I’ve been rabid the last couple of days, obsessed with sex even more than usual, sex in dreams, wet dreams, I dream a lot, even when I’m awake, just sitting here working, now writing, tap, tap, tap, on my keyboard, doing one thing while thinking about the other,
today it’s dreams, dreams and aspirations, but mostly dreams, I’ve been thinking about publishing, that’s an aspiration obviously, and although I’m an editor, I don’t really have the right connections in publishing, and I don’t have anything substantial to submit, a nice long serious short story or novel, Hahn has stalled, while I re-consider where it is going, I’ve got a general plan, but I started the next chapter and it just felt so stale, what to do with Alleyn’s cousin, and Hahn’s three other consorts, bringing them in, but I feel like Liz needs to get back to the real world, to get her back in touch with her real feelings, to become mortal again – I know how it is going to happen, but it seems so far away in the story, so much to write between now and then, and what I’ve written doesn’t connect with my dreams, the topic of this rant, and I feel that my best writing comes when it exists in my dreams (waking or sleeping) first, before I try to commit it to paper (or hard disk),
now that was a Freudian slip (that I’ve fixed), a hard dick, see, I’m still thinking of sex way too much, too much for my own sanity, and of him, always of him, I blame him, too, and myself for letting it happen this way, of course, I still love him, and without him I’d be writing nothing at all, not about Alleyn, not about Hora, not fantasy, not my fantasies, nothing, so I guess I have him to thank as well as blame – you may blame him for what I inflict on you, for what you dream, because that’s what I do to you, help you (make you?) dream, to help you fly, to let go of the ground to fly into that land of dreams where we become immortal
powerful, and every story has a happy ending, if we want it to, do you want a happy ending or an ending at all, just the promise of a future, like sex, not a one-nighter, the kind that you know you will have again with your lover, who is always the best, the best for you, that gives you the most complete satisfaction, who completes you, not incomplete like me, except that I need you, my reader, to give me the semblance of completion, that’s the next best thing, dear reader, love me, love my work, and we’ll get along just fine (doesn’t this sound so depressing and shallow?), but we keep going, keep dreaming – do you want to know what I’m dreaming now, he’s at my door, waiting for me to finish this, stepping behind me, hands on my shoulders, massaging my neck, he knows what I want and how to give it to me, kisses the top of my head … excuse me, but my muse wants to inspire me now, so I’ll just slip into something more comfortable, or maybe nothing at all, my rentboy is here, yes, my muse is a … okay, I’ve got to stop writing now, he’s (stop that!) … I’ve got to go …
YOU dreamt of me last night. I can tell. I can smell the sex on you. It never quite goes away in the shower. Don’t be embarrassed. I dreamt of you, too. I like that kind of dreams.
Did you get up and change your pants? Or did you sleep in your own mess? I kept mine on, but of course I wouldn’t make as much of a mess as you. I love that smell. I love love love that smell. I like my smell, too, but it’s not as prolific as yours, all over you, the sheets, the image of me that you dreamt about. Mmmmm.
Oh, you DREAMt of me last night. Was I role playing or fancy dress? Maid, nurse, dominatrix, I can do them all in dreams. I can even do men (if that is what you prefer) – that’s the power of dreams. They can do anything. You can’t control them. I can. Your dreams, that is.
You dreamt OF ME last night. Imagine the real thing. It’s even better. Do you dream in color? I do. Last night’s was red. Do you hear? Do you feel? Do you touch? I do. Especially in that kind of dream. Do you taste? Taste is my favorite sense; it’s related to smell. You can tell a lot about a person by how they smell, but taste does it for me. What did I taste like last night? Remember? I do. The bottom of your feet. Did you like that? Loved it. Remember? Well, pay better attention, because …
You WILL dream of me TONIGHT. I hope your partner doesn’t mind.
I dress for comfort, not for looks, and I feel most comfortable in my running gear. I run almost every day regardless of the weather. My day-glow jacket comes off first; it’s the tight-fitting kind. I hate hearing the swish-swish of the loose ones, and it’s day-glow because I get up early, before the sun rises in the winter. I don’t want to get hit by cars, obviously. If I can help it, I’d rather not wear it at all. I prefer to run as lightly as possible, so if it’s over 40 out there, I’m in a t-shirt. I wear those hi-tech wicking shirts that draw the sweat away from my body, keeping me feeling dry while looking like I’m a contestant in a wet t-shirt contest, even before I run. The leave little to the imagination, especially when I wear my white one, like today. My running bra shows right through it, and after my run, my nipples are always quite prominent. That’s why I usually run in patterned shirts, if I’m not wearing the jacket.
Next to come off are my shoes. Again, they are hi-tech, but I’ve never liked wearing shoes of any kind. If I could run barefoot without tearing up my feet and destroying my ankles, I would. At least the shoe liners are unobtrusive. In the winter I wear black lycra tights; taking them off is like peeling a ripe banana, revealing my stilts … well … legs. You would like them – they are long runners legs with soft skin and firm muscles, and well-tanned. Maybe they are too long, but they get me where I need to go, and quickly. Removing my t-shirt, you’ll find my running bra – black today because of the white shirt. It keeps my breasts from bouncing around when I run. You may find them rather disappointing – more like mangoes than melons. Serious runners are usually small-breasted, since distance running suppresses your hormones. Underneath the bra, they are still nice and firm – pretty good for someone on the wrong side of 40. My nipples are small and dark pink. My tummy is still flat, too, an advantage of decades of a strict running regime, and I have a nice glaze of sweat all over. That leaves my panties; they aren’t the bikini style I normally wear during the day. They are fuller, so they don’t slide down and don’t show through the lycra – dark blue today, just for a little splash of colour. Underneath? Well, I won’t describe that. You know what’s there. Well, as you can see, I’m a natural redhead. Keep you tongue in your mouths! I’m ready to take my shower now.
It’s your turn.
OK. I’ve given up on those rules. Too many people says it’s hard to read. It’s supposed to be, but I’ll give in – at least in this one…
I hate the holiday season. It’s the travelling and the family part. Don’t get me wrong. I love my family, but they just don’t understand me, even my sister, J. None of them can believe that I live in the UK permanently. For them, it’s just this 16-year holiday, while I sow my wild oats. Every time I come home for a visit (that’s where I am now), they ask when I’m coming back. My parents are getting up there and my siblings resent that I’m not around to help out. They (my parents) are still upright and compos mentis, perhaps even more than I am. They get around and about, and although both have had health scares in the past few years, neither is likely to live to an age where they become feeble and need care. That’s just the way it is in our family. No one has made it to 80 in several generations. My father is the oldest of his generation, and the only one still living. Maybe I’m a pessimist, but he’s a realist. He’s been preparing to die for over a decade, and he’s constantly making certain that all their affairs are in order. They’ve even bought the plot. I don’t do graves – I hate cemetaries. I’d rather take a fast track to dust, myself, cremation.
The worst thing about the big family gathering is that all these feelings come back, like I’ve never left, and soon I’ll be wishing I never came back. J is starting to understand me better, but none of them really understand what I do for a living, and why I’m living in a foreign country. They also don’t understand why I’m not married, or why I split with my ex. Technically, if I shack up with someone else, it’s adultery. Frankly, I thought shacking up with my husband akin to adultery. It was over almost immediately after it began – he was never the love of my life, unfortunately, and I think he sensed that. He was fighting a losing battle and gravitated towards someone who didn’t have my hangups. He was right, the bastard, but that was a long time ago. It will come up again – probably on Christmas Eve. That seems to be the usual pattern. At least, I didn’t have to bring work with me this year. They love using that for their attacks.
Time for some retail therapy.
(Just a reminder: this is a reprint from 2008, but very little has changed)
You want it, don’t you – I do – “it” is all about seduction, have I got your attention yet, that’s what great writers do, they seduce you, seduce you with words, perhaps by seducing you with the same sexy syllables that remind you of the past, sex, sex and Becket, repetition, memories, ahh, those memories, those obsessions, that feeling, the feeling of anticipation, like foreplay, it’s a physical sensation with me when I write, and sometimes when I read a real page-turner, but writing is where it always seduces me, I can feel it, right there between my legs, I feel it now, you will, too, hopefully – think about it – yes, you do, that’s it, I’ve got you now – I want to be seduced, no, I want to be possessed by what I read, and want to seduce you, dear reader, no, it’s more than that, I want to possess, possess you with my words, my thoughts, you can’t leave me, you can’t look away, I’ve got you, and I’m looking at you with my large hazel eyes, and they have that glint, the leer of a woman possessed, a dominatrix, I’ve got that feeling, there, yes, between my legs, I’m even salivating now, that’s what I do when I write, I’m at my best then, and my weakest right after, yes, if you want to have me, find me AFTER I’ve just finished a session of writing, I’ll be up for it, but not during, the words are more important than you are, and you’ll probably get slapped, you must feel it now, it’s in the air, you might even be sweating a little, I like the smell of a light sweat, it’s so – visceral, so – alive, that’s what I hate about my job, trying to make other people’s words sexy without changing their style, without making them sound like me, they deserve their own words, if they aren’t sexy that’s their problem, and their readers, I’d rather concentrate on touching my own readers, yes, touching them, seducing, possessing and touching their lives – have I touched you – I want to, and I’m running out of time, do you remember time, do you remember the past, maybe the last time you were seduced, do, but I’m seducing you now, and next time you will remember me, because I want you to, because I possess you, and because I’ve touched you – there, yes, you know where, you’ve been thinking about it ever since I mentioned it, I’m almost there now, too, so get ready world, Anne’s on the loose and she wants it, she wants you