I think too damn much.

My first lesbian erotica, pt 1

2011-12-28T19:48:00.000-08:00

BOIS WILL BE BOIS

I walked into the bar not expecting anything. I take a look around. The dim lighting encourages the one-mind mentality of pure lust. The thick smell of both sweat and attraction permeate the air. Some men are strewn about, but the bar is mostly populated by women. It’s like high school all over again, the femmes are on the dance floor, the butches begging to court their stereotypical counterparts from the bar. You have your somewhat in-between women sitting at the bar or in tables, cruising the place, but also catching up with friends.

I had planned to take on this night with my own little brigade of friends, but they all ditched on me at the last second. I decided to come without them. A girl’s gotta have a little fun every now and then. Tomorrow is the first day I don’t have work, or a friend or family thing in a loooonggg time. I plan on flirting, drinking and dancing then sleeping off my hangover for all of tomorrow.

I saunter up to the bar and asked for a whiskey sour. I don't even know what a whiskey sour is, but I thought it might make me sound like I knew what I was talking about. There are old fashioned stools with blue velvet fabric stretched over the tops and the bar is made of dark cherry wood and polished to shine.

"Do you even know what to do with that drink, baby dyke?" I hear from the other end of the bar.

I look towards the voice. She's six feet tall, with a soul patch and a twinkle in her eye. Her brown hair is cropped short, but shaggy, like a skater. She's wearing dark blue baggy jeans with one pant leg rolled up to her knee and a long red t-shirt. You can see the ghost of her tits pressed against them. I wonder if they're really that small or if they're bound. She's wearing two different shoes and I know it’s on purpose. She is fucking sexy. I’d lick my lips, but she’s watching with those careful eyes.

I realize I am staring and shoot back with, "Oh, I know exactly what to do with it. In fact, I know more than that. I'll show you sometime." I toss in a wink to be coy.

Her smile grows wider, reaching her eyes and, with a wink, she struts away.

"Whiskey sour," says the bartender and with a flush, I take my drink and kick it back in two point five seconds. My mouth would rather be all over her, but this whiskey sour will have to suffice.

The drink burns the back of my throat, but feels so good going down. I'm not crazy about the taste but almost instantly I feel warmer and more confident. This feeling is highly addictive, so I order just a beer to follow. Drunkenness brings sloppiness, and I definitely don’t want to leave that kind of impression.

The stage lights come on and a beautiful drag queen comes out. She has long blonde hair and deeply tanned skin. She tells a few jokes to get the crowd loosened up and then with a flourish (like a true drag queen) she introduces the next act, Mike Literous. The stage is pretty small, this isn’t a big joint. It is, after all, a gay bar in a small Midwestern town. The soft blue curtains are made out of the same velvet that was on top of the bar stools. I wonder if they got it at a discount price since it seems kind of tacky. I grab my beer and walk over to a table, pulling out a single cheap chair and taking a seat.

The tables are what you’d expect tables at a bar to be. About three by three and square with the mark of the many beers enjoyed commemorated on its surface. I place my beer on a crappy thin coaster and focus my eyes on the blue curtains. I’m not ready for what comes next.

Ms. Two-Different-Shoes comes out and my breath is gone. Her music is in the background and she's dancing and lip-synching all over the stage. Her body moves like fluid. They say that you can tell how good a person is in bed by looking at how they dance. She’s going from one movement to another and if she’s as good as she is in bed as she is at dancing, I have to find myself a way into her bed tonight. I enter a trance-like state, I can’t hear anything, I just stare at that gorgeous boi singing. It’s almost as if she’s singing to me. The way her body moves makes me bite my lip and my clit ache. She looks like she could show me a thing or two.

I gulp down a large portion of my beer. It gives me something to do with my hands, which I can't stop thinking about running through her short hair and cupping her ass cheeks. I bet her ass looks even better with those jeans off.

I wonder if under those jeans is a hard cock, just waiting at the ready to fuck me. I can imagine its girth expanding me and I squirm in my chair. My nipples grow hard and my panties wet. I wonder if I should have worn different underwear. There's nothing to my negligee and with a few more thoughts like these, everyone in the room will know my scent.

My eyes snap open and I focus on finishing my beer. I chance a look up at her act.

When she looks into the crowd, her eyes pass by mine, and she winks. The girl in front of me squeals and I wonder if by thinking that wink was for me, I am becoming like every other one of her little fans. The thought irritates me. I allow myself to get caught up in my fantasies too much. She has no idea who I am or even what my name was. All she knows me by is my flirty little comment and she called me “baby dyke.” I finish my beer, wipe my lips and head towards the bathroom.

I open the door and step in. The bathroom consists of a couple white porcelain column sinks and those amazing gigantic mirrors that are perfect for fixing makeup. I can see myself from every angle. There’s only three stalls. They’re like the ones from high school, with the four inch gap between the wall and the door. If anyone wanted to watch me pee, it would be next to impossible to stop them. I skip past them and head straight for the sink.

I stare at myself in the mirror. My light brown skin hides a flush, but not that well. My cheeks are tinged pink and my skin feels like it’s on fire. At every move of my shirt, my nipples reach out earnestly, trying to find any source of friction they can. From between my legs, my treasure yearns to be plundered. That King’s dance moves brought me to my boiling point. I shake my head as if to shake the thoughts. This is no time to get lost in some stranger’s chocolate eyes. I study the mirror again, I took a lot of care in my looks tonight. My hair is short, falling somewhere between my chin and my shoulder. I curled it tonight, putting soft waves my raven hair. I pucker my lips, noticing that the juicy red I had carefully applied just thirty minutes ago is already wearing away. Eight hour coverage, my ass.

I hear the door open, but ignore it. I’m digging in my purse for some lip gloss. I need a quick fix for these faded lips. I start thinking how I’ll stay another hour, maybe two. I start applying it in the mirror and suddenly, she’s behind me. The drag king. Ms. Two Different Shoes.

My eyes lock onto hers in the mirror and I catch my breath. They're so beautiful. A shade of brown I never could imagine. Almost as if I'm rolling in this caramel-chocolate fantasy. She takes a step towards me and I put my applicator back in the tube. She moves behind me and I can feel her body pressed up against my back. She's taller than me, by about four inches. She smells of cologne and sweat. I really fuckin’ hope she’s about to get sweatier. My body can’t take contact right now because it’s so wound up.

She holds up one finger and walks over to the bathroom door. She flips the lock and I realize that I'm stuck in this bathroom with a gorgeous boi. My clit is pulsating now, but fuck if I’ll let her see. She needs to know just who controls this game. Heads up, it’s me.

journey of a dream.

2011-06-13T11:21:00.001-07:00

come now,
you didn't think i'd leave without a whisper?
that i would end the show quietly and
disappear behind my curtain?
i am fire, letting loose my cannons.
intrigued by chemical connections
forged to souls forged in the midst of a conversation.
i know not what this entails,
stories lay buried waiting to be written.
my fingers a sieve through which i sort
the words that shoot through me
neurons firing vocabulary at the waiting target.
i find myself surprised
when pierced, that i bleed actual blood
instead of the pieces of my stories.
heart strings playing the same old song,
words running through me,
yearing to be used correctly.
skin, lips, touch, smile.
but after comes the flood.
the levees break and
kick as i might,
my head decieves me and falls under seige.
overtaken by the current, my fingers fly undetermined
over my keyboard until
only the rush is what keeps me alive.
i am the current,
synapse bridges burning
while i hold the match and the fire extinguisher.
this feeling in my gut wrenches left
i am just another cliche of suffering artist,
my art both binding and freeing,
i am a slave to its whims,
but i know now that i could never leave it.
as much a part of me as my brown exterior,
maybe more so than my true face.
my words make the rise and fall empires
seem fleeting,
my words make my world take shape and
animate.
i am fine with being percieved as cliche,
deep down my heart beats with the scratch of a pen,
my soul knows only the smell of old books
and the sounds of rustling pages.
a new page is a new journey,
a new chance to make something beautiful.
even if the story is shit and it goes nowhere,
it's always better than leaving the page blank.

chains of needing.

2011-06-13T11:08:00.001-07:00

her spotlight
shines through me, leaving me vulnerable
to the whims of her fancy.
i can't breathe when she holds me
for fear i will break the weak bonds
she's tethered to me.
her fingers lightly grasping my arm
as if she lets go
i will float away from her.
she is mistaken
i am no balloon.
filled with desire to go nowhere,
i am forever her shadow,
willing her to stay in the light so that i can be close to her.
secretly, i despise myself
for wanting her so badly
for needing her so badly
clouds rolling in over my thoughts
when she is vacant from my bed.
she makes me see clear skies
as she makes waves between my thighs,
my wall disappates and i let her in
in all her knighted glory,
she knows all my secrets,
but all i know is my reflection
in her suit of armor.
i am afraid that once uncloaked,
she will be just as afraid as i am.
two scared souls,
with no direction
except forward.
too many dimensions need exploring.
i feel too broken to be pieced together lovingly,
so i sit with bated breath
so as not to break the bonds
she's tethered me.

Disgusted.

2011-03-23T22:07:00.000-07:00

Here I sit, thinking about the dance of your wit

The strong of your back and the ripples of the muscles underlying.

You are strong and you are safe and you are

exactly what I thought I wanted.

But not now.

The time has come, I don't know what to say

the sex isn't stimulating,

your pheromones driving me back.

I used to lounge in your scent,

love the way it surrounded me in a cast of warmth.

I lean forward now and my stomach churns,

I think of others there will be,

for we

are no forever.

Maybe the end I have always known was coming

has arrived. Or maybe I'm just doing that thing

where I ruin the potential of magic.

Either way,

I'm sure it's for the best. Now,

the hardest part is telling you.. again.

Routine.

2011-01-17T22:49:00.000-08:00

Here I am, blogging at one in the morning, when I have to go to work tomorrow. I know I buy into the insane capitalist society, the buy more, more, more. I know it, but I can't stop it. I like things. When I'm sad, I buy things, and it makes me feel better about myself. I feel like I vastly need to overhaul my life and find out what I truly want to focus on. I though it was Human Sexuality, but a documentary on water that I watched today has led me differently.

There is so much that I'd like to improve upon. They say people never change, but I can pick up some new habits. The only flaw is my lack of motivation to do.. well, anything. I have no drive. It's irritating, but I suppose I have no cure for it.

I get distracted easily. I didn't even want to do this. I wish I could focus. I wish my mind would calm and quell and I could use my hyperfocusing powers for good instead of evil. Boy, can I get started on a project, but ask me to finish it, and I'll ask you for more gas. I move on. In my brain, there is nothing more dedicated to that unfinished project, as I've already got a replacement. If there's no replacement, I'll fill it with something stupid.

I feel as if I have too many problems. I don't know what to do about them. I suppose I should make a list or something. But I don't know what to put on it.

TBH.

2010-10-17T19:44:00.000-07:00

My mind is my mortal enemy. It keeps suggesting things I know not to be true. I speak like poetry, words flowing from my lips when I know they are all lies. I am deeply conflicted. I am a hypocrite. I am afraid. I fuck everything up. I don't want to be me. I don't want to follow the path I've set myself on. The truth is, that I am nothing. I pump myself full of life, when all I do is slowly die inside.

Marc is great. When I'm not with him, I secretly wonder if he's examining my flaws and finding reasons to hate me. I know I worry too much. I know he likes me. I'm so afraid to let myself open wide and let someone inside because history is just a reflection of the future, isn't it? I like him, but I don't want to ruin him.

People think I'm so fucking happy all the time. I'm not. I'm so depressed, I don't even remember what happiness feels like. The small things keep me going, and I'm definitely okay with that. Whatever works. Whatever keeps me alive. I want to find out my purpose. Is it to bring words to the world? A new perspective, a fresh face? Darkness resides in all of us, I just feel like I have a deeper understanding of mine.

I repeat myself like a broken record, every mistake I just make again. I want to tell you everything, but I'm afraid you'll just end up running. Slow and surely? Or do I just zip my lip and let the moment last? I feel like I'm ruining everything with every word I say. So much in common, yet galaxies apart. My star shines dimly in my heart, but doesn't that just mean it's waiting for it's moment to shine?

I smell like him. Like his skin. It brings back memories of every action and how it could've been improved. I overthink. I roadkill. I move too fast and I get so scared. Easily invested into projects, I feel like I over-love. I over-share. I over-indulge. I don't know what I am, I just feel like an animal. A baby cub, I fumble stupidly over new found projects. I have not yet learned the world, but I already know of it's pain.

I have so many flaws and it's all I can ever concentrate on. My breathing becomes shallow and I struggle to find a reason to keep going. I try to grasp anything at all that comes my way, thinking maybe this will be happiness. It never comes true. Will I ever have a happily ever after? I am a secret cynic. My stripes hidden beneath the folds of my fake smiles.

He makes me smile. But how long will that last?

2010-09-18T15:11:00.000-07:00

I have learned to fake it.
Smiles are so easy when nobody cares.
I am not good at hiding my feelings,
they come pouring out,
but I've managed to bottle them up.
Did you ever notice
that it does not reach my eyes?
Or were you too busy waiting
for my sad story to be over so you could tell me all about your day?
I don't care.
There.
I said it.
The fact that you're happy
is not making me do jumping jacks
If I had a moment of peace,
I would cry.
But I can't.
So I keep it all inside.
I don't know if I can hold on much longer.
I'm slipping..

changing with the seasons.

2010-09-18T15:02:00.001-07:00

leaves dying and a cool breeze
the dead things on the ground
reflect what i feel inside.
this is not a metaphor,
it is an observation.
foolishly wishing for more alone time
but not wanting to be alone.
i hate my thoughts,
i hate my hopes and dreams,
and i tend to focus solely
on only that of my past failures.
i am unhappy.
i don't fucking care.
i'll watch the leaves die,
hopefully by the time
spring comes again,
i'll be able to feel something again.

worshipping the devil.

2010-09-05T17:57:00.001-07:00

inside this skin is a temple
and i am devious, as always
sly looks inside the pews
like "what is she up to?"
thick blankets, bringing me down
try to come up for air
and you're pushed deeper.
my love is like a fire iron,
red hot
and nobody wants to touch it.
engage me,
ask me what i want,
show me how it feels,
tell me you're in love,
that in this night, i am yours.

when the leaves die,
they fall,
covering the concrete jungle with their carcasses.
can you hear them screaming in the wind?
i am trapped inside this temple,
begging for the freedom outside the stained glass windows.
hating the walls that hold me
and the tacky decor.

Writer's Block and Growing Up (with capitals).

2010-09-01T10:35:00.000-07:00

Writer's block sucks. We all know that. But the first step to becoming a real writer is to write every day. So I'm trying that. I'm going to see where it gets me. Maybe my creativity will start flowing again. At least that's the most desirable outcome. We'll stay on the positive side and not discuss all the others.

Well, good news, everybody. At least for me. I'm Growing Up. Maturing, if you will. I'm nineteen years old and I'm finally accepting responsibility and getting my life on track. I'm paying bills, trying to find a full time job, focusing on getting back to school, moving out, buying a car, etcetera, etcetera.

They tell you that high school prepares you for the real world, but nothing prepares you for the real world except the real world. And although John Mayer would disagree, there IS such a thing as the "Real World." Not crappy television, but actual reality.

Shit's more difficult than I could've imagined. I didn't know what aches and pains were in high school. I didn't even try in gym class. Fuck gym class. I thought high school was hard, wow, did I get a nice smack in the face from reality. Life is hard. Everyone says it all the time, but it never really sets in until you understand what they're talking about.

Nineteen and nobody.

2010-08-30T07:30:00.000-07:00

Wow. I haven't written for a long time. It feels so weird to be taking up the keypad once again. It's weird, ya know. The things in life that keep you going. They're always the little things, the ones you hold on to in a death grip. In my heavily tanned death grip, I hold on to a few simple pleasures of life. A best friend, herbal, orgasms and Netflix.

Amanda Lynn Ross is probably one of the best things to happen to me in a long time. She gets on my nerves sometimes, but I fucking love the woman. She's witty and charming. Hilarious and completely unclassifyable. She's the beat of my heart, this lady and I'm so happy to have her. She fills me up with best friend juice on the daily and it helps wash away the heavy stank of livin and being poor.

Herbal, is just that, completely herbal. It washes away the stress all stored up in my muscles from the long day and it cleanses my system of self deprication I've stored in there all day. It's part of my daily diet, along with Dr. Pepper, the second water, and Doritoes, which are a staple in any good American's diet. I particularly love herbal because it helps clarify my senses, purify them in a way. Everything I think and feel, it feels like it's the first time it's ever happened. Except sex, because the first time always sucks.

Speaking of orgasms, I have them. As often as possible. Sadly enough, usually by my own hand. It's the little things, you know. A paycheck instantly dissolved a few weeks ago entirely into Alejandro. A debonair young orange, battery-powered speed of thunder. He instantly dissolves every worry or doubt I've had all day that the herbal can't take care of. He knows all my sweet spots and know's exactly what to say or do to hit them. What more can a girl ask for from a lover that has no heartbeat? Not including vampires, of course. (If that's what you're in to.)

I.. am in to Netflix. A lot. It pushes all my dirty buttons. For being a legitimate site, that's pretty fucking incredible. I can watch what I want, when I want, as much as I want--for a low, lovely price--and not only that, but I get everything I wanted that I can't have instantly, sent to my doorstep, 3 at a time? I'm in love. If I'm in the mood for a little menage-a-trois, I can watch lesbians fucking each other in a variety of different ways. If I'm in the mood for a little Robert Downey, Netflix asks me, "which way?" Even if I'm the mood for some David Duchovny, Netflix won't tell anybody. Netflix is the ultimate dirty little secret. Nobody really knows what's in my queue, and I like it that way.

With all this great shit in modern America (including the internet), it makes it easy to slip into nonexistence, at least for a little while. Everything's not always perfect. I find myself choking on depression so thick sometimes, I forget how to breathe. Breaking down in to tears is getting less and less fun. To quote one out of the duo of hottest girls in America, "Nobody likes to, but I really like to cry."