edward cullen

i'm not sure what i'm doing. acting on impulse and fragments of memory.
drinking coffee on the porch and watching her wake up. classes are more exciting than i thought they would be. i'm starting my thesis, gathering little souls to be interviewed by ME! on my road to being a real sociologist.
gossip girls last night was AMAZING. how are they all so very young? is it perversion to watch the 17 year olds get their FREAK on? esp. with that math teacher.
we have a new adorable boy roommate named david. he walks around in his american apparel undies just like zack, a nice replacement.
peeber still loves me.

there was a time when it fell into place

a time when it was you and the pieces fit. but that time is so far away from where we find ourselves now.

i enjoy writing on the computer. sometimes more so than writing on paper.

when does the matter of missing someone become insignificant? or can it? i think it depends on the circumstances of the missing. the longing. the wondering. i question myself so often that it's hard to keep track of what i mean and what i am trying to say. i like that, though. it gives room, cushioning for options.

when i was with you so much more made sense but i understood so little of what i'm taking in now.

i have options and that is a lot more than some people can say. we are lucky. is it that hard to remember? yes. i could point my feet in a different direction if i wanted to. or if i had the motivation.

lying on job applications and trying to make myself sound worthy enough for them to accept me is gross.

there is a new mad hot librarian lady that started here today.

you called last night and i smiled and i remembered that there will never be a time when you don't understand. in the midst of everything that was going on around me. voices were carrying and mixing and pushing at each other to get to the ears first. it was overwhelming to hear these over-excited voices grasping at random concepts that raced by their ears. grasping and then elaborating.

but. you called and that was good. black hair sitch must be elaborated.

i'm writing it out the easy way

-intense insomnia
- extraordinarily vivid dreams
- extreme confusion during waking hours
- intense fear of losing your sanity
-steady feeling of existing outside of reality as you know it
-memory and concentration problems
-an unconventional dizziness/vertigo
-the feeling of shocks, similar to mild electric ones, running the length of your body
-an unsteady gait
-slurred speech
-profuse sweating, esp. at night
-blurred vision
-breaking out in tears
-hypersensitivity to motion, sounds and smells
-decreased appetite/nausea/diarrhea/loss of appetite
-chills/hot flashes
-hallucinations/tremors
THE WINNER:
-semi-orgasmic state (esp. in women) to the point of irritation.
true story. like i wasn't ridicz before.

*good news. i'm not pregnant by mary fran...but withdrawal from my grand tons of paxil has made my life hellhellhell. and it's not getting better everyday. just worse. really.
*i hate this.

-i don't want to lose my sanity and i know that i'm not. but this is the absolute worst feeling ever.
-oh, and to help alleviate these symptoms i'm supposed to avoid all stressors. this means that i have to stop thinking about my lack of real job, lack of motivation for school to start, my ex-girlfriend dating a trashy ho that is my antithesis and my father seems to be doing everything in his power to upset me in every way possible. but that may just be the pax a lax speaking.
-also, lil wayne/weezy helps a lot.

you are where i am.

another series of hot vents opening in times of crisis. pushing out and drawing in. hot vents. cool tapes. your breath is a hot push on my neck. cross to the deep and search me now. touch my palms and press your lips onto skin.

I fell harder for them then I will for you. understand that. i tell you to be fair. but actually it is only to appease myself.

either way, you were going to fall through a plate glass window. you carry your fate with you. it’s not as simple as you’d like to think. I know you’d like me to think that I carry you with me, daily. this is false information.

spreading my hand and placing it flat on your abdomen, you told me that you'd never been sober in all of the times we'd had sex. i told you that you were a light weight. you didn't laugh. and what do i feel? guilty? should i question why that seems to always be the case?
so then how can you feel so drawn to this? attracted to the idea of these meaningless sexual encounters that are followed or begin with a peppering of psychotherapy to help you cope with your break up. i'm barely holding what i have intact, i can't do anything for you. but why can't you see that?

planet weezy

we are not the same.

i have nothing figured out right now. no organization whatsoever to this madness that is being thrown around day after day. but i am happy. i have let the ugly feelings and images slip away with each day and i love the people that i surround myself with.
i cannot say that my feelings match hers. i can't say that at all. she looks at me in a way that is oddly familiar. i remember looking into eyes and lips 4 years ago and feeling that intensity that she is pouring into me. i do not want her to waste it on me.
i know that no matter how i twist this or how this may (and inevitably will come to an end) i will come out looking like the one that caused hurt, breaking, anger. she will be angry because without my consciousness looking after me, these days i mix the signals and twist the meanings and tell you lies to make both of us feel better.
as therapeutic as i thought it might be, we have traveled a bit too far down a dangerous road and i know that it will cause hurt.
dolor. olor. pain. smell. we always have words.

it is clear that i must find my other half

you've left strands of hair on my pillow and now i am certain that tonight, as it is, i will not sleep. i worry about the way you leave the stove on or lock your keys in your car. so careless but so precise. i worry about the way that you look at me, intensely, questioning or completely reading into my thoughts. i worry that i may be too transparent when it comes to you. but there is no such thing, as i'm sure you would say.

i worry that you will wake up one day and have forgotten about me. i worry in gallons and tons. but when your skin is touching mine and your eyes are on mine, you are (as they say) relief next to me. sometimes words just don't fit and sometimes my mouth can't move quite fast enough and sometimes all we need to do is fuck. watch my eyes, now. slowly drifting from your palms to your elbows to the curves on your back. i graze on the folds and the drops and the sweetness that encase you. i press my lips to your skin and feel the floor dropping faster.

i don't want to be an image of someone else. my life cannot be summed up in the creases of paper, clenched in your hands. you say that you know me. you say that we are important, a bigger speck on this never-ending map. maybe it is true. but it could all be washed away with the stroke of a key.

he tells me to keep my eye on the ball, follow the whizzing white point through thick, muggy air. but instead i am fixating on another focal point, my stomach twisting in lust and my head protesting in embarrassment. all in the hips. so i am watching your hips as you walk, moving in and out of my horizon line.

i stopped caring when you disappeared. apathy crawled into the empty spot next to me in bed and i happily accepted it in your place.

it is so remarkably easy to lie to you. i think of this now, as we lay here, under my sheets. you could be so easily manipulated into my antidote. i smile back, feeling quick regret spreading through my gut. i want you to leave. i did not ask for a morning smile or a reminder of all that i once had. she took it back and now you're here, an unsteady replacement. the need in your eyes makes me sick and i wish you'd go away. she rubs her eyes and looks around the room. i have been lying to you, i want to say. my lie went under your pants and into your mouth. i suppose an apology would fulfill the proper etiquette, but that is the last thing on my mind.

i wrote you letters, i wrote you volumes.

i have never been so happy with the idea of uncertainty.
i am, though. i feel like i can make choices without second and third and fourth guessing them. i'm living how i want to and not letting anyone change that. last night i smoked in my new room in my new house and drank good beer. by the time the others had gone to sleep i was left in my room to watch a bad ben stiller movie. it was time, way past, to go to sleep. i couldn't. i felt the serious need to feel something. my body was slightly buzzing with the need to feel someone else, feel delicious waves of sex and crests of lips.
this didn't happen, obviously. i went to sleep and woke up to my own bed. comfortable. in my own room. new.change.sleep.wait.come.let.fall.turn.stop.
the library is the best place to write blog entries. the things that you never let yourself think about all come up and spill out my fingertips onto the keyboard.
the rise, the fall. you play, you win. you play, you win, you play, you lose.
it's the playing that matters.

athanatos--metaxu--thnatos and repeat.

i love the bite marks and scratches you leave on my skin. i love them just as much as the kisses, soft and calm against my anxious skin, stretched too tight. the painful marks that remain on my skin are like leftovers. when i wake up in the morning and sit on the porch, drinking my coffee and smoking a cigarette, i press my fingertips to the sensitive spots and smile, remembering your touch.
i walk down the sidewalk and can laugh inside my head because i know that i had more orgasms last night than the woman driving her kids to school or the men shuffling down the road with their hands clutching newspapers. and they have no idea. how exciting.
the sex. this sex. all of the sex that i discuss is never specific. no two acts of sex are ever the same, but they certainly carry similar characteristics and leave the same imprints on my mind and behind my eyelids the next day.
that's why i can imagine what it would be like to fuck without ever having done so. i can imagine the basic concepts and i can anticipate and think inappropriately about what could happen. always endless possibilities. the muscles in my legs tense up when i think too hard. the grin on my face becomes a little bit silly when i imagine these things. the patrons who walk by the desk could probably guess, they've all been there before.
hawt.

There Will be Pleasure and There Will be Pain.

In 6th grade i found myself mingling amongst the more popular crowd on the "knights" team. Our grade was separated into the "knights" and the "dragons". Within the knights, i must admit, i was considered to be pretty damn fly. Anyways, that year was the year for coed parties. We still used invitations and only invited select people. I was always the loud one at parties, making scenes by doing "crazy" acts to prove how hardcore i was. One friday night we were all gathered at Nick Philbrick's party for his 12th or 13th birthday...i don't remember. His birthday wish list was short, three things. He wanted either beer, cigarettes or condoms. Being the rebel of the group, he was expected to ask for such dangerous things. I stole three beers from my dad and wrapped them in tinfoil. Come to think of it, i'd never do that now, my father would undoubtedly notice...which he probably did and didn't say anything. How strange.
During the party we were gathered in Nick's room playing spin the bottle. Suddenly his brother and brother's friend who were four or five years older than us appeared in the doorway. His brother's friend, who i will call dbag, looked around the room and made eye contact with me. This was odd because I was a very unsexual girl. I hadn't developed as quickly as most and was rarely noticed for anything other than my peculiar sense of humor. He told me to come to the bathroom so he could tell me a secret. I followed him in and he locked the door. It was at this moment that i realized how sick i felt. My stomach tightened and my breathing was a little shallow. I was a very confused prepubescent girl. He told me that I shouldn't hang out with someone like Nick, he told me that Nick was gay (the biggest insult i knew at that point). I didn't laugh or meet his gaze. He reached towards me and pulled on my shirt, just slightly. Then his fingers touched the button on my jeans, pulling me towards him, just slightly.
I could hear my friends knocking and making jokes and I felt my head get a little spinny and i grabbed the door handle, my hand slipping with the sweat. I then realized it was locked, unlocked it and burst out of the room. No one seemed alarmed, they were all making jokes. I felt silly for acting so afraid and quickly pushed the sick embarrassed guilt down my throat and stomach. I remember getting in the car with my mom at the end of the party and immediately breaking down in tears.
I blamed myself. For making such a big deal. For rushing out without knowing what he wanted. For wearing shorts for the first time in several years. I told myself that it was the shorts that did it. I still very rarely wear them. The strange thing is, i know i told my mom about what happened but i cannot remember anything that she said. I remember that I felt angry at her for downplaying it and i felt the need to justify how upset i was. I remember very little except for the feelings that dbag instilled in me that night. I remember trying to blame him in therapy for my distrust and sometimes total fear of strange men.
All i feel now is anger. Not at myself. At him and my friends and my mom and society and the fucked up ideals that our society holds so dearly.
I never thought that I'd be feeling the exact same awful feelings, almost ten years later. That night that it was crashing thunder and screaming lightening, i remembered dbag. I remembered the guilt that i felt. So young and so incredibly unaware. Unaware that this was merely a rite of passage that one in four women will have to go through in life. They could be 8 or 21 or 45 years old.
Anger and frustration makes it hard to type. Coherently.

and i feel my finger on your trigger...

you're fucking sexy. i hope you know this as i walk behind you to class. i am undressing you slowly but completely with my eyes. i am not concentrating on the people pushing past me or the smoke that's burning my eyes. i can't take them off you. the confidence that floats off your back leaves a hazy trail that i greedily follow. i think about the way that your skin would feel, just skin on skin...your legs tangled with mine and my face in your neck, under your hair. the nice thing about you. the fantastic thing about you is that i don't need alcohol or any kind of fake high when i think about you or talk to you, i get it naturally.
you get me, naturally.
vulnerability used to come easily. i used to wear it all out. yee haw. gung ho. now i dole it out in small portions. the rations are bare. just like oregon trail. i liked to make my oregon men and women suffer. i would ration them and see their need and desperation but i controlled the game. when it's in my hands i turn the chaos button to max. that's what makes it exciting. desperate anxious excited ready. i need to feel these extremes.
it's the same in sex. i need the extremes, nothing mediocre, or it's not worth the effort. we have to push past that finish line and keep going. raise the bar. i need to feel in all levels on the chart. all over the map. make me speak in tongues. god, i'd love to.
you make me speak in illegible, incoherent phrases, pieced together in a madman sort of way.
"you say catastrophe, i say fuck yes"

Passion is sweetest when split strand by strand

Blaming myself is much easier than trying to sort out my thoughts and fight a case against someone else. I'll take the blame if it comes with you. All of you. Wrapped up in the sweetness, ripeness of sex. Sex resonates from your body. Your voice drips with it, clogging up my throat and making it hard to form words. I want to be all the words in the universe. I want to twist my sentences to make them worth your while.
If this wasn't a sex blog would i spend so much time talking about sex? Probably. But this is a very very useful excuse. I think about it all the time. I think that is natural. So i will not feel bad.
Strangers that walk into the library make me think of sex. The girl with her legs crossed in a skirt in health services makes my stomach tighten, i clear my throat. When the girl at the library dropped the books I'd just checked out to her, my mouth formed a smirk and i felt myself whipping up those inappropriate thoughts immediately after she bent down to retrieve them. Sexuality is beautiful and dangerous. It's possible, i suppose, to spend too much time thinking about it...I have yet to find serious harm in this, though.
Having sex with a stranger in the elevator. Think about that. Think about walking into the elevator, looking for the number of the floor that you are traveling to and then lean back against the wall. Your eyes start at the bottom first. You look as innocent as you possibly can and let your eyes travel up their legs and linger over their midsection. Where the stomach ends and the bottom half begins. You linger here and you wonder. Think of possibilities, what would happen if your fingers touched her skin. What sounds she would make and the rhythm of breaths that she would switch to. It's nice to have that power over someone. And nice to let someone have that power over you once in awhile. But then what if she looks at you and you can see the wanting, the desire screaming from her eyes, her mouth and her palms. She flips her palms face down and smiles, averting eyes. Then your eyes meet and a smile is exchanged and heartbeats are too quick to even keep track of. You move a step closer and then you've got it. Sex with a total stranger and all the while you're hoping that there aren't too many stops between the orgasm and the 17th floor.
word.
Sex opens a big, glass, airtight jar. Yikes.

It was morning, the air smelt of lemons

I know you better than you think i do. I want you more than you're aware. Unexplored possibilities are the best because there's that chance that it could end up being so much more incredible than you even imagined. My fingers itch when i keep them away from my phone. I've caught your bluff and I can see into you now. Further than before and the catastrophic brain fucking that is going on is almost too much. And i know that you might never give in to it but in case you do i continue my eye fucking and clever quips via phone. i get a pain in the center lower space of my stomach. i can feel desire shaking at my gut and penetrating my muscles, contaminating my blood. it rises to my face and makes me blush, my hands fall to my sides and i am unsure. i know that i want you and i know that things are never as easy as they may seem when spoken. i feel sex all over me when i hear your voice. that is rather unique. silly.

"I decided to look around the place and began by going to a stall to buy some bread. The young woman behind the stall was unsmiling, though I smiled a good deal. Eventually she said, 'what you're doing is illegal. you should stop it'
'What's illegal?'
'Falling in love with me'
'I'm not falling in love with you'
'Why are you smiling then?'
Before I could answer she pulled out a book and looked under 'S' in the index. She read out loud: 'Smiling in one of the earliest signs of love. If someone smiles at you, be sure they have another intention'
'I'm very sorry,' I said, my teeth in a straight line."
(sexing the cherry)

An Incident Report Gone Wrong

feminine symmetry. let's explore that, chillins. the symmetry of a woman's body is astoundingly imperfect. the asymmetrical rough unbalanced curves that make up your curves and spaces and shadows is what i love most. feeling down the back, over the knees, under her neck. when two women have sex it is an adventure that they are both willing to undergo. sex with men for myself was never this. no exploration, chance. it was all understood. but not to me. i didn't understand. i couldn't see the beauty in it.
i find beauty in the ups and downs and bumps and creases and crevices that cover you. in an instant i can see what will happen if you and i were to end up beneath a set of sheets. a look across the room. eye contact means a lot more than we pretend it does.
have you been taking your vitamins? keeping to that strict regimen that keeps you looking like that? sturdy, straight back. up and down. muscles curve around your arms, making patterns that i can feel when they press against my back (but only when you are holding me tight).

the thinking gut

i am buzzing electric. my therapist says i'm like a wild animal. meant for the jungle. my heightened sense of awareness. my cringe at every touch, clench at every broken twig. i am prepared for/expecting the worst.

I walked into a honkey tonkey just the other day.

I'm listening to jerry lee lewis and testing my limits. will i stay up all night? "walk the line" has this affect on me. joaquin phoenix/juuuune carter witherspoon make very happy.
to keep myself awake tonight i watched porn. all different types. i usually stick the basic simple same thing each time but i decided to amuse myself by looking at several of the majillions of different kinds of porn. i do wonder if people in the 1950s had the same sense of humor as myself. i just don't find june carter to be a humorous person. that bothers me more than it should.
i hear noises in the dark. this is true. but what comforts me is the birds making noise noise noise in the background. i have coffee in my mug, johnny cash, wheat thins and a red fleece blanket. this is a bedtime emergency kit.
the window is slightly open and the wind is shocking my elbow every now and then with a sharp breeze. i worry every few seconds that a man will climb into this open window and kill/rape me. that's a thought perching on the top of my head. but i am writing this, so it overrules the anxiety.
i think johnny cash and i could've gotten along really well. not in a joking manner. there is also a light breeze on my feet as they hang over the bed and i wonder what could be causing this. so i move them up onto the bed under the red fleece and i feel much better.

hair is a very important feature for me and sex. sex and i. girl's hair in different colors with different textures with different smells. i am reminded of this love of mine when this song comes on the screen:
love that hair
long and black
hanging down to the middle of your back
don't cut it off
whatever you do
i need it to run my fingers through.
(guy with thick black framed glasses)

the feeling of walking down the street, sitting at the cafe, riding up the elevator and catching the eyes of someone else. your eyes meet, some electrical appliance cuts the air and then the gaze lingers. lingers makes me thing of so many good things. (this will linger). so your eyes are there and then they part and they return. it's like a choreographed dance show. if we were trained to think in a slightly different way. if we chose to kill off the superego and let the id prevail. there would be so much more sex going on in elevators.libraries.bathroom stalls.janitorial closets.kitchens.hammocks.
think of the madness. yikes. i appreciate my id so much more than the superego. sorry, little guy.

La Reina de la Espada

it settles down over me now. the shadowy simmering glimmer of the cloak that covers my eyes and calms the tension. my muscles release and my breath comes easier now. the alcohol is in my blood, flowing up and falling lightly and in perfect rhythm down my stomach, warming my legs and landing in the arches of my feet. smoke ravels quickly through my lips and dances and falls and then disappears. my lids are heavier than they were earlier in the night. it will be dawn soon. the day will start again and the shadows from your stomach moving up and down as you let yourself wrap up in sex, the shadows will have faded out and light will strike the blinds, opening your body onto me.
morning brings a whole other playing field. but i push those thoughts out of my head because you are now beside me, the of arch of your back frames my face. my hair is tangled in the front and i push it out of my eyes to watch you move in your sleep. the ipod has been on repeat all night. the playlist that we let ourselves drift off to. you opened the door, i put my bag down. the disarray of your bedspread warmed my cheeks. to think of you curled in those sheets, the unexplored parts of your body, wrapped in that cotton cloth. your pj pants are on the floor as if you'd removed them quickly. i see myself taking off my shoes, pulling off my jeans and quickly pulling on the green cotton shorts. i take off my shirt, my back is turned to you. i pull my oversized long sleeve over me, hiding my body again. i meet you under the sheets and you save me with your movements. you scoop me up and spread me out, pour me under the covers. my body is mercury in your small, messy bed. now you are asleep and i am watching the freckles on your shoulders, tracing your shoulder with my eyes. my eyes wander the room.
the rum bottle pokes through the canvas bag on the floor and there are papers everywhere. the room is scattered in you. pieces of you surround us in this bed. your handwriting marks the wood and paint. i am covered in you, waiting for the sun to come up. "lying awake beside you, these thoughts run through my head" (realm of possibility).

Even farther away, I hear the soprano solo...

"totam tibi subdo me. sweetest one, i give myself to you completely."

in the realm of possibility he says "when the love comes before the sex, you worry that it will somehow change, alter the love. and when the sex comes before the love, you worry that the sex will destroy the love ultimately."

i have experienced both. there is no way to ever prepare yourself for what will come, to pinpoint the phenomena that may have predestined the finality of the love. there can be love without sex and sex without love, certainly. they are really two separate concepts, but we use them to explain the other so often.

::when the love comes first, there is a beginning that is only based on the true desire and lust and beauty that you experience with the other. the innocent notes with words and words tumbling down the pages. the look between the two of you that no one else notices or could possibly understand. and when the sex comes it is just as innocent as the developing love. you experiment with the body parts of each other, you explore the body and realize that there is so much more that can be found when clothes are gone and shame is cast off. the love then grows with this secret knowledge that you hold dear. keep close. want no one else to ever ever see.

::sex attracts us each other. we can see it in the eyes, the hands, the legs and the mouth. we resonate with sex daily. we are intrigued by the strangers that are around us on the streets, in classes, driving next to us on the highway. sex comes first and then there is the very small chance that this could be developed into a love. a love that makes you want them even after you've come. sex does not create love, though. not at all. but sometimes it does and this is what makes sex so very dangerous.

Montauk In February

This is something i worry about often:
"Taoists constantly tell me to embrace the present, but i only live in the past and the future; my existence is solely devoted to (a) thinking about what will happen next and (b) thinking back to what's happened before. The present seems useless, because it has no extension beyond my senses." (sex, drugs, and cocoa puffs)

someday i think it would be completely necessary to go to montauk. i have romanticized it beyond belief. obviously, i'm watching eternal sunshine. a saturday delight. i worry that i (most of us) will waste our lives hoping for the next moment to be more exciting. who really does embrace the present? very few of us. i worry about it so much that i get even more anxious about the fact that i am probably wasting a lot of life in the secondsminuteshours that i have turned into heavy anxiety. i don't want to stop worrying about things, preoccupying myself with the minuscule details. it's how i get by. anything less would be madness.

but i can say for sure, i do dream in color. i am certain of this now because the red cardigan from last night's dream is still vivid, shimmering in my brain.

The word "sex" comes with a stream of meanings, connotations, different interpretations. "How do lesbians have sex?" I don't know, please do not make me devalue my fantastic sex life by releasing the details to you. you disgust me and if i tell you how i fuck other women, will you let me watch you next time you jack off? It's just as personal, just as sacred...but actually much much more.

In elementary school, some kids at the table eat dessert slowly and some suck it down in two bites/swallows. These children are defining their perspectives on sex for the future. will they eat the whole box of matches at once? ignite themselves to the point of overwhelming lust that kills the body, eating them from the inside out? we measure our ability to love and to fuck in the measurements of lust that fill up our body. it can come in teaspoons, half cups or gallons. if you light all the matches at once they will go out of control, brushfire turns to wild forest fire and not even the best firefighter can put you out of your misery. (como agua por chocolate)

a beautiful, scary, fucked up misery that you want but you can't handle. you want it all, but that's not how we were raised to live. i ate my snack pack slowly, i dipped the spoon in the thick, gelatinous chocolate, not scooping but letting it stick to the plastic spork. i licked the bottom and then the top and then let my mouth shut over the plastic prongs, melting back into my throat. but there times, i will admit, that i could not wait. i would take huge spoonfuls, greedily swallowing the fake chocolate mix and not giving myself time to digest.
that was the whole concept behind wrapping the "fruit by the foot" around our finger and then sucking it until it disintegrated and left the bright neon red stain on our forefinger, reminding us of the sweet ecstasy that we had half an hour ago. the time has come and gone, but there's always tomorrow. it may not be as sweet or as exciting, but we can hope for the future, hope that something will come along that will match the rough fruity liquid that we extracted from the wrapped up strawberry finger.

you don't know me as well as you think. i won't let you think any other way. maybe i smiled at you, maybe i shook your hand and said that it was nice to meet you, but that probably was not the case. i hate meeting new people and i hate the discomfort of knowing that there's always something else out there that i am missing. something that i could have had, but i can't light the matches quickly enough.

the lure of it is immense

i know i am a fool, hoping dirt and glory are both a kind of luminous paint; the humiliations and exaltations that light us up.

when you get home you can.tie me to the murphy bed.let's do all the things we said.tie me to the murphy bed.

"remind me again how we're supposed to do this?"

love lost, love remembered. love tangled in the messy bridges and strings that make up my body. it gets sucked through the straw and you get the love in increments. if it all comes at once, you risk losing it all. a big gust of wind, pushing through you and at you. you pushed yourself into my body and saturated me. squeezing through the pores, pouring down as proof of your intentions. i let myself be in positions of submission. i let myself get hurt because it makes me feel alive. i do not hurt myself intentionally or when i am alone. it is a hurt that comes with others, it has to be in the presence of someone else. so that i can blame you. blame them.

high school was defined by my senior year, ultimately. kelly lynne mulvey changed my life. as funny as it was, her effects are long lasting. she introduced us to the passion and to the never ending brilliance of jeanette winterson's words. i remember crowding over a tape recorder and articulating our thoughts, words overlapping words we tried to say all we could about how this book was holy. it changed us in different ways. i remember seeing "closer" and going to sleep listening to damien rice. the innocence of our new found physical passion was hot, sweaty, anxious. the single bed held our secrets. i remember being in whole foods and crying in the bathroom, thinking that i had no one left. tears falling on my notebook paper as we wrote SAT vocabulary and i drew angsty pictures that could not define the pain.
is that all that sex does? ultimately, sex comes to an end. the heated moments of gasping, swearing, biting, screaming end and then your two halves separate again. no longer a whole but two halves that will spend the rest of your lives looking for others to fill that void. sex completes us and then leaves us afterwards, emptier than we were before.

my ideas of sex were small. but i knew that i was destined to do great things in that field of study. with each person i practiced the rhythm, the cadence, the perfect pressure for my fingertips. i studied the curve of skin, the bigger and the smaller. the line that trails downwards, covered in down that darkens with sweat and saliva as my forehead, my lips travel. it is a map that unfolds bit by bit with each kiss and each touch.

there is nothing more exciting than the unknown. nothing more terrifying than not knowing what to expect when the random person fits herself into your hipbones and kneecaps. the eyes, the mouth say most of what you can expect. the pulse quickens and slows.

i watch porn. whenever i feel like it in my room. the internet provides that for bored, sex driven people all over the world. i can type in anything. usually i stick to masturbation. one woman alone making herself feel. the girls are unnatural. hairless aliens with abnormal curves and sizes. but i love it. i feel like they are looking into the camera and putting all of their concentration into making me come. she makes me come by making herself come. i could say that this is anti-feminism. but it is also sex. in sex, most labels and rules and values are out the window. if this wasn't true, rape wouldn't exist. sex gives people the ability to blame their animalistic, wild drives on SEXSEXSEX. the innate need to dominate or be dominated to fuck and to be fucked and to be violated and used.

we don't know why it happens, it just does.

somewhere between danger and sex, passion lies.

i remember the first vivid anxious feeling i had. well, the first one that occurred at an age that i can still retrieve memories from. i was outrageously afraid of going to sleep 1. with the lights off 2. when no one else was in my room 3. if the window blinds were not completely drawn and i could see none of the outside world.
this would continue for a long time. i would sob and scream if my mom tried to make me do otherwise. my rituals start here. and i do not, for the record, blame my mother or father (only a little).
my memory is of myself lying in my mom's bed while she tried to make me fall asleep so she could leave the room. she was trying to explain to me that i was completely safe, a notion that i will never accept as even slightly true no matter the situation. as she tried to tell me this i gave her every example and every exception to that statement. just because i was upstairs did not mean that someone would not use a ladder to climb up into her window and kidnap me while she was downstairs. i told her that this happened often and that i was no longer a child (although i most definitely was) and she did not have to sugar coat the truth for me. i remember asking if i could put a knife underneath my pillow. i set up booby traps by the door and the windows. my mother must have thought all children acted this way. until my other two sisters came along and proved that incorrect. proved that i was just a little different. as we all are, i suppose.

that memory does not have anything that obviously relates to sex. but the anxiety, my anxiety goes hand in hand with all of my sexual experiences. and i have him to thank for increasing the stress levels ten fold.
the memory of him. the memory of that night that he pulled me behind the wall outside. it seems like it was written for a novel or a movie. that is how explicit, detailed it remains in my head. it was storming. of course. nature was matching my feelings during those moments. when the lightening shot across my face and his the situation became very real. his eyes were electric and his cheeks were flushed. he wasn't smiling. determination. i wish i could have seen my face, kept a polaroid of my flesh tones during those moments. it would go in my pink flowery box underneath the chorus playbills, love notes and prom corsage.
the lightening flashed and the thunder cracked and rain dripped down my back, down my legs. i remember this because i was forced to wear wet underwear and tight, rain soaked jeans in the car on the way home.

but this is all okay. he was excused. he was just "so fucking drunk". in an instant fucking message he wrote to me the next week. apologizing (not really) and excusing himself due to the ridiculous amount of busch light that he consumed. pathetic. but it wasn't him that i saw as pathetic. it was me. i punished myself for weeks. the compulsions, the rituals picked up speed. i couldn't keep track of them anymore. the ocd was living inside of me 24 hours a day, alive and pushing. it was exhausting. but a good kind of exhaustion, the kind after you work out. you feel as though you've cancelled out a little bit of the bad stuff inside of you. i deserved it. the last thing i ever ever wanted was the pity and the sympathy. my friends were oozing with it. it squeezed through their tear ducts and pushed through their mouths, thick and pink and disgusting. i wanted none of it. i wanted it to be forgotten. i wanted to be forgotten. not remembered as the girl who let him do that.

no one would let it go. everyone looked at me and saw ugly sex. unwanted, stolen sex. i drank coffee and smoked cigarette after cigarette. jeanette winterson couldn't even console me. i shaved my legs and dried my hair and went to the parties. they told me that i shouldn't feel pressured to go. they would stay home with me. in case he was there. i shook my head and went to the parties. i drank too much and looked like a fucking idiot. if they hadn't felt so very bad for me, they would have laughed, reprimanded me for drinking too much.

i felt bad for making my friends go through that. they walked on eggshells and gave me sermons about how beautiful i was and how awful he was. it didn't help. but if i told them that, they'd feel defeated, helpless. they were reciting words that our mothers had taught us, teachers had instructed us in health class. they couldn't see through the same lenses that had been pushed over my eyes.

i want you to judge me.

(i think about writing you, i thought about calling you...)
some songs just do that to me. they make me crumble and retaliate and cry and question and love and love and love. jason mraz does that. and i just realized he was in my last post. oh, jason. you've got it goin' on.

i see it every second of every day. sex bubbles and froths and clings to my skin and everyone else's. i feel it in music, in the coming of spring. the sun is coming in through my window and leaving the red fleece blanket and my skin warm. i can feel it more than i can hear itunes.
i think "darkest love" jump, little children defines sex almost completely. yikes.

sex that involves pain is a taboo. most definitely. but we all have those very hidden parts (sometimes not so hidden) that want sex in ways that we could never talk about. i've gotten better about it. it changes with each partner. i realize as i write this that i've certainly had more sex than most of my friends. i see it in a different way. i always have. i don't try to figure out why that is or analyze my childhood to figure out the point when things detoured and took me somewhere else. it's how i think and i don't mind being judged for that. sex is always an exploration. an adventure that can be done alone or with someone else. you're allowing the defenses to be stripped away with each article of clothing. i let myself become vulnerable but not weaker. a misconception that seems to be common.
i don't seek power with every sexual experience that i can add to my list, just adventure. it's exciting in a ridiculous number of ways. like shoplifting. cheating. trying on new identities. it can be dangerous. it can be scary. adrenaline hits my lungs and pumps through the muscles and i know that i'm letting go, slowly or quickly. i can be held responsible for total pleasure of someone else? why would i disengage from such an honor? i can explore the different parts and measure in breaths and gasps the time before they are gone. sucked into the unknown realm of serious pleasure. serious pleasure.

letting someone else try to do that to me. giving them the pleasure of knowing that they can make me come. that's power. that's something that i relish. i thrive on that uncertainty, hope, worry, relief. there is nothing better. nothing better than feeling parts of her that most people will never know. the senses all come into play and i am completely drugged on her sex. i know the feeling of abdomen flexing, the brow beginning to dampen with sweat. the face muscles are out of control. she does not have control over the shape of her mouth, her lips open and close with surprise? anticipation. her eyes shut tightly but she wants to look and i want to see her eyes, watching me wanting her.

whether or not i am emotionally invested in the woman that i am fucking. whether or not our relationship goes beyond this period of time. that doesn't matter in the act because i am completely invested (as she is) in making the other feel everything that they can possibly feel. i may not say that i love her and put my arm around her torso as she falls asleep. but that has little to do with the sex that has just occurred.

it took me a long time to realize that i cannot be ashamed of loving sex. of wanting to engage in it with more than a few people over time. each time is a unique experience. both people are willing and wanting. so why wouldn't we use that to our advantage? we all love sex a little more than we realize.

the sticky, dirty remnants of the band-aid only remind me of what i have lost.

If a man lies with another man and a woman fucks another woman they should be put to death.
If one eats shrimp, wears wool and linen at the same time, pulls out during sex one should be put to death. This movie is incredible. Everyone should see it. "For the Bible Tells Me So". Do it.

The first time my mom told me she knew i was dating elizabeth i felt sick to my stomach. why was i ashamed? was it shame or was it embarrassing because she was talking about sex with me? i didn't want to be like her. that's all it was. maybe if she hadn't come out to me first things would have been less uncomfortable. still, today, the thought of having so much in common with my mom makes me hate a small part of my self. perhaps it is because by being a lesbian i have accepted that my identity is a sexualized concept. it has very little to do with love or silly giddy happiness in the real world. it is about how i fuck and how i come by the hands of another woman.

i remember sitting in the bathroom stall at school in 10th grade. i had smoked a bowl in the basement with john and was now wasting time until the next class started. i had my portable cd player (something that seems very primitive now) and was playing jason mraz. i was singing along with my eyes closed and trying as hard as i could to embody jason. i imagined my hips being more prominent and my voice being deeper and my arms more muscular. in those minutes in the dirty bathroom stall i was mr. mraz and i loved it. when i have sex with her i am transported into another state of mind where i have more power than i've ever known and this control over the sex that is lost when we disconnect and are lying on our backs, breathless. in the rising temperatures of the dark, sweaty, lost room we become two people that are rather inconceivable when we are apart.

when he took my body out of my hands and placed it into his, he stole something that i have yet to get back. he raped me because it made him feel powerful and that is something i can understand. after months went by i came to realize that his desire to devalue me and become omnipotent in those moments was understandable. that kind of drive for power is something that many have felt. we do not act on it but i know that i more often do things in the interest of myself and not others. the way that he laughed nervously at first and then with every second his eyes got darker and then there was the breaking point for me. i knew that i had lost the battle when his eyes became piercing and his hands became steel vises on my pants and then on my hips. when i felt the brick scraping my hands and my forehead and my body being taken over, i knew that he had won and i had most certainly lost.

i had lost the battle at hand and the life long war over ownership of my body was looking grim. the path ahead was shakier, my map had frayed and become illegible in parts. i do not think, though, that he had helped himself in the long run at all. what could he have walked away with that night? other than the assurance that his physical strength was much greater than mine. how does he look back on that night? does he think he accomplished something or gained something that he did not have before?

the facts are not iron clad. but of some i am very certain.

Pleasure on the edge of danger is sweet.

As above, so below. The zodiac in the sky is imprinted in the body. The galaxa goes through the belly.

Can anyone deny that we are haunted? What is it that crouches under the myths we have made? Always the physical presence of something split off...we compulsively act out the drama of our beginning, when what was whole, halved, and seeks again its wholeness.

The thinking gut. The concept of being whole and being halved and yearning for that other piece of you that you once seemed to have forever. It is easy to take advantage of the things that seem impossibly permanent. Things get taken away and things become available. It all evens out in the end.

Sex was a concept that I couldn't conceive. Was it television? Or maybe my dad's porn that I found and masturbated to until they were moved for an unknown reason...the sounds of my mom with her partner coming from beneath the door? How could she not realize that we all heard it? I heard those sounds and blushed madly, repulsed at the sound and embarrassed with my friends over, angry that she didn't take it into consideration.

Sex became a real issue when I kissed the first boy. Not just a kiss...a real "make out session". I drove home from his house (he couldn't even drive yet) talking aloud to myself and trying to understand why I didn't derive any pleasure from the excess saliva and bad tongue placement.

I woke up the morning after andre feigler's 16th birthday party. Elizabeth was one of us. She was a part of our small group of friends. One of my best friends. She was on my left side and john on my right. I slowly woke up and slowly noticed the pressure of her foot on mine. A shock went through my lower stomach and up my chest. I moved closer. It all started there. with a touch, a teenage crush. It turned from that small foot touch that she was unaware of into a kaleidescope of possibilities, then realities, then memories.

the unpredictable wild card. i have drawn a new card and it was certainly a wild card. free for all. unexpected and a rush of everything. she makes me feel like i can't remember feeling with elizabeth. kelley marie is a buoy that keeps me floating.