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).
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 …