Job Search

I have a new housemate, a Celtic she. The entire household is being reshuffled as people come back to school and people like me, who've already graduated, move out. My room--with it's awesome bed and adjacent shower (I never did get to have an orgy in it)--will be taken over by yet another girl who I recently learned would be none too pleased to have me as a roommate. Thus this hurried move.

So I'm simultaneously looking for jobs and housing on my laptop when the Celt comes into the kitchen to make breakfast. She wants to know why I was trying to look for a house in Bigtown when I already reviewed a place in Littletown that was satisfactory. I say I'm trying to get a job in Bigtown anyway. Which, somehow or other, moves to her ask what I most enjoyed doing.

More than anything in the world I enjoy coaxing skinny boys to overeat until their tummies bulge out and they become helpless. "They don't pay you for the stuff I like to do," I say at last.

Which eads to another question from her. I almost want to tell her I want to be a dominatrix or something and finally come to my own rescue by telling her I'm writing a novel.

"What's it about?"

"Oh, the usual," I say, still trying to find a house in Bigtown and watching the chances evaporate before my eyes. "Famous singers, beautiful women, a love triangle. The whole nine yards."

BBW Monday: Breaking News

All photos: creaturetheatre's Superhero Set on Flikr

Max and I went to go see The Dark Knight yesterday; everyone and their cat has blogged about it already, but as I settled back and watched the Watchmen trailer unfold I found myself grinning.

"Yes, we were crazy, we were kinky...all those things that people say..."*

Yeah, he'd pegged us: but good. Everyone knows Catwoman is a dominatrix with ears; Mr. Wayne's very expensive garage isn't that much different from some descriptions I've read of the cybergeek who goes out at night dressed in black rubber. When I had shown the Colt my latest stuffer story, how Mr. Six was fabulosly wealthy, spent his time with fetishy beauties and tore up the night in a black car, he had exclaimed: He sounds like a superhero!



This is what we all want (minus the risk of sudden death): to make our own strange, creepy, sexy worlds with all the passion of a movie director. Only we live it, refusing to see the boundary of what most people think of as "fantasy"... we do it every day in our own bedrooms, with handcuffs and riding crops and Mentos and bottles of soda... we turn ourselves into creatures out of dream.



Thoughts of the Colt, his thigh-highs and fishnets hidden beneath his suit, of the bulging and stretching of the human body, Rorschach's mask shoved up over his lips and delicate garters all blended and buzzed in the back of my mind as the knife play and explosions danced across the screen; I subtly shifted my weight, pressing my freshly shaved pussy against the seams of my skirt, pressing it into the seat.

When the lights went up tho, I exclaimed to Max, "So Batman is Jesus now?!"

He laughed. We went out and while I waited for him to finish up in the bathroom I began idly texting, my fingers framing cheerful messages to boys I never expected an answer from: the Roman, the Colt. Two weeks and counting since his last text message...

We were waiting for the bus when my phone throbbed in my hand.

Omgoodness thank you for messaging me! I had my new car stolen up in [state halfway across the country] and lost a lot of my stuff :< I hate it here!

"Oh my god!" I yelled.

Max: "What is it?"

"It's this... boy... I know..." My stuffer boy, who I've yet to meet in the flesh. "I haven't heard from him in a while."

"The UK boy?"

"No, another one..."

Cyberslut.

The whole time my fingers were moving: Do you have any idea how worried I've been?!

I could guess :<

My wayward Colt had returned. Was I happy? I didn't know.

_________________
*A quote from Watchmen, of course.

"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

Max is Leaving

I haven't written much about Max on this blog. I hoped I'd have all summer to do it, but I don't--just until the end of this month. Then he's leaving for the West Coast.

I am really unhappy about this. He's leaving, pretty much, because he and Quin can't get along. I don't know what happened--something got started on the night of the drunk garden party, I think, and it just never got better. Now Quin is talking about how he's indifferent to Max and how Max is like an inscritable void to him, how he can't understand him at all... and that he wants to throw a pizza party when he leaves.

I don't get any of this, which is why I'm up in my room, writing. Which is why I didn't find out Max was leaving until tonight, from Quin: because for the past few weeks I've been up in my room, writing.

I really am going to miss Max. He freaked me out when I first met him, but then I liked him. He had the same kind of slightly sneering, prank-playing, whip-smart outlook as Jaime--only he did things that Jaime never did, like bring me slices of avocado when he learned that it was both our favourite thing. It was like having a slightly annoying older brother--someone you were frustrated by because he always got the last word in, but I always knew was nothing malicious in him underneath all the layers and layers of laughing ironical jokes where he would pretend to be a chavenist or raceist or a conservative Catholic when he was really none of these things. We had a pillow fight just last night, poking and teasing one another like two siblings.

Maybe Quin just didn't get the joke.

Maybe I didn't get it either--whenever I hear any kind of opposite opinion on someone I like, it makes me stop, re-evaluate them. Which is good. But I've made mistakes often enough that I always wonder if I was just fooled into not seeing who they really are, rather than giving them the benefit of the doubt...no matter what I've seen with my own eyes.

Capitol Pride + Baywords is FAIL part II

I just came back from Capitol Pride... my second Pride ever, by the way... and we got yelled at by a sterotypical religious fundamentalist who may or may not be famous, I danced with the saddest butch, and Max and I bickered and got lost and nearly died of heat exhaustion and still came out of it like brother and sister (albeit very snarky ones) with a whole pile of awesome gay swag.

In short, I have SO MANY stories to tell you.

And my Baywords blog is still broken.

Every link to another page I have created sends you to a page reading "No input file specified", making it virtually unreadable. I've sent Piratebay numerous e-mails (though not the one-every-three-hours method approved by my editior at the small, independant newspaper where I work. That's the method you use "when you don't trust them." I mean, they are pirates...)

What to do?

I have not-quite-right blogs scattered over the internets by now... a defunct LJ, now used by Jaime to comment on my new LJ... my old Blogger blog, abandoned for Baywords... this LJ, created especially for my perverted self... and the now broken Baywords blog.

The old Blogger blog, called "Molly Loves", might be able to be resuscitated. Heck, I only left because of an old Violet Blue reccomendation, and lots of other sex bloggers don't seem to have a problem with it. I could give it a facelift, transfer all my new entries, and be ready to sign up for the Sugasm by next week.

But Blogger doesn't have all these nifty features, like making your own pages where you can put vital information (like how to submit a stuffer boy photo). For that I'd have to go to Wordpress.

What do you guys think? Should I give the old Blogger a facelift and press it back into service, or play a game of cat and mouse with the Wordpress (as yet unknown to me) censorship rules?

EDIT 6/16/08: Since Wordpress' Terms of Service states a blog cannot have content that is "obscene, libelous or defamatory", guess which route I chose?