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.
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
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.
Shortly after my divorce, I bought myself silk crimson pjs cum negligee. (Notice how I slipped in some latin? And what a apropos choice of word. Well done, Anne.) I thought at that time that it was to get myself back on the prowl. It was an extravagance – something for me. You might think that after 15+ years it wouldn’t fit me anymore, but actually I was heavier then. There was too much stress during my marriage and its aftermath; I ate more and ran less. The negligee was supposed to symbolize freedom. Every once in a while, I decide to wear them, just for me – my private personal seduction. Last night was the night, and realizing that I didn’t have to go out at all today, I’m still wearing them. In fact, I’m still in bed. The weather is warm today, so I’ve dispensed with the covers, preferring the warmth of my laptop on my thighs.
I’ve unbuttoned the top for comfort, hanging free and easy. Although, I got up to do my morning toilette, I haven’t bothered to brush my hair. It’s tangled all over the place, but there is a naturalness about it that seems to fit with today’s freedom. The panties are perhaps a little too free. As I said, I’ve lost a little weight since I bought them, so they slip around a little bit. It doesn’t matter no one is watching, except you, dear reader, and I trust you not to stare. Have I misplaced my trust? Today, I don’t care. You can stare all you want. Here, I’ll lift up my laptop, so you can have a good look. See? They’re a little rolled up in the back and hence are hanging rather low, not hiding much at all. Excuse me while I stand and straighten them up…
… did you get a good look? I get really red when I blush. They slid down to my thighs when I scooted to the side of the bed.
Mmmm … I love silk. My body almost feels smoother through it than touching the skin directly. Want to try it? Cheeky! I had an option of white lace trim, but I opted for pure silk, with discreet buttons. The top hangs to my upper thighs. I’m not any taller than when I bought it, but it seems like it is shorter. As I sit here, it hangs to the side anyway, giving you the full length of my legs, a bit of tummy and yes, those. I like having small breasts – it’s funny, most of my female characters are jealous of larger-breasted women, but I’m not. They don’t get in the way, and I rarely have men talk to my chest instead of my eyes. Maybe it’s closet breast-envy, but I wouldn’t admit to it.
So what shall I do today? I might just be decadent and sit here all day. At some point, I should eat, I suppose, but for now I’m just going to sit here, hang loose, and enjoy the freedom. No, you can’t stay, this is my private time. (Thinks about buying silk sheets.)
Have a nice day. Now, beat it!