I was tired of hearing it and said the wrong thing while my sadistic Fairy God Mother was hanging around. That taught me to pay more attention to my use of the English language.
“I just wish that sometimes I could be thin and beautiful,” I’d said, and she took me at my word: just, meaning that it was to be my only wish, and my misplacement of sometimes meant that sometimes I am now thin and beautiful. I was 15 when I made that fateful wish.
Now, 2-4 days per week, I am a C-cup beauty, thin, trim and perfectly formed. The other days – well, at first – I was my usual bovine self, fat (a G-cup at 15!), pimply, and with thick horn-rimmed glasses that invited derision from my classmates. I say “at first” because it was like I was two different girls. At school, they wouldn’t believe I was the same person, in spite of my separate grades – Fat Janet was a straight-A student, regardless of the fact that she attended school only 2-4 days a week. Thin Janet fared only slightly worse, in that she was only at school 1-3 days per week. Thin Janet’s teachers weren’t so forgiving of her absences on test days. Fat Janet always got make-up tests. It meant that I usually got to take the tests twice, however.
My parents never quite understood. They didn’t believe my Fairy God Mother explanation, and I couldn’t produce her to prove my point. After my “last” wish, she left, mentioning the Costa del Sol. My mistake had freed her from her duties. In time, my parents became willing to facilitate my separate identities, providing the required sick notes and enrolling us separately at the same university. Thin Janet won a scholarship, so tuition was free, and Fat Jan (as she came to be known) earned grants for academic excellence. Janet was the President of the Delta Zetas, while Jan was President of the Honor Society. I improved at scheduling classes, so that my grades didn’t suffer from my duality. Janet took several self-study modules, and Jan got her usual pity from her professors.
Sex was a whole different ballgame – one that my FGM must have taken into account when granting my wish. Every boy on campus wanted to sleep with the nearly-frigid Janet. As Janet, I had to fake about 99% of my orgasms. A boy had to work hard to get me excited, regardless of how horny I was. Jan, on the other hand, got so little sex that I could almost orgasm at will, and if a boy was intent on braving my folds of flesh to fondle my enormous breasts, I could give him the best sex of his life. While Janet suffered an endless string of boring admirers, Jan quickly got a reputation for being a giant firecracker in bed and soon found a steady boyfriend of similar size and inclination.
Choreographing it all was tricky. Janet and Jan had to be room-mates for it to work, even in our senior year, when most of us had single rooms. Janet had to be certain that her lovers never stayed past midnight, or they might get a scare in the morning. Jan’s boyfriend, Ben, got the occasional morning treat of seeing Janet in a nightdress, while Jan was “in the shower.” He was embarrassed to be caught and slipped out before Jan’s “return.” The change happened by 3 am, and I usually jolted awake, especially when becoming the beautiful Janet. I had to be careful, sort of like Cinderella and her chariot (i.e pumpkin).
After I graduated with my two honors degrees, Business (Janet) and English (Jan), I knew that I could never get a job, which I would quickly lose through my unpredictable “absences.” I had come to that decision earlier and had resolved to have Jan diet to make her more similar to Janet, but Ben “loved her just the way she was.” When I tried to prove my duel existence to him, I stayed Jan every night for six straight nights – until we completely sated our sexual appetites, and he went back to his room. In punishment, I remained frigid Janet for the next week.
I soon dumped Ben and continued as “normal” until graduation. Dieting was difficult. As Janet, I could eat a truckload and not gain a pound, but as Jan, if I but looked at a chocolate brownie, I gained weight. I even tried exercising. Janet could run a world-class 10K, while Jan had difficulty walking around the block. After a while, I realized that starving Janet helped Jan lose weight, but that made things worse. Janet, while maintaining a perfect 98 lbs, became weak and tired – and so did Jan.
Over the course of the next two years, Jan shrank from 256 lb to 206 lb. Most women lose their first weight in the breasts and last in their hips and thighs, but at I was still an H-cup. Having lost 50 lbs, I dared not stop there. I needed Jan and Janet to be able to pass as the same person. Hence, more starvation and rigorous exercise. It was only when Jan began lifting weights, that it had some effect on her – our – breasts, though none on Janet’s. Soon fat was turning to muscle, and I had shrunk to a svelte F-cup. I could even jog a mile without collapsing in a heap. Fat Jan was turning into a shot-putter.
By the age of 25, I had trimmed down to 165 lbs and could bench nearly 200. Working out still didn’t change Ms Perfect (Janet) at all. Most of my Fat Jan weight had become muscle, and my breasts were still enormous. That’s when I bought contact-lenses and dyed my hair blond. Oddly, Janet had always had perfect eyesight and blond hair, instead of my natural red. At one point, I tried dying Janet’s hair red, but the next time I changed into her, it was back to blond. My FGM had made Janet perfect, and there was no way to change that. Even now, in my 40’s Janet could easily pass for 25 – but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Getting my weight down to 145 was another five-year struggle, with thin, muscular arms and legs and still huge breasts. I decided then that they would never get any smaller, since they had begun bulking up with muscle. I was a top-heavy muscle-bound behemoth. I supported myself by writing as a freelance business journalist. I could sit at home writing, while making infrequent appearances at the offices of my clients – as Jan! My reclusive lifestyle didn’t allow me much socialization, and if I was going to get laid, I was going to enjoy it. Janet wouldn’t, of course.
That elicited punishment, however. Janet became even more attractive to men with age and had them drooling at her as she walked past – and I’m not making that up. She caused more havoc on a single trip to the supermarket than all of Jan’s nights sleeping with married men. By smiling at the wrong man, Janet could break a marriage, either by breaking the man or causing unbelievable jealousy in his wife. Janet was equally loved and hated to an extreme.
When I decided that Janet could never again leave the house, I became Janet for long stretches – periods lasting until I had no food left in the fridge. When I tried to have food delivered, the delivery boy made a pass at me – no, he did more than that – but I won’t go into it in detail. That at least reminded me that Janet needed sex as much as Jan, even if she found it as boring as hell.
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but Janet craved being desired as much as Jan craved being touched. Men couldn’t get enough of those enormous mammaries – to see them, to touch them, to taste them. Jan let them, as long as they satisfied her lower down. Jan’s firm melons were just a means to an end, whereas Janet’s apples were ripe and desperate to be plucked. As Janet, I wanted men to want those breasts as much as they wanted Jan’s. I had become more jealous of Jan than the Fat Cow was of all the other girls in their school all those years ago. The new Jan was popular, had as many men as she wanted, when she wanted them – and with no consequences in the morning. Jan was also infertile.
Janet was not. Jan didn’t even notice when Janet got pregnant. It was as if Janet were a completely different person that Jan didn’t even know. Around that time, I started spending more time as Janet, as many as 5 days a week. Being Perfect Janet, I had no doubt that my son would come to term – a son, because perfect women only have sons, i.e. heirs, first.
I so wanted a daughter. If my FGM had come to visit, I would have begged her for one.
Jan thought nothing of it. The pregnancy was out of her control – and out of her body. At 8 months Janet looked about to explode, while Jan looked as fit and muscular as ever – with as healthy a sex life as she had ever had.
Janet then got what she had always wanted – the desire to be touched. Along with all the other cravings, the perfect pregnant woman wants her man to touch her, and Janet felt it most in her swelling breasts and tummy. Unfortunately, the delivery boy was long gone – and Jan’s lovers weren’t around on the right days for her.
As both Janet and Jan, I became quite conscious of the future. How would Jan cope with a daughter around the house, and how would she nurse her? When I was young, I always envied Janet (as Jan), but now (as Janet) I couldn’t stand Jan’s sordid lifestyle. She didn’t want to settle down, and she had no desire for children. I began to dread the day that Eric was to be born. He would have no father, a loving part-time mother, and a mother who didn’t care who would take care of him most of the time.
The closer I got to term, the more I stayed Janet – for a full 10 days before I gave birth to my beautiful son. Those days were difficult. Having hidden herself away, Janet had no close friends and my parents had died 2 years earlier.
As Jan, any resolutions Janet had made about our lifestyle were soon forgotten. I knew I had to take care of her kid, but that would eat into a lifestyle that I had earned through my own hard work. She was perfect and had everything she wanted handed to her on a plate – smart, beautiful and desired – desired even more while she was pregnant, but even more off the shelf.
My two selves hated each other then, and only Janet seemed aware of it. She feared it. If one of them was to win, it would be the no-longer-fat Jan – skinny Jan with the giant udders. That’s what she called them. Men just wanted to squeeze them like they were milking a cow. Jan was the “original” free from enchantment. Janet thought her days were numbered. Eric would lose his mother and she couldn’t stomach that.
Fortunately, after Eric’s birth I remained Janet for another week, dutifully pumping breast milk every night just in case I would wake up as Jan in the morning. I love Eric as any perfect mother would love her perfect son. Jan was like any father would be, fumbling and jealous of the bond between mother and child, but because I was really both of them, I held it together. I had no choice.
Within six months, I was back to normal: Janet, 2-3 days a week as a recluse and perfect loving mother, and Jan, humping every guy she could fit in on her nights, while Eric slept.
In May, when Eric was nearly a year old, Janet decided to take him to the beach. Our body was back to being perfect, and still needing to be desired, I wore my skimpiest bikini. I enjoyed watching men drool that day, even more than before, and I could have had any one of them. I think I had more fun playing with Eric as the focus of every man, than I had enjoyed in my entire life. I resolved to take Eric to the beach as often as I could, and Jan couldn’t stop me.
Instead, Jan started spending time on the beach as well, as if competing with me. Eric proved to be the perfect man-magnet – and Jan was wearing my bikinis! They didn’t cover much upstairs. As Janet, I cringed with embarrassment whenever I thought about it.
Although other women on the beach feared Janet’s perfect body, they came to love Eric, and several privately confided what they thought about how my “sister” paraded herself with my child. Janet soon surrounded herself with other women as friends, as opposed to rivals, and they even learned to tolerate their husbands drooling over me. Jan, conversely, spent her time on the beach surrounded by men, each vying to be the one allowed to massage her with sunscreen.
In October I met … well, that will have to wait. I recognized him, especially his face and his large hands, but I couldn’t place him. Although it was too cold to spend a day on the beach in a bathing suit, Eric and I went anyway. We had new friends there, and Eric loved the beach, almost as a second home. Jan had stopped going, since the population of male flesh had dwindled. That was when I met him – him! I was in love instantly – a perfect love, a love that could only be loved by a perfect woman. He was perfect – well, not exactly; he was perfect for me. He was tall, thin, long-ago divorced, and the same age as me.
It turned out that we had gone to university together, and that he was in Jan’s department. He was more than in Jan’s department – he’d spent more time in Jan than anyone else had.
It was Ben – a now thin, confident Ben. A Ben that was now an English Literature Professor at the University of Chicago. He had recognized me and couldn’t believe how little I had changed in twenty years. Eric took to him immediately, as quickly as I had. I was smitten.
Ben gave me his card, and as a nervous afterthought, asked for my number. He couldn’t wait to phone me later that evening to invite me over. I feared that I would stay the night, and wake up as Jan, so I turned the tables on him, explaining that Eric kept me from going out at night and that I didn’t have a regular babysitter.
It didn’t take long for him to confess to me that he had been in love with me since university and went almost as far as saying that he only slept with Jan hoping to get a glimpse of me. Jan was too hot for him, too dangerous, but I was too beautiful, and he thought that I would never be interested in him – I was too perfect and too in demand by more handsome men.
What did I think of him then? Does it matter? I thought he was brave to stay with Jan so long, but he was addicted to her, and she to him. I was addicted to him now. As Jan, he gave me everything I wanted: devotion, and the physical love that I’d missed out on in high school. As Janet, I was too worried about getting in the way of my real self – my real self!
That’s hard to believe, now that I’m pregnant with my daughter – our daughter. It will be a daughter, since the perfect woman will have a perfect daughter after she has her perfect son. A third will be … I don’t care. I love children, and I love Ben, my husband.
Ben almost hit the ceiling when he first woke up with Jan – thin Jan with the giant udders. I don’t blame him for what he did. It kept Jan happy, and gave Ben the most sublime morning after the most sublime night we’d had together. He still finds it hard to believe that we are the same person, with two different bodies and personalities. It is fortunate that I wake up as Jan much less than before. Whether I am Janet or Jan, Ben is still the same: my perfect lover who adapts perfectly for me. He’s confessed to preferring my apple-sized breasts and softer musculature, but Jan will always be his dynamite, and he is dynamite enough himself to keep her happy at home. While I am pregnant, however, she is almost never here.
“Do you still call it your fateful mistake?” asked a familiar voice, startling me.
“You finally back from the Costa del Sol?” I asked cynically, as my daughter kicked inside my belly.
“I’ve come to look after your new one,” she said, “if you will let me, after what I put you through.”
“I wouldn’t change anything,” I answered.
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Will Jan ever come back?” I asked.
“She’s part of you and will never leave. She is all the sordid thoughts and desires you’ve ever had, all rolled into one.”
“It complicates things with Ben.”
“It doesn’t matter, he loves big breasts.”
“But he said …”
“All men love big breasts … Yours appreciate his hands more.”
“As tiny as they are?”
“Don’t mock my workmanship! They are perfect – and his hands are perfect for them.” She reached over and stroked my belly.
“I don’t care what you say; I’m not going to name her Cinderella!”
“Maybe Cindy, but only if Ben agrees.”
“He will. He’s your perfect husband.”
I can often be found sitting on this wall, a half a block up the street from my apartment. It’s the perfect height for me, so I just lean on it, and soon I’m sitting. I like to watch people walk by, to say hello, to gossip. There are those that say that if something’s going down on my street, I’m the one to ask. I see it all: Mrs Jones running out of her house with a bloody lip and skulking back a half hour later, Janine Harper with her two boyfriends, and what they get to up in her bedroom. She couldn’t have hung that mirror in more useful position. It helps that I’m a little far-sighted. She knows I can see them, and I sometimes wonder if she is performing just for me, or maybe she’s just gloating. She’s got two and I have none. I wouldn’t want either of them anyway.
Dan Jenkin’s Buick has a bad oil leak. He always parks it in front of my perch overnight, and I can see its rainbow stream of black gold oozing towards the curb in the morning. I love the aroma of a warm engine and the reflection of fresh motor oil and water in the warm sunshine. He must fill it up almost every day.
Twice I have been questioned by the police about soliciting, but they have never caught me at it, probably because that’s not what I’m doing. It has been years since my last … Sorry, but saying four-letter words makes me blush. Dan and I stopped when we got caught by his wife, Cindy. He was my first, back in High School, and occasionally we got together when I got sick of abstinence, and he got sick of Cindy. It was a purely physical arrangement, bourne of mutual need. Cindy was prone to use the withholding of sex as a weapon to get back at him, and he decided early on that using me was better than taking the matter into his own hands. Aside from releasing my pent up energy, Dan was never my true love. I just never really liked Cindy. After Dan popped my cherry, she moved in for the kill, and bingo … offspring, and a teen marriage. Dan and I never could have married, but I would have appreciated a second go before anyone else claimed him. Cindy’s a barracuda, and I don’t envy him.
Many wonder if I’m just a layabout, sitting on the wall all day long, but I’ve taken to sleeping in the evening and working from home after midnight. Nobody realizes that I’m a famous author. Everyone has read James T. Lincoln’s vampire novels. Nobody knows that he is me. My publisher hired a 40-something model for the book-jackets. I love writing at night, letting my fantasies run free. The reviewers get on my case about the amount of sex in my books, but that’s what brings the readers back time after time. Granted, every time has to be different and it has developed itself as a form of lycanthropy, a supernatural disease that even my main character has succumbed to – Det. Elmira P. Wrozniak, a specialist in paranormal crime by day and Meera, Queen of the succubusses at night. It’s the perfect cover and it helps her get rid of the competition. My readers think I’ve sold out, as Elmira’s sex gets more and more kinky. I don’t care, since my last novel sold the most ever. The diehards still prefer Elmira when she was still fully human, so I’ve started a new series just for them. Riccardo Malipiero, paranormal investigator and vampire killer. The first book was almost as big a seller as Fire in the Undergrowth, the first Elmira book.
Writing does strange things to me. It’s almost like having sex myself, especially when I’m in the midst of writing a juicy sex scene for Elmira. That’s why I can’t go to sleep in the morning. After a night of vampires and werewolves, I need the sunlight to reaffirm my humanity and cool the fire in my loins. If my neighbors knew how much I was worth, I would never get any peace. My visitors just think that I’m a big Lincoln fan, but nobody has even noticed that none of the other books in my library are vampire books. Not a single one! I prefer real literature, the classics, modern fiction. I’d read Jane Austen long before I read … what’e her name … I can’t remember. Her followers don’t like my books – the say Elmira is a slut – but what makes her any different from whatshername’s heroine?
If anyone is a slut, it’s me in real life, watching every handsome fella that walks by and orchestrating a fantasy that they star in. The good ones make it into my books, the rest keep me a deep breath away from an orgasm. I confess that I have come that close, sitting anonymously innocent in the sun, but the fella is usually long gone anyway.
There’s Mrs Jones back, right on cue, and Janine is busy pumping boyfriend no 2 dry. She waves discreetly, thinking that I envy her, but I’m sitting in an oil slick of my own making with Mr Bearded-Blond-Runner wrapped between my legs, his clothes in tatters on the sidewalk, and I’m about to scream in ecstasy. He’ll probably make his second sweaty loop around the block in about 10 minutes. Maybe I’ll stop him when he passes, burying my tongue in his mouth and perhaps more. He’s hot for me, I know, I can see it in his eyes. No, not today, the real thing is never as good as the fantasy.
If people only knew what I was really thinking…
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.
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.