lounging. waking. sun shining and the day is long. whats on cl.
an adventure. why not.

opening the doors i scan. reading, wondering, curious kitty poking her head in dirty places, forbidden places, bad little girl, what are you doing...

the dc ingognito, back again. after the languid email dance that lasted a touch too long he answered another one of my webcasting lures, my ads, the invitation out of reality and into fantasy where a girl you dont know will open her cunt to your hands but not her mouth to yours, or anything..

and so again. a little dance. i knoww you, a sensual interaction, an hour, i host, what are your numbers, then.
friends visited, three deals all working toward the same time then the moment of time escaped and to my relief nothing happened, oh yes, the vassalator, how could i forget, i will tell you the story of this one and a chess game soon enough.

so dc incognito respectfully withdrew.
today im waking lounging contemplating and then like the universe heard me dc ingognito emails.
the wet wether though cool is sultry. might this be a good day to rendevou,
it might i answer how are the numbers, any change?
he says hes feeling a surge of increase,
i tell him how the surge feels to me,
good i say and ask when
now comes back and the added amount to defray costs
address confirmation leave.

the instructions: a bathrobe, and underwear, no make up, no perfume.
when should i expect him?
no answer so i get in action.

get up. shower. outfit. coffee. cig- rrrrrrrrrring (shoot.)
hello?
its me.
i pause. a deep voice. kindness in it. i wait. he continues.

i know thats not that much of a description, but it's me.
then i speak. helllo. a nervous laugh. his answering laugh comes back with relief in it.

ok so.. (my voice is smooth. theres honey in it.)
i live on the terrace level. yes. the T in the elevator. go down. same number.
sorry?
same number you just dialed. same number.

ok im com- beeeeeeeep.
i let him in and hang up, running to smoke a hit before he gets in.
a knock. i exhale. then hurry to the door and open it.

hello.
come in.

we sit down on my leather couches. hes tall. gandalf from lord of the rings. an older one. the face has drooped back over the years, the eyes have maybe seen too much, theyve grown over themselves. he is intelligent. vitality hasnt left his body in the least. a quick mind, he relaxes back, lanky and limber, and studies my bookshelf.

how interesting we've almost read many of the same books.

i always love it whenever anyone wants to start talking about books. my bookcase is full and the possibilities of the written word ive always loved wince i was very young. i used to devour books. he starts to talk about all the kings men, and then something about his job surfaces. he is obviously affected by it, theres something in his workd that touches him maybe good and bad, and i ask him about it, he speaks but i don't understand much of it. its all in code. so at this point, coffee consumed, cigarette smoked, i sit and listen, feigning interest and understanding as i contemplated what to do next to get this show moving.

im wearing black lace underwear and this kimono jacket that i got at a theatre annual yard sale. yoga pants.
logically i determine that i should start losing the clothes. so i unbuttoned my kimono jacket.

let it hang open at my tits.
i see a slight smile. hes noticed, but keeps talking.

then baseball. the stadium. hes not a baseball fan, not really a sports fan, but he runs.
ditto i say as i think how interesting that is what i think do and say, too.
i pull open the drawstring of my yoga pants. as if im not paying attention it, string up up up, untied, released.

and i say i run too
as i slowly, slip off my pants.

it could have gone one of two ways.
i could have played nervous, and had a good intellectual friend. in the real worlld, i would never walk up and have this with him. its an alternate reality here and sometmes the recognition is startling strange surreal and simply sensual all at once.

here he suggests the bedroom
i aquiece.

hands land on my body. the slow touch. its all a little cold at first. touching the inimate way takes focus and i try not to talk too much, i lie still, i flow with his hands, and grow impatient for more.

pretending / performing

who am i when i am alone? easy breazy. slow moving. languid. unrushed. relaxed. indulgent. explicitly focused on relaxing. feeding creative spaces. but also thinking. always thinking. about everything. many levels deep.

"One's thoughts on everything to absolutely no one."

yes.
this is the essense of what i am talking about.

while you say that youve lived a life of lies and deception, i would counter that i took the opposite approach. lies came so easy to me that i hated them. lies to my parents about where and what i was doing, lies about why i was late, with everything. lies mainly lived there to avoid drama, but there were so many through high school that i grew distasteful of them all and stopped it when i got to college. is that girl my girlfriend? yes mom. and then i would suffer the maelstrom of screams and guilt that would get slammed at me, one thing after another, cries of betrayal, comments designed to cut, and dagger ridden looks of disgust.

but all of this was better than getting tangled up in my own lies.

the thing about lying is that in order to preserve one, you must continue to craft others. and seriously, i have so much running through my mind that its often too much trouble to craft lies and sustain them. and my parents who knew me better than anyone, again, very morally intact people, who only ever wanted my best, who only ever cared about me, them... i decided that lying wouldnt take me anywhere. i hated being someone i wasnt, and i hated disgracing them that way.
and more often than not, they could tell anyway.

i am a sagitarrius, and the sagitarrius is always in pursuit of the truth. its a life long journey to discover and unfold truth, it is always hidden, methaphoric, evasive. in order to do so, i took the honest approach. but this isnt so much about something moral, as much as it gets into an entirely different phenomenon:

the truth, is stranger than fiction.

i have lived something of a fantastical life. some very weird interesting fascinating incarnations have taken place over the last 10 years and to try to sort it out, to organize through the people i am with around and among is rather mind consuming. it fascinates even as it confounds. ive taken truth to another plateau, i always have so many strings of exploration going that there are curtains everywhere, not because i am afraid to be seen, but because i dare people to see me and make sense of it. people are very simple, they want to organize and box things into easy to understand categories... but i am not easily boxed into anything. as soon as it seems like i am, something else comes out of my mouth that shreds that understanding to pieces. people are multi layered. there isnt one person here, there are many folds, many evolutions, many lives that we live out every day. so i simply pick from this orchard of stories, places ive been, things i have seen and divulge. this is the point that i identify with the pretender. give someone a piece of truth, and they themselves will carry it away into an infinite sea of possibilities, off spins, fantasies about what i would do if i did this or that, what i am like if ive been this or that..

but they never believe me. it is way too strange and unreal that i am and have been and done the things ive done. they think i am making it up. but the shit that i have undergone would be impossible to make up. and so another question.. do i live the life that i live because it is who i am, or is it for another reason, so that i will have the stories i have, so that i can spin the fantasies i spin, so that i can have something new to talk about, think about, or suck someone new in with?

because here is where it gets messy. heres a hint, theres a possibility, the taunting we give people to go ahead and try to figure it out, because we have all our lives tried and still can't quite, is much more intoxicating than whats underneath. then eventually you have to ask. if i never let others get close enough to see whats underneath, is there anything underneath after all?

honesty and truth confuse people. we are all trying so hard to hide that when you come across something like me, it makes no sense in the paradigm of manipulation we live out of. brutal honesty i embrace. i give it to every one in my space, and most of all to myself.

but i can only ever see myself from the inside. i can only ever see with one set of eyes, eyes that are shaded different colors from my past. i understand the nature of perception and interpretation... there is every truth in the world, so there is ultimately no real truth, only versions of it. people will always see what they want to see. i am always keenly interested in what others see in me. it has less to do with wanting to please people or being overy concerned with their opinions of me as much as it has to do with wanting to see a different version of what i see. in this i have adently trained myself to see from the outside as much as possible, to see what comes across when i separate out and look from the outside in.

i have never particularly considered myself to be a pretender. i have, however, *always* been a performer. being self aware to the extent that i am, i can see how i perform, all the time. this is what gets me sometimes.. when i was younger there were many accusations of manipulation and selfishness. these days it is not so. ive somehow learned to keep it all under wraps, ive somehow learned to be honest enough that people see this and little else. most charming when i am unconcious to it. excedingly potent there most of all, and i end up with strange versions of fascinations from people everywhere. my guy friends fall in love with me, straight women fall in fascination with me, my coworkers start to fantacise about me and i realize there is something about me that is incredibly gravitational. i also value my alone time, over the years i have learned that i need to have it to survive, all that you say here.. but it comes more from burning out on performing, from burning out on all the stories and dramatics that i weave into the course of everyday events just to keep the mundanity of life at bay, than from seeking out solitude on my own. divulgence of everything i am from the inside also brings with it a version of slight paranoia. what now that you know this or that, and how will that color the way you see and interact with me? worrying about this frustrates me and eventually i just retreat into my dark below ground playground of an apartment with books and weed, poetry and paintings, wine and cigarettes and bake for a few days, until i get sick of that and reemerge, forgetting what ive said before, on purpose. see, we are all so self absorbed that when you forget yourself, others do too. most don't even pay attention that deeply to get it, most don't try. and so, another day, another playground, another person, another dance. the nature of undulating life.

and really.. pretending loses its effectiveness after a certain point. theses greater men and greater women.. have so much more to say than most. they have seen everything from challenging their egos and acknowledging their many complexities that the truth becomes much more fodder for expressing who we are, who we've been and who we could be than anything. and that is the crux of this. there is so much to who i am, there is so much to who you are, that no one, or most no one could ever really know everything. that is the part we keep. so are we keeping it private, or are we simply not finished explaining everything? is there ever any way to ever show everything? i dont think so.

strangely enough throwing truth after truth into people faces confounds them. it is hard to make sense of it all. it all comes from who i am. and i know who i am to the extent that i understand that there is so much to show that showing pieces here or there will only bring more curiosity. the point is that a performer exists for her audience, and after a point loses touch with what the core really is. if sounding boards of other people are the only way to start to see what that audience sees, to gain feedback on what is working and what is not, then when is what i see ever quite completly real? back and forth it goes, if your opinion is the only feedback i have, then when can i ever trust myself to see things as clearly as they are? what is ever as it is with no shades of interpretation? nothing. ever. is devoid. of interpretation.

everyone. comes. with shades on.
"One's thoughts on everything to absolutely no one."

feed the world your stories, your insights, your truth, your observations, and they will swarm like flies. it is the charismatic in its true form, no? ideals, grand thoughts, exciting adventures, variety, always the promise of something more, something bigger, something deeper, something still yet untapped. you can never be quite known, quite defined, quite seen. there is so much material that you will never get through it all with one person. its a test on some level. do you see me? are you sure? how do you react, how do you engage it, how do you take it in, and what do you spit back at me for it?

at this, the audience loses its face, its definition, its identity. everyone is an audience. everyone is a new possibility for something i haven't seen yet, a version i haven't heard yet. otherwise, what have you to offer, how do you stand out, and what makes me want to come out of my little world of exciting illusions to tap into yours? very often, with most people, there is not much to discover. to see or to learn. to surrender to.

perception is reality. a dare. a sigh. a soulful look. the masks are real on some level arent they, they are simply different versions of who i am. thats what i mean by do we ever stop pretending. i believe i am real, but nothing is ever completely real. i believe what i say, but when can i trust that what i say bears nothing outside of a need for more attention? back to the many selves, back to the masks... they serve a purpose.

but who do you think you are fooling? humanity shares some basic underlying qualities. we are all the same, at the very core. we all want to love and be loved. we all want to be accepted. we are all afraid of something, and we all have lost painfully along the way. anyone with an open eye can see everything. thats what i come down to. who do you think you are fooling? they already see you. perhaps i am the only one that thinks otherwise. perhaps i am the only one that doesn't grasp this dimond in the coal of who i have been and where i am going. validation then becomes something paramount and the performer/pretender must on some level attain it to really know inside that it all lines up. this is what takes us back outside, to the masses of willing victims to these stories and swirling fabrics. to continue to live, then express, what we have seen. we need someone to respond. otherwise, the core loses meaning. its just an actor on an empty stage. no props. no costumes. no audience.

meltdown.
and the cycle continues.

timing. implementation. alone time. re-emergance and once again a dance.

getting lost in that meltdown has been something ive tripped out on many times. i know that if i could twist it all out in the right way i could lead masses. but along the way i get lost. spinning till i get dizzy and fall down, watching the sky move above, and feeling the ground move below.

i know if i could stop the spinning, and walk forward in a straight line, i could be very close to unstoppable.

i could lead armies.
and always win.

sirens

sirens.
being on this end of it, not the receiving end, i know that my milage is different than yours. i don't claim siren as my primary, internal type, but it is the way i am seen simply because of my energy. by acknowledging that energy i have gotten a better handle on it, and have accepted it far better than i have in the past. i step into the role very very easily. the men i mention in my other note, i pull out the siren for. that is what they want from me.

i don't think that sirens are all chase and no kill. let me say though that i see a lot of what you are talking about. granted they enjoy the chase a lot. ive actually forced myself to learn to like it. its actually something of a foriegn space for me, to fashion myself in a passive yet tempting way. honestly. but that is the paradox isn't it? men want a challenge, men want to work, men want to desire, AND they want to be the guiding hand. how then can i fashion myself, temper my natural aggression to cater to that? i must tempt lull and lead with an intoxicating song. i must, i don't have any other choice. and i tempt until i can determine what it is that is in front of me, and if it is worth surrendering to.

i cannot speak for other women, but in my experience, if i have a good amount of interest around, i will look for the highest qualified soul to give my body to, and hopefully nothing less. and even then, i can't allow myself to really surrender, because honestly, men don't know what they have when they have it. for the most part they are lazy and unappreciative. and if i have 5 guys behind you waiting for a chance, i don't want to waste my time with someone who isn't going to pay enough attention to me to even satiate only half heartedly, who instead sits there looking at me like im a fucker because i dont want to tug on his cock right away. what do men think of women anyway, who go straight for that? its the paradox. man chases women, so woman must constantly cultivate a certain chasability.

a siren to me is signalled by a woman who has a certain sexual ownership about her. ive gotten into it on the board, and we sorta divided sirens into two camps, the ones you speak of here, in the last few emails, and then another group that is more like the kind of siren that you told me to be a while ago, in your letter regarding my tiger: "Be a siren. Be the most amazing siren that exists. The one who can take us away and let us be us, no masks, no pretending, dare to love us that way, and not tell a soul."

i have a young friend, and she radiates sexual energy. she is 20. half puerto rican half italian, young and brilliant, chaotic and sensitive. she reminds me a lot of myself. i see a siren in her, a true siren. its a magnatism, it has so less to do with a void than with a general hunger, deep, inside. i know there is power there, fasioned and handled the right way. the outside forces sway a girl like this, she becomes ashamed of her appetite, insatiable as it is, she becomes apologetic and resentful, there are forces everywhere that tell her who to be what to do how to act what to think. and because sex is so complicated anyway, a woman here has the potential either to sink to great depths or rise to unsurpassable heights. her voracity knows no limit, her shame is non existant, her passion is completely surrendered to the right person. you are right that sirens are not faithful on the whole, and i would submit that this is because no one gets close enough to peel back the skin and touch what is underneath, what is on the inside, to quell and ease the depths of her. most are simply too weak.

but for one that could, she dreams. she sees him in the form of one man or another, she lures to look closer, she needs THAT more than anything. one who will take her over and over again, dirty, clean, wet, soft, hard, everything. in my opinion this is the greatest misunderstanding about sirens. they are searching for a match, a sex godess consuming mortals because they don't measure up. she's constantly dissappointed.

i am not saying that you don't. but i am suggesting that your evaluation of sirens is based on the variety that wears this persona like a cloak instead of those that vibrate it, from within.

cocktease.

being a cocktease.
i am positive they all see me this way. it honestly isn't intentional on my end. when it gets to that point, i dont know if my inner persian comes out or what, but i just want time to get used to the idea, the body, the hands, the mind. people all seem so ready to fuck right away. i usually am not. its not that i don't like to have sex. i like it more than anything else. but the problem is that i start thinking.

i think about the time that alex harrassed me until i said fine then fucked me for 2 minutes and had to stop, some moral dillemna that he couldnt forsee before he upped my fucking number without a proper fuck. i think about the one only one-night-stand ive ever had and how i fell sobbing after it was over, how confused he was and how i never wanted to see him again. i think about the last time i had sex and cried the entire time, but how he didn't seem to notice. i think about the fact that hard cocks are like a merry go round in my life, how men think that because its hard i owe it something and how angry that makes me. i think about how i promised myself never to have casual sex, ever again, because it leaves me so hollow. i think about how i got pregnant several years ago, and how id have a 4 year old this coming november if i hadnt aborted. i think about how sex is the only part of myself i don't give away freely, and if i can only hold on to that, at the very least, unless it really means something, then i can at least have something, something to say for myself, when or if i ever do get married, at least at least at least!

a strange sense of self preservation, for some outdated romanticism of saving myself for that one, the final one. but those in the moment seem to alway want that crude go for the gold. no one ever takes their time. they always always move fast. all for the way that i kiss. slow stages, i want.. a communion. something spiritual. evolving. a lover. but something something about me communicates differently. i think to them it says little more than "doable" then consequently "cocktease".

i was a virgin until i was 20, and so for me junior high school wasn't much like this, no. nothing like it really. a first kiss at 16.

a lifetime of dont be a slut.

there is no shortage of action for me these days. no shortage of interest. i'll be tangled up with someone new, someone beautiful and just ... there is this point where it all short circuts, and i don't know who they are, why they are touching me this way, what they want.. i wonder what they want from me, i know what they want to put in me. things move quickly. naked man in my bed. another selfish cock. resistance skyrockets. no communication..

and everything slams shut. inside and out.

where is the balance.
i just want to trust who ever it is i fuck.

but these men, the man i just met, the man in my bed, the man that wants to constantly place his hard cock in my hand, against my side, on my ass like i fucking want it there so soon, like im going to guide it into my Not waiting cunt any fucking second, i do not trust. these men who see my body and nothing past it i do not trust. so much so often, this happens that i think i am starting to forget how to. trust. anyone.

and if i do not trust you, there is no way i will let you in my mouth, in my hand or in my cunt. things will stop. it will never get past a certain point until i am either familiar enough with your mind and body or you somehow manage to make me stop thinking. no one has this kind of patience. it is much easier to just call me a cocktease.

its worse than ever now. that number means an awful lot to me and somehow at 27 ive managed to keep it single digited. the next one will cross over, the next one will be ten. something about that crossing makes me feel a little sick. something about the idea of opening myself again makes me feel sick. something about the idea of never being able to, makes me feel sick. it is all something of a constant state of torture.

the days constantly show that ive got serious walls around sex. need to make my way through them soon i know. but i am not sure how to.

once again, every time.

I am sitting here typing. Typing into floating music, carrying me euphorically far away from the unpleasantry that I experienced last nite. Cracked out on lack of sleep, at my job, my last day at this job, I am trying to make sense of it. Still. Always. Constantly.

A man. A man that wanted me, initially physically, increasingly more than that, a boy trying so hard to behave, to do everything right, to win me, to behave.

Me as usual, wanting something in between well behaved and disregarding the rules. But the truth was that he did not unlock my heart, set my body free, he made me nervous, crowded and constrained. He was overbearing in all the ways that I always hated and rebelled from with my father. He consistantly reminds me of my father. Sometimes this works in his favor. Sometimes it doesn't. Don't they say that women are always somehow looking for their fathers? He tells me not to smoke, to work out, to take care of myself. It makes me feel cared for. Then, there's a point. And at that point I am like, dude. I have already got one father. Don't need another.

And so for the third consecutive evening as I am being crushed and crunched in cave man embraces, slobering kisses that I gracefully try to evade for some sense of tact, I find myself frustrated. Here is someone who acts as though I matter. As though he cares, but still, between the cracks I see someone different. Someone off balance. Someone a little crazy. The run away kind, the this may soon turn dangerous kind, not the good kind.

So, once again here we go. Once again, another not working. Once again, every time.