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.
Everyone is so busy right now. I haven’t been on the WC much lately – too much work, so little time. Easter is on Sunday, and I just can’t get excited about it. It just means that I have less time to get my work done this week. It’s not fair! Every day that is a holiday should be extra, meaning that if Friday and Monday are holidays, then they should get tucked in after this Friday and before next Monday. That means Thurs, Fri, Good Friday, Sat, Easter Sun, Easter Mon, Mon, Tues, etc. You people that are “employed” still get your days off, while we who are “self-employed” can fit in the all-important work days, and then take that extra day off. I hear you howling! But you get those days off, while we still have to work, because we don’t get paid for not working like you do. If we want to take days off, we have to work like maniacs to fit all the work in, so we still meet our deadlines.
Now you see what you’ve done? I sat down to write about sex and instead find myself obsessing about work, work that I should be doing right now, since my lunch break is nearly over, a lunch break that I probably shouldn’t have taken, to write a piece that I shouldn’t be writing. My rent-boy muse has decided to take his holiday early, too, and I’m left alone here to contemplate my navel. Where is he? Probably Tenerife – I don’t know where he goes. He never takes me along. My best friend is S/E like me, and he’s just as manic as I am, since he has to go to Finland next week. It’s alright for some! I want to say that I hope it snows there … alas, he’s going to freeze his tootsies off anyway. Maybe I should send my muse there in his place and take my friend to Tenerife where it’s warm. Somehow, I don’t think his wife would go for that. Anyway, my muse is already gone.
Maybe I’d be more in the mood if I took my clothes off. Nobody’s watching, except you my dear reader. Well, it’s just too cold for that. I can’t even conjure up one of my Rupert Everett fantasies. He can be a little cool as an actor, but he’s not half dishy. I loved him in An Ideal Husband. I so wanted to be Minnie Driver. Did I ever tell you my friend knows her cousin from way back? Probably not. That’s me: I know people who know people, but I’m never the first one in the chain. Of course, he’s never met Minnie. I say that with only hint of jealousy because I know that he has actually met a few rather famous personalities.
There I go, more digressions, I slip into streams that I don’t want to swim in – the water’s cold – and the one where I’d like to go skinny-dipping seems to be closed for the holiday. Maybe I’ll just leave you a pic – she wants to be my friend, apparently. (Why did I ever open a hi5 account? It’s closed now.) Why is it only women that want to be my friends? Don’t hunky guys ever flaunt themselves in internet sex chat rooms? I’m not into hunky anyway, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.
Just pray that I dream of Rupert tonight and not the woman-across-the-street’s dog (again).
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!