wine a week and, up until my current financial crises, i take 30-40 mg of Ambien a night (usually on top of the alcohol). i am most likely an alcoholic and the only reason i have not been using drugs lately is because i have no money.

i love being looped. i love the way intoxicants soften surfaces and smooth anxieties. i love the way my surroundings haze. i can’t imagine living without booze and drugs.

letter 5

i wrote to him:

i thought i could get over you through sex and involvement. however, it has only made me miss you more. perhaps if i could find your equal… argh! you have no equal. i am not like you—i compare. how can one refine what she wants if she doesn’t compare? and yes, since you, i have grown shallow or maybe just more picky. this guy isn’t thin enough for my liking ([M] was appalled when i told her this). he isn’t so many things that i desire.

i don’t think i will ever find anyone who fits me as you do. and now i’m even more scared and depressed. spent so much time wanting and looking for someone like you and, i now realise, you are the only one. you are singular; my counterpart; the very person i wanted yet didn’t believe existed. you mean more to me than anyone has ever meant. i’m frightened and so so lonely. i’ll have to settle—i need to be adored, loved, whatever. i can’t be alone. however, i will never feel the same depth of love and connection with anyone that i felt/feel with you.

Darlin’, you said that you might’ve finished graduate school for me. i might have believed in marriage and life-long companionship for you.

letter 4

i wrote to him:

….anyway, fuck DAG, i wish you could have met my mom. met my dad. sat around with my brothers with a football game on tv. you would have fit in so beautifully. i wanted so badly to tell everyone about you. i never did. fuckfuckfuck…. i can fucking see you there.

and oh darlin’, i cut them (even my dad) off for so long—since my mom died. i don’t know how to get back. i miss everything. when i told my brother to turn off my mother’s oxygen, that was it. i was so bitter. they, my sister and brother and even my father looked at me to make the fucking decisions. all i wanted was for once not to have to be the “strong” one, the fucking “leader”. i watched her dying for two days. she would awaken every once in awhile and either tell me what i wasn’t doing right or indulge me in my last pain—three days before she died, Shane was going through my books and throwing most in a large trash can, i climbed into her bed because the losses—not only the books—were too much and though she was dying, she somehow wrapped her arms around me and told me she loved me and it would be okay. that was the last truly conscious moment i had with her. her rage during the dying wasn’t her. i sat with her for two days. watching her chest make it’s jagged rise. waiting for the moment the breath would no longer come.

Shane and my sister (in-law), both RN’s, were in charge of mom’s medications. they gave her liquid morphine every few hours. i asked Shane how much it would take to give a fatal dose. but he wouldn’t do it. so in the end, it was just us–me, my sister and brother. and they would have never done it. and i’m so fucking resentful. so fucking angry that they couldn’t for fucking once let me be the younger one.

when my (our) oldest sister, Karen, died, they were like fucking children. i was only 22 and everyone wanted me to take over–even my brother (in-law—Karen’s husband). i wasn’t ready. i couldn’t be Karen. i couldn’t keep it together. and i’m so so fucking angry at her for dying. she left me with THIS. she fucking left me alone with mom’s death. i didn’t want to be the leader. i wanted someone to step up and be bigger.

i never mention this—except in a few short stories. Karen died in October and that Thanksgiving the fucking switch was made. Karen was no cook but for whatever reason, she always did the mashed potatoes on holidays. the thanksgiving after her death i walked into my parent’s house and the fucking potatoes were cooked and the mixer set up but no-one would touch the job. i walked in and there was this collective outlet of breath and my mom asked me to mash the potatoes. i stood there, Darrel (Karen’s husband), my brother, and my sister staring at me. it was such a banal task but under the weight of expectation and need, the import was staggering. i looked at all those daggered eyes and took on the job.

the job, i didn’t quite realise, would be forever.

they regard me as their “strong one” and i’m so so tired.

Karen. we had just become friends—like sisters—when she died. despite our 21 or so years age difference, we were very close. she was truly my sister—unlike my other “sister”.

she would call me up to discuss her teenage daughter. we would get together over lunch to discuss men and sex and etc… with her i finally thought i belonged in this family. once, before we were “friends”, we actually got into a fist-fight—afterwards, she took me out, bought me drinks, and gave me smokes.

oh fuck! it’s been so long. but i miss her. i miss her so much. i could tell her anything. fucking Karen! fuck you fuck you fuck you.

i’m sure i told you, my brother and sisters are genetically related to my dad—they’re his biological nieces and nephew. this has always been a problem for me. although my mother is not genetically related, she had her genetic family. so though my mother and i are alike in our non-relationships to our immediate family, she had her husband to cement her to the family. i came in as a refugee—some half breed from the leaking bowels of poverty-driven desperation; i came in tainted through the ridiculous couplings of my bio father and mother. the adoption agency told my parents that the only reason that they—at 39 years old—could adopt me was because i was “mixed” and no-one else would want such a baby. yeah, my difference became a huge source of anguish. my dad is pretty much 100% English and my mom is pretty much 100% German and i’m a fucking wetback. great. and my fucking sisters and brother and all their kids look like my dad and i look like like some fat kid they picked up in Tijuana. and then there are the relatives that thought i was a pretty baby and kid and only accepted me because i’m not “dark”.

my family was subtlety racist. i heard many many jokes about “wetbacks” and other minorities. it never bothered me. i didn’t know. nor did my parents. they thought i was indian (american)—which is so much better than mexican. i grew up believing i was indian. being Mexican was pretty damn bad. our dog only bit Mexicans. i saw the Mexicans everyday in our country store (before our other business) and my parents didn’t really like them—despite their “okie” roots. my siblings would make racist jokes. but it was all okay because, although i was darker, i was Indian.

i didn’t find out until after [S] was born. and it was difficult. i remember the day i found out. mom had been doing some research for me and she told me that despite what they had been told, i was not indian but mexican. it took me weeks, months, maybe years…. to be okay with this. not only was there racism but almost 25 years of assumptions.

i’m no fucking saint and this was a blow. suddenly i was no longer the noble savage but a dirty wetback. it may seem stupid, but it was hard. strangely, by this time, my parents had mellowed and took this news easily and matter-of-factly. i, however, was mired in internalised shit and the destruction of my entire constructed history—and my parents didn’t think anything of it. fuck! i loved them more than ever. seriously. i can’t even tell you what it was like to find out your entire history was untrue. can’t tell you what it was like to be forced to confront your own prejudice and beliefs.

i loved being “Indian”.

i hated being Mexican.

since accepting the truth, i’ve been trying to find some middle ground. the problem being, there isn’t such a thing.

i have no family.

and perhaps this is the next Act. alienation. outsider. belonging yet never belonging. (maybe, this has been IT all along…. outsider. wanting something, yet not knowing exactly what).

a man in the supermarket yesterday spoke to me in Spanish. i said, sorry? he replied, oh, i thought you would speak Spanish.

anyway, sorry for all this. yikes!

letter 3

i wrote to him:

i’ve realised something, i have always cared more for my loved ones than any of them have ever cared about me. no-one has ever fought for me the way i’ve fought for them—fought for their love and friendship. this is a pattern and i’ve come to believe that shane is right when he told me yesterday, “you were never good enough for me.” i am not good enough for anyone. the evidence is overwhelming.

He replied:

he was never good enough for you. you know that, right?

i wrote back to him:

i was never good enough for shane, i wasn’t good enough for you, i was not good enough for all the people i’ve reached out for over the years. not one single person has ever loved and wanted me as much as i have loved and wanted.

letter 2

i wrote to him:

yeah, sorry about that (my stunning conversational skills). like i said, just can’t shake this apathy. this is the most severe depression i can ever remember having—and i’m on medication. so anyway…. also, things are not quite right between us. it’s difficult to talk to you when we both feel so closed off. i want to talk and have everything as good as before but i don’t know how to make it happen.

i know i did major damage, and i’m sorry. it was so much hurt and rage and impotence and loneliness and i had no-one to talk to.

and what i didn’t want to admit to myself, our level of comfort with each and our closeness will most likely never recover. you have your own life and someone in it that has already eclipsed my importance to you. soon you will no longer need me to talk with, confide in, trust with your ideas and affairs, etc… we’ll talk a few times a year and eventually that will further dwindle. and the likely-hood of ever seeing you again is non-existent. that’s just how things are.

anyway, i miss you.

letter

i wrote to him:

so just got back from the soiree (630 am Friday). the event was okay. ended up going home with some guy. i’ve never done the sleeping with strangers thing before and i’m a little rattled. it’s not the sex so much, it’s that he wants more. i do not want more. i didn’t even want sex. now i feel stuck. argh! i have a real knack for causing myself problems.

however, i will say this, he was the most orally-centric (male to female) guy i’ve ever met.

lonely

though i am in love with one man, i have recently started fucking another. i am not interested, just lonely.

honesty

it’s been so long since i have been able to write with unabashed honesty. this will be a nice change.