A longtime reader from Copenhagen writes me today, “It seems that you have been totally hyperactive on the blogging front lately, which is good for us stalkers, but is it good for you?”
I’ve actually been holding back. This is a personal post; skip it if you come here for the porn or machines.
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I’ve been working on a lot of top-secret projects for the past few weeks, one which will be a huge announcement, complete with a pretty major publicity campaign behind it. It’s a recognition that no one of my kind has ever received; sitting on a secret, and having meetings in officies about it for the past month has been a struggle. Not that I need to tell everyone everything all the time, but I have become such a container of secrets in almost every aspect of my life that I constantly feel either invisible, or hollow. Not sure which.
Last week I took a break from blogging, and somehow, my jobs — and you — were here when I came back. It’s true; following my blog is a bit like dating me. I go away, I pull in, I come back, reveal, dance. Emotionally I’ve been in the underworld, too — too many secrets held, my heart becoming a hard container. It’s not just being a sex blogger that I think makes people unsteady about being my lover; I tell you a lot but actually maintain a high level of privacy. But when my secret lovers leave me hungry, wanting more — am I thirsty? not sure. — I feel wildly empty, like I’m not going to make it to the next time I see them.
She hurt me. We were in a suite high above the city; she’s a wealthy power femme who doesn’t live here and we only see each other about twice a year. She flew to see me. The hotel room was breathtaking, and once inside with the door locked, her black designer gown slid off her shoulders revealing nothing underneath, save her high, high heels. She came close and smelled like chocolate; she removed my glasses and kissed me until I felt like she’d broken all my bones and put me back together again. Later, after we’d explored each other with lips and hands and tongues and toys and slaps and bites, she set to work with my (SRL) Carhart belt. She took pictures. I had bites from another lover; she was fascinated by the rings his teeth left on my skin, and documented them.
In the morning the first thing she said to me in a low whisper was, “How can anyone wake up next to you and not want to fuck you?”
Sometimes I’d rather walk alone. At the SRL 4th of July party when I stopped lighting fuses for a minute and decided to eat, I found a place where no one was but I could watch the party. I surveyed my friends and family, new strangers, and even a few people who dislike me. My ex boyfriend was there — we are now close friends — and we used to be in love, and I watched him for a minute too. I still feel like people can fall in love with me and love me for years without really knowing me at all. Bottle rockets whizzed by my head and the explosions were loud. I thought about my big, mainstream media top-secret project, I thought about the boy who holds my heart in his hands from so far away, I thought about Minx, and I thought about the strange road it took for me to get here.
When I got off the streets at nearly 18, it was really hard to figure out how to communicate with non-street people. I still sometimes give up on tableware and eat with my hands; I can’t sleep with socks on because I slept in my clothes for a little over three years, and I hide and burrow reflexively when I sleep. I felt like I had to fake it when I got a home and a job, to imitate and ape normal people as best I could so I could have friends, keep a job, maybe even be loved. It’s this sense of remove and feeling alien that makes me appreciate being desired in a way that rocks me to the core. Standing by myself in the middle of all those people on the 4th and thinking about this, I felt like I understood myself and finally started to be okay about being alone — until my friends playfully busted me for hanging out by myself at a party.
I saw two lovers last week, both who live far from San Francisco. The boy is greedy for me.
He woke up next to me, and had to fuck me. Eyes locked in the pre-dawn light, lips crushing, holding each others’ faces, pussy clenched tight on cock, I surrounded him and held him like a treasure; it doesn’t matter about the time we take, doesn’t matter about the secrets we make, when I’m with him it’s from within, I was floating, I was flying, I was dying. I cried and he kissed the tears on my eyelashes just after the sun came up.
He’s the first person I’ve ever been with who has actually read my books.
Tonight I’m going out dancing, alone. I plan on getting into trouble. I’ll take pictures and video for you.
