I've been bad, very bad, and not naughty, as I was prone to being, long ago, well, a couple of years, when I was a writer (one perhaps never stops being a writer, even when one stops writing), but not writing is bad, and if I had any inspiration, that would have awoken me from my doldrums, in the humdrum, bass drum rimshot existence of relocating to a non-foreign, foreign country, to my old country from the old country, forcing myself to look back – look back like I don't allow myself to do when I'm writing one of my streams, wading through my dreams, hoping to find something to stir the deep inner recesses of my obsessions, today writing a thirty sentence story in only a single verbal gush so rabid that at some point you may lose the will to live in your search for a full-stop or a period as we Americans call it, although I hesitate even to allow you a comma or a dash while you dive head first into the mush that I call my consciousness but you might rather think of as unconsciousness or perhaps you are already heading to lalalandwherenospaceslive and where my brain has become a slippery goo that – well, yes, you might not call it a brain – some would agree with you, but not the organization who has calculated my IQ, which is microscopic, in its inversion, while my self is in revision, or perhaps reversion to my old sensual ways – yes, you thought I might never get there – but if you are delving into my consciousness, you are likely to slip into my sub-conscious (if you aren't unconscious already) where that stuff lives, where my soul breathes fire and water simultaneously in the simulacrum of similarity of the sensual to the sexual that lives only an atom's width from the surface of my identity, my being, and my soul, which is probably not all that far from my being or my beginning, or my benign personality, which on a good day has trouble stringing a lucid sentence together.
A light rain dribbled from the sky, drenching my hair flat against my cheeks, but it didn't touch hers. Her chocolate locks floated gracefully as she walked, dry as could be, like her clothes, the few that she wore, lacy like underwear, barely covering her. I was told it was a bikini, but I knew better. She was modelling Ann Summers or something. Only her skin betrayed moisture, like a cool sweat emanating from a heavy workout. Sexy. The snappers loved her. They ignored me. Why? Because, well maybe I don't look like I'm gagging for it, maybe I am, but I put on a relaxed, detached facade, carefree (hardly), and well, I just don't do cameras. She obviously does.
I didn't even know what she was doing there, on a hot, sultry day by the lakeshore. I was running, but I finished just as she walked up. Even if it wasn't drizzling, I would have been a pool of slick sweat and damp running-wear. I probably had less on than she did. (It was over 90°.) But I wasn't modelling underwear.
“Excuse me,” she said, as I propped myself up next to a bench. “Would you mind holding this for me?”
She didn't wait for my answer, thrusting a net wrap into my hands. Now she was certainly wearing less than I was! Snap, snap, snap, the photographers plied their trade. Some kind of photo shoot. They loved the sheen of her naked skin. Oops! I forgot to mention that she proceeded to hand me her bra (more snapping) and then her panties. The photographers crowded around her. Snap, Snap.
She was about my size, although perhaps more buxom. Why did I stay there?
I couldn't leave, and the snappers conveniently left a corridor between us. Somehow, I was the focus of her attention. Jealous, I was, of her perfect skin, pouty lips, floating hair – not her legs. After years of putting on the mileage, mine still attracted admirers. Her abs? Mine were equally toned, with perhaps a little better muscle definition. What I really hated about her was that she was probably twenty years younger than me.
And then she said, “Now it's your turn.”
“Of course.” Again she didn't wait for me to act. Her hands were tugging at my vest, pulling it over my head, and one hand snaked into my pants. “Oops! Pardon me. I didn't mean to be so forward.” That was her, touching me in an intimate place.
Soon she was pulling my pants down – shoes off.
Snap, snap, snap. Thirty cameras trained on me now. She was beautiful. She kissed me, and held me, and fondled my breasts.
What had I walked into? A risque nude, lesbian photo shoot?
Ouch! Tripped on a branch and fell headfirst onto the path. Must pay more attention while I'm running.
Ive got to leave for a rehearsal in a quarter of an hour but Im bursting right now and Ive got to let it out so no punctuation today youve got to work for me this time hun because Im uppercase and if you have read my other streams you would know what that means it means Im gagging for it and if you would come into my study right now I would eat you alive and probably spit you out Im hungry and it isnt for food if I didnt have to go out soon it would be a naked day and Id have the heat turned up and I would strip down to nothing and write a steamy story hot hot hot but not porn Id rather discuss large ripe bananas and nice juicy cherries hanging from the tree Id douse them in syrup and lick it off then whipped cream I love whipped cream with a little sugar I would love to swim in it some day in my jacuzzi with an uppercase friend who I would get lowercase for dont you just love that metaphor uh oh only three minutes until I have to leave Im going out to blow on my mouthpiece finger the valves and stick my hand up my bell Id better not forget my lubrication bye bye damn Im so uppercase
i am naked, well almost, i haven't removed my panties, yet – yet, mind you, but they will come off soon, because the heat is stifling here and in the uk air conditioning is almost unheard of in private homes like mine, private like me, although when i pour out my soul into streams like this – ah, a nice cool stream – it's distracting me now, skinny dipping, yes, that is what i'd like to be doing instead of sitting here with my hot laptop sticking to my sweaty thighs, not sweaty for doing anything particularly fun, but moist in this airless room, even with the windows open – having them open only helps when there is a wind – i imagine you blowing on me – not as good as a stream, but better than what i'm in – maybe a cool drink, lemonade, an ice cold pepsi, even a glass of water, i need it, but not until i finish my stream, no periods allowed as usual, and no caps this time, i'm lowercase today, wishing i had someone uppercase lying next to me, well, not too close, but maybe we could blow on each other – i know i'm fickle, but if i can't have you, i can resort to fantasizing about my friend again, if he were only here, i would blow a cool stream of air on his uppercase bit, you know what i mean – he'd like that, perhaps too much, and it would get even hotter and sweatier here, but you know – sometimes it is worth it, even more than that ice cold drink that i will taste as soon as i finish this mess, yes, an unfocused sweaty mess, an untold fantasy, untold you wonder, because i only told you that there was a fantasy, or the potential of one here, and i'm thinking of it now, and although it includes my friend, some ice water and a ceiling fan, you don't know what we will do with the bags of packing peanuts – did you know that some packing peanuts are water soluble – but that isn't a hint – what do you think, should i remove my panties before or after i go pour that drink – that can be your fantasy for tonight
Sometimes I sit in an empty room with the heat turned up. It helps me relax my aging joints in the dead of winter. I can't stay long, as the light sweat that my body generates means my bum sticks to the varnished floor. I would have brought a mat to sit on, but that ruins the purity of the room, featureless, save for an uncurtained window that overlooks fields to the north.
I leave the light off, so I can gaze out the window anonymously at the silvery moonlight on the frosty grass. If the moon is full, there is sometimes enough light to read my cards. Mostly, I just sit there and be me. Tonight, it is dark, so I left my cards in the bedroom.
Sitting alone in this room, I leave the frozen outside world out there, listening in the silence for the soft beat of my heart. There it is, nice and slow, the pace of an athlete. Leaving my eyes open, I imagine a glow around me, red tonight, for the fire that is ready to burst from me, the fire of passion, or lust, perhaps.
I became a blonde again today, because they have more fun, and I want a part of it. I've been sitting alone on my own too much lately, as it's been too cold to go out, even on my morning runs. Ordinarily, the cold doesn't stop me, but lately it has been wet, too, and as much as I would like to, I can't run on ice. Now we have three inches of snow on the ground. Poop!
Rather … poof! I'm a blonde. Now all the men desire me, and that's what the red glow is for. It's me filling my room with desire until I reach critical mass. I'm calling to them – to you, and you are coming. I can feel it in my centre, molten. I have enough for everyone. Come to me now, and we will share. The walls aren't a barrier tonight, only to keep the cold out. It's Bermuda inside, and I'm here waiting in the centre of my triangle. The room may look square, but I have become the Bermuda Triangle, summoning those I desire, and those who secretly desire me – more, now that I am a blonde again, the spider in her web wanting, waiting.
You are here. You float through my web like a soft breeze, and you are caught, caught in my triangle, my web, my aura. Yes, you are here, and I feel your desire, your need. I'm a blonde-bombshell ready to explode for you because my need is greater, and I must devour you, so you may be reborn, fulfilled. The walls glow like lava now, and I dare not go near the window, lest the neighbours see my naked body. I will stand in the centre for you, still visible, but they will have to work for it, earn it.
I breathe you in, cool, but I will warm you – yes, you are warmed within my womb, your desire entwined in mine, the fuse burning, searching for the powder keg. You are the sweat between my breasts, dripping down, down, towards my red fire, and in it you come to life with white-hot energy, burning off impurities. We are one, liquid gold beyond price, too hot to touch, a puddle searing my varnished floor, and you are freed, spotless, as I wait for the next, for I am blonde, desirous to all and insatiable.
My fuse still burns.
I haven't written a stream in a while, a stream where I bare my soul, maybe my virtual body, too, what I'm thinking, what I shouldn't be thinking, and possibly shouldn't be writing, about sex, my mojo, what moves me, what makes my body tingle and keeps me up at night if I'm not getting it, or even if I am, since it is always on my brain, eating away at my concentration, keeping me from fully commiting to whatever I'm doing, be it work or shopping or playing my horn, that's the only thing that can grab my focus, since I sound like shit if I'm not giving it my all – that is what possesses me today – giving my all, doing everything in such a way that I can't fault myself later, like streaming, not allowing myself to stop or go back, living in the moment, without a pause for thought or even to finish a sentence – I bet you are about to keel over, since I haven't stopped to take a breath, changing directions without transition, transitioning without changing directions, on and on, but it's an exercise in focus, keeping going, getting a little lightheaded with anticipation of what might come out, giving everything I have for you dear reader, stripping down to nothing, letting you feel that tingle, that breathlessness, a dizzy mix of my deepest desires, the desire to be loved, to give love, to give it completely with my entire being, and to be loved in return the same way, the heady, giddy height of new love, lasting love, all-consuming love, and with it a desire to please and be pleased – am I pleasing you – I'd take off my sweatshirt for you, but it's really cold in my house right now, and just moving my fingers on this keyboard helps to keep them warm and my mind on – I was going to say writing, but my mind isn't there, it's where it always is, on sex, the warm feeling between my legs that you, yes, you dear reader give me when you read my writing, it keeps me warm even in this cold room on a day the thermometer plummeted, well, I shouldn't say it that way, if the thermometer plummeted, it would probably be broken (like my heart) and unreadable – the temperature plummeted – but my heart is still broken, as it has been for quite some time now, and today, in my usual holiday introspective mood, am writing about it, maybe boring you with it – can't this woman write about anything else, you ask, but I feel it everyday, it makes me what I am and feeds my desire to create, to make something out of myself, to gurgitate it onto my computer screen, not regurgitate, since I haven't yet gurgitated it, until now, so I guess I'm regurgitating, but I'm giving it all, as I always do for you, and it's having its desired effect, it's warmth radiating out from my centre, warming my body, my soul, making me ready for you, your love, maybe it isn't a physical love for me that you have, or a physical desire – no, the desire is physical, you can't get around that – you want me to turn you on with my sexy words, my breathless yearning monologue, hoping to turn it into a dialogue, and I hope you are loving it, because I'm loving you, as you creep into my fantasy, my virtual clothes – I can feel you there – there is always room for you, your hot seething flesh up against mine, adding to my warmth, maybe excess warmth now, as my sweatshirt is doing what it is designed for, to soak up sweat, the sweat that dribbles between my breasts – I didn't bother to put on a bra today (it's a lowercase day) – but my panties are getting moist waiting for you to pull them off, that might have explained why my legs were cold, since I neglected to progress past panties when I dressed this morning, I'd put something on, but I've got you now to keep me warm, inside and out – do you mind – I'm using you again, using you to fuel my fantasies – it doesn't matter what you look like, or feel like, or sound like, since you are a God to me, one who keeps me, who pleases me, and I've created you in my own image – well, a compatible image – an image that fires the coals of my being, that makes me lightheaded, gasping for precious air, seething with desire, want, giving my soul to do what you will with, giving myself in fantasy, so I can be the partner of your dreams, fulfilling you as you complete me, all of me, all, all, kiss me before you leave, and lock the door on your way out, I'm spent
I'm free. Take me now. One and one, one on one, you on me, to make three.
Today was one of those days. I'm only virtually naked right now because I couldn't be bothered to take my clothes off. My internet body floats on the sun naked, waiting for fulfillment. That's your cue. Come to me, with me.
I've had something eating at me all day, and I don't know what it is. There's no monkey on my back or nicotine craving. This distraction has been crawling up my legs since I awoke this morning after a dreamless night.
There, I've taken my shoes off, one of the most liberating things I can imagine, almost as satisfying as taking my bra off. My distraction didn't allow me to put one on today, so I'll miss that pleasure. I had no meetings scheduled, so I didn't really need to dress at all. It's a good thing I did, or the postman would have gotten a free show. Well, I did dress for my run, but that all comes off before I shower – that's when I start my day over. Sometimes I dream in the shower; it's more than a daydream. I lose track of everything. I can be there unmoving while the water pours over me for more than a half hour. I'm back in the womb again, naked, wet and warm. Soapy, yes, I like that, too. After 7 miles on the road, I have to wash my hair everyday, something gentle with conditioner. It's getting long now. I'll need to get it cut soon.
I've had dreams on my mind lately, as you might have noticed. I'm riding a dream right now, a dream that someone else had, and that I've claimed as my own. A little bit of my womb-like shower has been creeping up my legs – maybe I didn't wash the soap off thoroughly, maybe it's the thousand tongues of fantasy, my stolen dream waiting to please me. I so need to be pleased.
The invisible dream that I'm having has possessed me, invisible because there are no visions, not even images, yet I'm in it, naked as always, and the object of someone's desire. Maybe it is the dream that desires me, calling me back to my bed where it can ravage me.
Excuse me while I get more comfortable …
I had to take my jeans off. There, the bare skin of my legs, surprisingly soft for the amount I punish them. I can't see what has given my legs so much attention today. They look normal, yet I feel that dream, as though I was sitting in chocolate pudding. (It has to be chocolate.) And it softly vibrates, pulsating from the waist down and thoroughly distracting from the waist up.
I'm dreaming again, an imageless dream, a black photograph, but something stirs in the darkness, pleasing to this moonchild, this waterbaby. My darkness is clear and light, as bright to me as day, and it calls to me.
The darkness plays with my spirit, a sensual game, that's it! That's my distraction, my dream, being taken, being loved by the night, my day, my moon, swimming in the pool of my life. My dreams are obsessed with sex and the darkness has been trying to include me, to please me, to love me, to make three.
Sleep is calling me, to come out to play, so I must go. I'm in the mood, and I think my nightdress will remain lonely on its hook tonight.
Dream, take me. I'm free.