Awkward Things

"Aftershave," my housemate says. He's puzzled at the scent because he's the only male in the house, and he doesn't wear any.

"Yep," I deadpan. He can smell it coming from my room because I've just shaved my pussy and I put too much on afterwards to combat razor burn.

* * *

"I see you have tights on today," one of my co-workers comments. "What happened, someone try to look up your skirt?"

"Um," I say, "I always wear tights to work. Only difference is that these are black and the others have been peach."

I still have no idea what inspired her to make this remark.

* * *

Moving in to my new place, a book fell out of one of my boxes and my landlord stooped to pick it up. It was my copy of Marquis de Sade's Philosophy in the Bedroom. Which might have been ok if it was one of the old versions with a bland cover, but recently I had splurged on the new Penguin translation. The cover looks like this:



The inner back flap shows a brilliant red horse's ass.

He looked it, then shoved it back in the box. I kept walking, pretending I hadn't noticed, but wondering what would happen. I was counting in my head: 3, 2, 1...

"Have your ever read the Karma Sutra?" my landlord asked.

Sex Blogging and Getting Older

You ever hear that saying about how young people think they will live forever? That they are invincible?

It's bullshit.

It may just be because I have spent the last 3.5 years hanging out with scruffy philosophy majors for my late night-conversations, but I've never known anyone my age who didn't know that they were getting older and be scared shitless by it. Actually, we all think we'll die at 30.

It's true. For the longest time, I have had the vague, unformed idea in my mind that some form of annihilation would come over me before I reached my 30th year. Or maybe not anything that dramatic, maybe it was something else that felt like dying. It put an edge of desperation into everything I thought, if not everything I did--I wasn't sure what the hell to do half of the time. I never really talked to anyone about it, because a part of me felt it was stupid. Just my own private not-quite quarter-life crisis which could never be resolved.

I don't feel like this any more. But lately I've been talking to the Hipster Feedee (more about him later) and he talks about how he does all he can to "fake it" now. To make it seem like he's 29 or younger. About how he had a star-studded birthday so that if anyone looked him up on the internet they wouldn't see his true age right away. He tells me stories about people who write about music and art getting fired when they reach a certain age and then I get riled up and angry. No one knows why me and my peers have to think like this.

Well, Ok, I, personally, don't know. I just know that up until recently when I contemplated reaching that age my mind would reach such a wall of shining nothingness that I was sure it could only be The End of All Things. Maybe it's because I know deep down that Napoleon and Alexander the Great and Mozart all did their thing by 20 or so.

Really, I was a failure out of the womb.

When I make a little more effort to imagine it, I think we're all more afraid of our sprits dying than our bodies. At 30 we imagine we will all be old and fat* and boring. No more parties. No more drinking. No more late nights at Kino 41st street when some stranger would put their hand in my twat**. At 30 all would magically dissolve and I would be left entirely alone in a dead end job, maybe at Starbucks.

A young gay man I know is also depressed at getting older. According to him, a 30 year old gay man is practically at death's door. A minute after midnight on his last day at 29 he will wither, turn grey, and start looking at twinkies that are hardly in their teens with the sick smile of a pedophile. (Come to think of it, wasn't this whole concept a major plot point in Queer As Folk, how Brian Kinney was terrified of hitting 30?)

However, I now find myself almost unique among my generation in that I am not afraid of getting older. And I owe it all to reading sex blogs.

It's true. All the best sex blogs are written by old people***. According to my favorites--the ones I first found almost a year ago and kept reading up until this very day--us 20 year olds know absolutely nothing about sex. We are just mouthing our "date"'s twat and fumbling at our "boyfriend"'s ball sacks. At 20 and with a fair number of partners behind me, I can still yearn for a golden age of sex--which seems to come around 40 after a divorce****. While the thought might worry some of you, I adore you people. Your exploits put my adolescent groupings to shame and I want to be just like you when I grow up.

And as for the younger bloggers--i.e., those who have actually reached 30 without keeling over at midnight on their last day as 29ers--you're just like me, only cooler. You're still drinking and wenching pretty girls. You're still figuring out who you are and what you want. And you embrace the exploration boldly.

It would seem, then (at least out here on the fringes of sex and gender and tech and god knows what else) that age no longer matters when you fuck. With the knowledge that I will probably still be getting tail--and lots of it--when I reach the tender age of 40, all the other problems of aging seem more manageable.

Botox? AAG don't need no stinkin' Botox.

Really, it's wonderful. I feel like I can breathe. I feel like I can plan ahead, not just for the next ten or so years, but for the next thirty or forty. It's like being released from a beheading, only instead of running out and seeing everything with hyperkinetic joy and thankfulness I can actually slow down a little. Theoretically.

But maybe it's not just us on the insulated fringy-fringes. Maybe it's actually becoming more mainstream. Did you ever hear those stories about people getting it on in nursing homes? One of my fav stories I read in I think Reader's Digest, about two people who met in a nursing home that would stop the elevator between floors just so they could get some necking privacy. I say good for them.

But I still see it in every day conversations: "Old people having sex, ew." And I used to think that. And sometimes I look at old people and still think that. To my eyes, people who have gotten really up there have a strange topography to their bodies. Which, unless I improve my diet, make plans to undergo several cosmetic surgeries in the coming years, and lose all the fat that some of my fans find so attractive, will probably be just like how I look someday. Hell, someday my boobs might be down to my knees.

Thinking of it that way, you can't say "ew" anymore really. Every time you say "ew", you lose a little bit of your future leeway to fuck when you too are old people. When I'm 40 I expect to be at least 1,000 times more horny than I am now and the last thing I need while making out in the park with my silver-haired beau is a bunch of young twits going "Ew, old people making out! How disgusting!"

Cee says when I'm sixty I'm probably going to be an old pervy lady with a boy toy, but we'll ignore that part. Hell, maybe by that age I will have gotten brave enough to finally buy a vibrator.

____________________________________

*not even the sexy fat that happens in Feederism. In 30-year-old life projections that never happens.

**This really happened, folks. If enough people make inquiries I might even trot down memory lane to post about it.

***Dear everyone who finds this through their blog stats that is incensed at the use of the word "old people": By "old", I mean only "older than I am". Which really isn't very, because I am in my very early 20s. I just think it's fun to poke fun at you because I can. ;)

****It's a trend I see! You can't deny it!

I am going to be at the NYC Sex Bloggers Calendar Release Party TONIGHT!

This, by the way, is what I'm talking about. Just in case you've never heard of it. :)

I really should have planned this better.

If I was a good blogger, I would have hinted I was going a week ago. I would have written a post about my hopes, dreams, fears, and topped it off with an nice boob pic. I would have notified every boy that's within driving distance of NYC that I was coming a week in advance and started sorting though answers to my Craigslist ads. I would have bought a corset.

The reason that I didn't do any of these things was that my life wasn't together enough that I felt financially able to come. Then, 72 hours ago, two things happened:

1. I got another part time job.

2. I found out about the Dragon Coach, which can take me to NYC and back for a total of $40.

Now I am sitting in the same friend's apt. where I first read Working Stiff, with a view of the Empire State Building outside the window.

Just like old times.

So, yeah, I'm gonna be at this party in, like...an hour or so. And Sinclair will be there, who I've never so much as emailed, even though I've been reading the Sugarbutch Chronicles for, oh, about six months now. I don't know whether to squeal with fangirl glee or treat it like a sexy business meeting so all the bloggers there will treat me seriously. (I actually had some business cards made but left them at home.) I wanna have a famous blog someday too, ya know, and it's all about the networking!

Instead I'm a little scared. It's the odd feeling that comes from knowing someone only from what they've written over the internet, where you know as much about them as if you've read their minds...and yet they know absolutely nothing about you. Makes for social awkwardness, at the very least.

And then there's another part that feels like I'm finally starting to live the adventures I used to read about in books. I've never known anyone quite like these people whose blogs I've been following all these months, and, fetish or not, their lives seem to happen in a climate as exotic as India. For example, even though I've tried to be active in the local gay groups back home, I've never met anyone as openly genderqueer as Sinclair...and that's why I became so galvanized when I realized there was a small chance I could attend. Because a part of me doesn't quite believe that these people are true, and what I'm actually going to be attending is a party where some of my favorite fantasy characters have inexplicably come to life.

"You Can Do Better": Part 1

We're going to be doing a bit of time travel now, dear sexblog readers, so bear with me. This happened back in April 2008, when I was still in college. Like most colleges, the night we finished our finals was given up to the senior skit and drunken parties. And like most college students, I was horny and out for blood.

This is different from most stories I've posted on here in that there's a lot of lesbian making out. But if you're worried you might get bored reading about a pretty BBW getting some girl-on-girl action, just hang in there: there's also a BHM.

* * *


I woke up on Friday at noon. I put my arm over my eyes to shut out the sunlight as last night became present memory: I had gotten drunk, and I was still miffed about the girl.

Two girls.

* * *

Thursday was prank night, a secret that the entire campus already knew. I had been assigned no real job except to photograph the insanity, but ended up holding the ladder for one of the more shapely members of my class as she climbed up to hang banners. Her dress was sparkly, gold, and short. Very short. Dude, I thought, I hope she's wearing underwear and cursed the gods when my hopes were fulfilled.

Other than that, the pranks we pulled on the underclassmen went off without a hitch. Things were cheerful enough as long as the drinking was going on, but once they were all packed into an auditorium for the satiric skit the senior class had dreamed up, things began to get ugly.

First, one of the MCs was hit in the face with a cheap blue kickball. He leaped off the stage, jumped over the first row of seats and a fistfight began. Another senior grabbed hold of the microphone and called them off.

Then the audience started throwing beer cans.

I was trying to take photos of what was happening on the stage when one zipped by my head, spraying beer. Then others. Some of the cans were crushed, some full. Still the prank play went on. They hoisted V.-- the sexiest girl in school--onto their shoulders, her hands wrapped with chains. The gayest boy in school was crowned king and treated to half-naked men giving him a massage. Then he was overthrown and they hauled the shyest boy in school on the stage and crowned him instead.

The audience roared. They climbed out of their seats and onto the stage.

"That's it, that's it, it's over!" yelled the MC into the microphone. The auditorium emptied out, the outer lobby became dark, and the dancing began.

I went out, reloaded film, and realized that in all this screaming crowd I was the only one not yet drunk. I found the Atheist and his friends, dressed in black and smoking cigarettes and complaining about how bad the skit had been. Constantine was there. He had a paper crown on his hair, a feathery tinseled thing that would have been worn at a three-year-old's birthday or virgin's bachelorette party. He had his girlfriend on his arm, and as I talked with the Atheist their making out became more and more explicit. She touched his chest, they put their arms around one another, they came closer and closer until they kissed, he laughed, he caressed her ass.

"Atheist," I said, "you used to be an alcoholic. Tell me where I can get something to drink that isn't beer."

"Behind the stage," he said, "if it isn't all gone."

"I'll see you when I'm drunk," I said.

Behind the stage was a nearly full pint of gin. I hate tonic water so I poured it straight, tried to drink it. I found a half-empty liter of Coke and used that as a mixer. I on the way out I snagged a cold can of Keystone Light and took it with me--I wanted to see if I could shotgun it, later.

Then I saw the girl.

She said something about having lost her purse. Upon inquiry she had either left it in the lobby or somewhere else. I followed along without being invited.

She found the purse on the floor, dangerously close to the spilled drinks that marked the edge of the dance floor. She put it on without seeming to notice that I had followed her--I pulled on the strap to get her attention. "Are you really bi?" I asked.

She looked offended that I would doubt her. "Yeah."

"Are you really drunk?"

"Yeah..."

"How drunk?"

"I dunno..."

"Are you drunk enough to kiss me?" I asked.

'Well..." she said and her mouth bore down on me.

Ten minutes later my chin was slick with her mouth juices. I couldn't call it spit, it was too sweet and lovely for that. My arm was around her waist, feeling the muscles through her tight shirt. Then a well-meaning friend came and pulled her away.

"You ruined a beautiful thing," I told the friend later that night. Like all drunkards I was easily distracted, and my girl had seemed to disappear directly she was taken away. But I saw her once more, a long time later. She was trying to hold up a shorter blond girl.

"Tonight's not the night," she said, noticing me.

"I think it's a good night," I said, tracing my fingers down her belly.

The blond girl was hanging off her, they were so tangled up together each step taunted the ground with their falling.

"Later," she said, moving off. "I'll remember."

"Sure," I said, knowing that she would forget. They staggered off for a hundred yards or so before finally sitting down in the soccer field and I forgot they existed. I found myself with my arm around a girl with braces.

"So-and-so hit on me earlier," she said.

"So-and-so is a slut," I said.

"You're right," she laughed, "he is a slut!"

"I'm a slut too," I said, and then we were lip-locked.

"I have a girlfriend," she said when we came apart.

"Who's your girlfriend?"

"She isn't here..."

Since she was still kissing me I was sure we could work something out.

Then I felt a hand on my arm. I looked up to see the BHM, a very large boy a year below me, come to save the damsel from my clutches. He wasn't letting go, so I sighed and then smiled and released my prize.

"Ok, I'll let you go because you have a girlfriend," I said. "M.'s right there--go dance with her."

The BHM was turning me towards him. He was blurry from the Keystone Light, and I whined something about not having had a girl in years. He said that wasn't the issue, put my arm on his shoulder, and began to French me.

Oh, I thought. How long has he been like this?

* * *

Part two will be posted later.

Related:

◆ The Who's Who of Stuffies

So I'm Moving

It's nice accommodations: a room of my own with internet access. It's white. It's not too small. There's a place to do laundry downstairs.

I am pissed.

I am not moving outside of my little tiny town. I'm still in Littletown, USA, just in a different part.

Well, says Q., at least this will galvanize you into working "every waking moment" to find something better.

Why do such eminently reasonable things always give me the urge to yell "FUCK YOU!" down the phone, no matter the cost of it later?

"Hmmm," the doctor said.

He told me I either had strep throat or mono. He had swabbed out the back of my throat--so sore that it was too painful to for me to sneeze, much less swallow--and put it in the test solution. But the test was refusing to change colors. He told me to go home, get lots of rest, drink fluids, and not partake of any sports because if it really was mono, my spleen might be swollen and any kind of jarring might cause it to burst.

"Oh," I said.

When I told Cee about it later that night, he had a different diagnosis:

CEE: $5 dollars says its not an infection, you just have a kebab skewer stuck in your throat

ME: hmm. he shone a light down there. think he would have noticed

CEE: hmm, maybe looking into your mouth was like looking into the abyss... he got scared and made up a diagnosis

ME: the throat of cuthulhu

CEE: just a little tiny portal to hell
CEE: just enough to stick your finger in
CEE: so never be bulimic
CEE: you'd release the apocalypse

It's A Small World After All

When you have a rare fetish, you often wonder how many other people share your interests. Are there only a few dozen, or maybe uncounted millions, just waiting for you to stumble upon the right keyword or underground club?

MOLLY REN: bet you'll make the elastic snap soon with an appetite like yours

Bloated Belly Boy: Well, it's not just my belly stretching it

MOLLY REN: yes I bet you can hardly keep it in. maybe you could slip them off, reach around that swollen gut of yours and give it a pull or two

Bloated Belly Boy: mmm, sounds good to me

MOLLY REN: just shut your eyes and imagine a plump girl like me reaching around to massage that big hog's belly

Bloated Belly Boy: Oh god, that would be heaven

MOLLY REN: have to use both hands

When Bloated Belly Boy (or BBB for short) messaged me on Myspace, we wasted no time getting hot and heavy. Of course, since BBB is from the UK, it was only cybersex.

Bloated Belly Boy: Mmm, I'd reach back and rub you too

MOLLY REN: you'll be too busy playing with that stiffy in your pants, because that's what I want

Bloated Belly Boy: Mmm, yes ma'am

MOLLY REN: I don't want you to stop until you come all over your huge stuffed belly

Bloated Belly Boy: How can I say no to that?

This is strange, I thought. I suppose in RL terms it would be the equivalent of picking up a stranger in a dark bar and finding out in the make out room that you both had the same rhythm. He demanded to be punished, I called him names; he told me he was "so close" and I sent him a string of saucy words designed to push him over the edge. Then suddenly he wanted to see my face.

MOLLY REN: what do you look like?

BBB: That:

The collarbones-to-navel shot that was his profile pic was replaced by a face shot. It was like pulling someone out of the bar into the light of the street lamps and realizing they were the same person you'd dated in the same bar months before.

MOLLY REN: hmmm. you know, you were on {pervy website XXX}, weren't you?

BBB: I was, crap I didn't realize it was you

Even before I showed him a face pic, he knew at once who I was.

MOLLY REN: hahahaha, of all the boys in the UK how did I not recognize you?

Bloated Belly Boy: God, who'd have thought, I can't believe I never realized it was you

MOLLY REN: i can't either. so, dear, long time no see :)

BBB, using different pics and a different handle, had IM'd me almost nightly in the "early days"--i.e. around 5 months ago--when I first began a serious search for a boy that shared my fetish. Like Alex and the Colt, he'd disappeared from the internets without a trace. But apparently it didn't mean he'd lost interest.

Bloated Belly Boy: Indeed, I had to take a hiatus, real life got in the way. But I'm back now

MOLLY REN: amazing. i was going to like send you an e-mail or something, but I thought you'd lost interest, so I didn't.

MOLLY REN: geeze, I guess this fetish really is rare, eh?

I suppose, in some way possible only on the internet, it makes sense that we would all know each other eventually. The main hangouts on the internet for (straight) stuffers and feeders are Myspace, YouTube, and the occasional fetish website. The Colt says he's talked to Bellydude500, who I also occasionally chat with. In cyberspace, the fact that the Colt lives on the western side of the US and Bellydude500 the east are immaterial. Seen like that, perhaps it's not so crazy me and BBB would run into each other's profiles again, even though we live on separate continents.

Stuffer Boy Sunday: Alex

When Alex re-appeared on IM after several weeks with no word, he told me that he was leaving next month. For Japan.

ME: fuck
ME: you wanna meet with me before you go?

ALEX: you'd want to?

ME: yeah

ALEX: i wasnt sure if you'd want to since i was leaving but id still really like to

ME: hey, it's not your fault you have to leave

ALEX: you'd be real disappointed in me right now though, i havent been working out and i gained like 10 lbs

He'd sent me pictures of himself before he disappeared, when he'd looked like this:



My mouth watered as I tried to imagine this succulent new addition to his body. It's the contrast that I crave. Just as a man wants a tiny waist to be on the same body as a pair of DD breasts, the combination of extremes pushes all my buttons.

ALEX: ive totally been gorging myself since ive been home
ALEX: i had a cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake, then mint chocolate chip ice cream cone, general tso's chicken with chicken fried rice, then 18 wings tonight and a frappucino from starbucks

Alex is a long distance runner. He has a long, hard body, and I've often imagined stroking its hard taut angles. But now there will be this little bit of softness, proof of his voracious appetite. And where there's a huge hunger for one of the sensual pleasures, there's usually a desire for the others that's just as strong...

ME: I wanna see your new body
ME: that's like my favourite fantasy, bony guys getting slightly softer

ALEX: that's kinda what happened to me, its mostly in my torso i think, you cant really tell anywhere else
ALEX: you dont think i should work out and try to get back in shape, it usually only takes me like a week

I quibbled, told him it was really his decision. I didn't want to force him into changing even more when I knew how much work it took to get his body to that level of hardness... even when the thought of him gorging himself even more had me rubbing against the chair.

But he wouldn't let up:

ALEX: why dont you tell me your opinion and ill take it into account and make a decision
ALEX: so same, lose or gain?

ME: do you get turned on being this way?
ME: or do you not like how it looks?

I know he's told me before he's had fantasies about gaining weight. He's told me that he wouldn't even mind if it slowed him down a little, even though he's used to leaving all the other boys in the dust.

ALEX: im okay with it either way as far as looks, its not exactly like i have anyone to impress
ALEX: your kind of like the only person i have to impress which was why i wanted your opinion because it matters

ME: I can't be the only one

ALEX: you are and im happy with that
ALEX: seriously i can go either way with it so you just have to let me know, dont be shy you can be honest

ME: hmmm
ME: can I see a pic?
ME: then maybe I could decide

its your lucky day, he wrote. His camera phone was working.




ME: you can't get rid of it until we get to cuddle

ALEX: wow im kinda surprised, i thought you liked me better the other way but that's cool you changed

ME: i was interested
ME: because I, um, have never been with a dude with abs
ME: but the fetish gets me every time
ME: tummies rule
ME: especially on boys

ALEX: haha that's true
ALEX: okay so now just to be sure, stay the same, gain or lose?

ME: I think stay the same

ALEX: okay sounds good


So he's keeping his body this way. For me.

It's the way a sub might wear a collar for their dom, I suppose. Only it's not like that at all. Collars can be taken off, marks made on the flesh from bites or a cane will heal. Instead he's changed the very form of his body into what both of us most desire.

Yellow, Black, and Red

His skin is yellow--not with jaundice, but the color of caution tape. His eyes were pits of black. The colors are stark, but also smudgy, murky... what was that red stuff on the carpet, by his hand?

MOLLY: My, you are gothy. There was an unreadable red design splashed across his chest.

CEE: It's a Gorillaz shirt, dammit!

I smile. I can see the reflection of myself in the little box below the list of Yahoo contacts, the comforter pulled up around my shoulders. I'm lying in bed with my favorite sex toy: the laptop. I only wish Cee's webcam quality was better: he looks more like a photograph that's been run through the dorkier filters of Photoshop than my own interactive fetish toy.

Cee is a boy I met when I placed an add for stuffer boy pics on Myspace--proof that whenever I do something pervy it leads to something good. He's from the UK and describes himself as a "gentleman", though he has awfully long hair. He wanted to talk to me because he was curious about the pleasures I portrayed, and wanted to explore them by IMing a curvy girl, even one that's across the ocean.

MOLLY: Ready to start?

CEE: Cigarette first.

The smoke is a white blur in front of his face. He's often stopped to smoke during our talks--we've spoken about everything from communism to what it means to have a fetish-- but this time it's a torment.

*

Not an hour before I'd been fully dressed, sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by my housemates. Then that little "pop!" that announces a new IM conversation--Cee, as usual. He had something--I forget what it was, the UK version of Tang. And he wanted to try stuffing with it.

But I have to go to bed, I told him. And anyway, it's no fun if I can't see you and it's just text.

I have a webcam, he said.

Well, I said, that changes everything!

*

On my computer screen Cee takes off his shirt. Though the colors are unnatural, the outline of his body is clear.

CEE (looking down at his chest): Eeek.

MOLLY: What?

CEE: Man boobs.

They're not the hanging breasts seen on overweight men but little tips--"mosquito bites." The nipples are large, black against the yellow skin. I get a glimpse of his curving side.

MOLLY: Wow

CEE: What?

MOLLY: Nice waist.

A good start, he writes.

He may mean the fact of my praise. Or he may be referring to the way his now-flat belly will look when it's round and full, I can't say.

How many boys have done this for you? he asks.

Two, I wrote, counting yourself, and was astounded at my own count, as if I had expected more.

I had begun to have a presence on the web through my erotica and blogging, but the only one I had really seen do it--and by "do it", I mean stuff themselves--was the Colt. All other times it had been the results in pictures, or a pre-filmed video of the boy from collarbones to just above the waist.

And this was to be Cee's first time--he had never before stuffed himself.

I was like someone who had only seen porn when it came to having sex, only seen the photo of couples embracing, not the act. I had only seen the ejaculation, not the touches and whispered fantasies that led up to it. These late night talks--through text and live webcams--were as close I had been able to get to making the fantasy reality.

I watched Cee lift what looked like a plastic measuring cup to his lips. God, he wrote, I'm nervous already and it's only a frickin' liter.

Then he drank it down.

All his nervousness vanished as he stood up, blotting out all but waist to collarbones, and demanded to know if I could see an immediate change in his body. I told him that honestly, no, I couldn't.

He mixed another one and within seconds had drunk it down. His stomach began to puff out a little, a very slight bulge on his slight tummy.

CEE: I think I could squeeze a third in there

CEE: but not now.

Let it go down, I wrote, soothing him. Let your body adjust.

I watched him, sitting down with his adorable little tummy pushing out slightly over his belt. He was full--trying to ease himself, he lay half on his side, supporting himself on one elbow. It was almost a cheesecake pose. Though I couldn't see his face he could see mine--he pinched his side, knowing the showing off of his soft flesh would excite me.

MOLLY: Tease!

The bad camera quality made it difficult to tell, as always, but I thought he looked quite pleased with himself. It was as if the satisfaction he felt--the warm glow of having a full tummy--spread out to me through looking at him. It started a tickling in my own tummy, and I rubbed it a little against the mattress.

Then his camera messed up. It went black, divided up into colored lines like a television set, and finally went off altogether. He fiddled with it for a while (or so he wrote) but was unable to bring it back.

MOLLY: Darn.

It DOES all sound the same!

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, baby, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god..."

squeak squeak squeak squeak squeaksqueaksuqeaksqueaksqueek

"Ah... ah... ah... ah... AH... AH... AH... AH..."

Janie (one of my 5 housemates) has a boyfriend. The question as to whether or not they are having sex is now put to rest.

I am laying here in my room with the fucking gorgeous four poster bed--the room I'm "borrowing" until my 6th housemate A. returns. What will be *my* bed for the rest of the summer has arrived and was set up about a week ago in the room next door. Jaine and her boyfriend are christening the bed before I've even slept in it.

Now she's hyperventilating in tune with a series of slapping sounds--he must be riding her doggy style. Her rhythmic gasps mesh with the rhythmic squeaking of the bed: "ah-squeak-ah-squeak-ah-squeak".

I find myself wondering (as I'm sure everybody does when they hear someone fucking in the next room) is that what I sound like? They're fitting all the stereotypes: "Oh baby, oh yeah, oh god..." If it wasn't for the fact that I recognized their voices I'd think they were watching a porn video.

I wonder what it will be like to sleep in that bed when my housemate returns and I have to move back into that room.

"oh my god, oh my god... ah...ah...ah...ah, ah, ah, ah, ah.... oh my god... mmm-mmm... oh my god..."

Both of them just gave a loud moan at the same time.

The squeaking has stopped.

Permission Granted

"Hey," said Avril as she climbed the stairs to her room, "So-And-So's coming over to see me tonight.

Since So-And-So was neither The Atheist nor the German boy she had met on Craigslist, I said, "Who?"

"He's a boy from school that I fuck sometimes."

"Oh." Then, after a moment's thought, "Does this mean I can start bringing boys over?" The proper ettiquete in such matters had always eluded me.

"Yes!" she yelled down at me from the second floor. "But only, like, dudes we know. So they don't steal anything."

Alexis Boone

Last night I dreamed about a boy I have only seen once.

It was a year ago. Friend of a friend, in town for a day or two. He was built like a Versache model. High cheekbones, a waist I fancied I could put my hands around. He had a long coat, motorcycle boots, a knife in his pocket. I found out later that he went traveling by way of the Orient Express.

Last night I dreamed he and a few other friends were at my house. They sat on the bed, so I had to sit too. "I can't stay awake," I told him, and lay with my face against the scratchy old comforter.

He stroked my hair.

That was the only touch. It satisfied me so deeply, to simply have my hair brushed back like that, over and over again. He didn't even talk to me, in the dream. I didn't even look at him, as beautiful as I remembered him to be. Even in my dream I closed my eyes.

It was amazing how simple a dream it was.

So I was having one of those 2am conversations...

You know the ones...

MOLLYREN: you know what you should try?

MOLLYREN: warm milk

MOLLYREN: I hear it's really easy to stuff with

MOLLYREN: and the warmth makes it easy to take more

NEWBIE: ive never tried that before but it sounds like it would work well

NEWBIE: i dont know that ive ever had warm milk now that i think about it

MOLLYREN: I haven't either actually

MOLLYREN: one of my internet friends tried it and said he could drink another whole bottle besides what he could usually

MOLLYREN: he was trying to get more capacity

NEWBIE: it does make sense that you could take more of it especially chugging it

MOLLYREN: yeah, he told me he was shotgunning warm milk!

And then it hit me: God, I love this fetish.

Chocolate Milk

MOLLY: have you always liked girls this way?

BERLIOZ: Well I really started noticing it in high school.....but I actually remember having fantasies about big women years and years ago when I was younger

MOLLY: so you knew right away

BERLIOZ: Basically I think I did

MOLLY: Took me a while to figure it out. stufferboys are a lot less visible than chubby chicks

BERLIOZ: Very true, lol

MOLLY: always had dreams about skinny guys drinking milk until their tummies bulged, though

BERLIOZ: Oh I've done that before

MOLLY: *happy daydream*

BERLIOZ: Really?

MOLLY: Can't help it

BERLIOZ: lol....well I can do a half gallon easily...then it gets fun

MOLLY: fun how?

BERLIOZ: Because thats when my belly really starts getting hard of course

MOLLY: ooh

MOLLY: ahh

BERLIOZ: In your day dream, whats your favorite part may I ask?

MOLLY: I think you just mentioned it...

MOLLY: I also like the idea of just milk, for some reason
it's such a sensual thing to drink

BERLIOZ: Very true
Thats actually the first thing I bloated with
I would go to my store on campus back at college and buy half gallons of whole milk and quarter gallons of chocolate milk...
It's an awesome feeling. All nice and tight.....feeling a small skinny tummy get bigger and bigger...it's quite intense...
What are you thinking about right now may I ask

MOLLY: stuffer boys!
drinking chocolate milk!

BERLIOZ: Like me?

MOLLY: you might be in there somewhere

MOLLY:deep in the chocolate milk guzzling orgy

BERLIOZ: Is it coming out of garden hoses into all of our mouths

MOLLY: it is now

Molly Loves... Desire Unbound

In a nonstalgic moment I took down my big book of Surrealist porn from the top shelf and flipped through it. So many old and wonderful things in here: Man Ray's photo of Barbette Dressing, Max Ernst's erotic collages and The Story of the Eye.

The book also has crazy wide margins. I used to write in it, like a journal:

All the signs are there: the scattered clothes, shed in luxurious heaps to the floor; the shed jewelry making tantalyzing tips as it loops, thrown down... the smell of aloe cream, rum [cake] & lavender...



The desire is there, at times so strong that in anticipation I will shed all these things and then turn to the bed, faintly surprised there is nobody.

Once and For All

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Russians

He calls me "doll" and "kitten"

I was looking at him, trying to re-aquaint myself with him. He was wearing a button-down blue shirt, tucked into black jeans, and worn-to-grey sneakers. He had a different camera. We stood in the doorway and on the stairwell, talking to my friend Elaine. Did his belly stick out now or had it always looked like that?

Elaine said she had to go get something, but would return to talk to us. He said we would still be here when she came back.

When she was gone he said, "Just be patient."

"You're mean," I said.

He said he liked my dress. "It makes your face look very white."

We managed to talk a little about cameras, and I asked him about his new one, how it worked. I was twisting my hair, talking, and he snapped a few pictures of me and said, "That's how it works."

I remember we were there for a long time. Elaine didn't come back, we finally went upstairs and found her in my hallway, talking with another girl. We joined them and talked even more until Elaine said she was going to lunch. We'd come later, he said, he needed to lock his camera and his laptop in my room so that he could hang out without fear of it getting stolen. Elaine bid us goodbye and went off with her friend.

* * *

He shut the door to my bedroom. "Now you have me all to yourself," he said, soothingly.

He said, "How are you?" as if we were meeting for the first time even though he had been here for hours, and his voice had changed, he meant it to me personally.

"I might just stay here tonight," he said, "would that be OK with you?"

"Oh," I said, loading my voice with sarcasm, "that would be so horrible." I had turned to the bed as I spoke, and smoothed out the covers.

He said, "Well, it's polite to ask."

I sat on the bed, facing him. He said, "Can I sit on your lap?"

No one had ever sat on my lap before. I was thinking we would kiss first, that it would be like before, where we would kiss standing up then copulate at once, but he came and sat on my lap, straddling my legs and putting his full warm weight on them, and I embraced him, pressing my cheek and breasts against his chest. I pressed the thin starched cloth of his shirt against his back, under my crossed arms.

"What are you going to do first?"

I unbuttoned his shirt and tongued his nipples.

"Cute," he said.

* * *
We were fucking. I was on top for the first time, and I liked it. He wanted to know where he should cum--on my breasts?

I told him that if he wanted to be a real bastard he could cum on my face, "like the Russians do."

"Do the Russians do this?" he said, twisting my nipple.

"Oh," I said.

He said, "You aren't answering--do Russian soliders do this?"

"No," I said.

He said, "Do you like that, little slut?"

He made "slut" into the sweetest word I had ever heard.

You're My Favorite Motherfucker

Jaime is a stereotypical geek, and a self-described asshole. He has a penchant for Eggo waffles with ice cream atop them, a description that makes me shudder every time I think of it. He has a penchant for online games and is currently unemployed in another state. We met on a website for people with... unusual interests.

He's also the only softie I've ever been attracted to.

He looks even better on webcam, for his hair--like mine--looks pure blonde in the weird filtering that goes on between broadband. Out of the depths of his nerdiness he can somehow conjure an outrageously sexy look that seems to sum up all the wickedness in his black heart--a gaze that never fails to make me horny.

We came together through writing. I told him that I kept a journal, and, naturally, he wanted to see the bits about himself. Somehow, wanting to trust, I let him convince me.

It was a scathing entry, with his every flaw, every bad habit, on display. Too much.

He wrote back that it was funny, and true. He decided that I knew more about life than he did, wanted me to show him things. After that we seemed to be bound together--he began making comparisons between us, called me his stepsister.

We're both needy, I told him.

His personality is an odd mix of daring and complete weakness. I've conversed with him on webcam, watching him drink alternately from two water bottles, one of them containing straight vodka, the other water (he never mixes). Eventually he will excuse himself to the bathroom that I can see in the background. He will return to announce that he has just thrown up, and we will keep talking.

In short, Jaime is a disaster trembling on the edge of either getting worse or improving. At the moment, it is partially held in check by his poverty and the isolation of the rural area in which he lives. Since he has a wit and a command of language equalling my own, we have both agreed that he has enormous potential.

He just needs, erm, guidance.

We IM a lot:

JAIME: Ah, Look who it is
The only person who talks sense
Good to see you

MOLLY: the only?

JAIME: well, my mentor is in crisis I believe, and is rarely here
so her council is missing
and my girlfriend.. makes no sense whatsoever

For Jaime, drama makes the world go around. I listen to him, introduce him to bands like Snake River Conspiracy, and take a stab at showing him better ways to live. He counters with videos of Princess Leia bellydancing--for if there's one thing we can meet over, it's appreciation of pretty women in all different sizes.

After a month or so of this talk, we wanted to meet to end our prospective dry spells. We talked of signs and he bought Magnums. After hanging out for a week--a whirlwind tour of New York that involved a blur of burlesque shows, the loss of my credit card and Jaime throwing up on my host's couch--no signs had appeared. The Magnums remained sealed in their box.

During our first meetings he had unvoiced a disappointment in my complexion and the size of my belly. The sign, then, I said bitterly, would be when I became prettier and he managed to grow up.

But we are both perverts. So we still talk. He calls me "Wench" and "Brienne of Tarth". I call him The Valiant Bastard. He posts sexy pictures of himself on the pervy dating website where we first became acquainted, and I leave him private entires on my Livejournal, to which we both have access. It serves as a support for him, an outlet for his intellectual ranging, and for me an outlet where I can talk about all my perverted desires. It works.

For now.