Monday, November 19, 2007

Midnight Eclipse Pas de Deux


It was the dying days of a doomed dream. I had taken ballet classes since I was a young pixie, and despite being thin and flexible, despite having applied myself with all the application that my determined nature has. I was not to be.


The ballet stage is a cruel place. And while children can fill space with ease, when the time comes to dance truly dance, and won your place on stage. I was not to be.

Auditions had come and gone, and even when, often by mere lack of applicants, I had found myself on the stage, it was always in the least of roles, the back of the corps de ballet, and expected to do the least. I cold do the steps, at best, with a roteworthy machineship of the natural born grade grubber. I could not, in such a place, befriend the teacher, let my eyes glow and transport him or her to glorious dreams for me. Instead, I was, and this was at my best, an enthusiast whose best hope was to stand outside the door selling brick a brack to support the more worthy and more truly artistic souls who would appear on stage.

So this was that moment. I was 17, and this was, in the words of a song I played a thousand times, my very last chance.

I was on the class floor, it was grotto of light wood, and smelled of layers of water, sweat and frozen rosin, that held lost dreams like droplets of amber. The mirrors stared at each other across the floor, reflecting each other into a thousand eyes a thousand. It was, by the standards of when I ought to be home, late. Every night I stayed as late as could be allowed, generally under the eye of a teacher, who was filling out cards, or doing some paperwork associated with the school.

Every night I worked on fundamental things. I did not practice steps for the audition, because I feared doing them wrong a dozen times and having to unlearn them. Instead it was basic stretches, the barre and simple physical recitations of the basic positions that I placed my faith in. I have always placed my faith in technique, because, I know, I did not have the artistry to be more than that. It is a disease, a syndrome with me.

I was split on the floor, my arms in a round circle, sweeping over and over, nearly brushing the floor with a delicate turn of wrist. I could have brushed the edge of my fingers against the floor, and in truth, with each time tried to come so close as to feel the drag of air between my fingers and the floor.

One and two and three and four and.
One and two and three and four and.
And again two and three and four and.

So maketh the moments of my wretchedness. I felt a burning pull along my inner thigh, I felt a stretching of my pelvis. And I did not allow myself to think of being on stage. I could not let my self think of costume, or lights, or tutu, or anything at all. My legwarmers and tights and frail thin undergarments were all that I could allow. The sheen of sweat that formed a third skin was all that I could focus on. I did not want to dream and let slip even a moment's concentration on the slow elucidating pain. There were tears always at the corners fo my eyes, and I looked at my figure in the mirror constantly

This was me. And me was not enough. I could see it in the mirror, my arms were not quite there, nor my torso quite right, and some how I did not fit all together. I was toned, and tight and taut and a tumble of pieces that did not fit together.

I stared at her in the mirror, who was with me stretching. Her face was so clearly nearly on the verge of frustration, she could not make her limbs fall such into place. But there we were, this companion and I.

On the bends back I looked up at the naked incandescent lights, set in conical tin fixtures, hanging down from a high ceiling. This room was atop a gym, the ballet school renting it from the private school that housed it. There were from time to time stepping echoes, and I could see those echoes bounce with insect enervation of the white ceiling with its scabs of pealing paint, and hit my eyes. I bent back one final time, and then heard a clanging ring of the black, rectangular, plastic phone, with its old rotary dialer that would only call into the building, and which had a number given out to parents as a way of summoning offspring to waiting cars, or other, more lumbering, forms of conveyance. The windows had that chicken wire class, and were set into high dormers with triangular tops. The ceiling's middle crease formed a sharp point.

This room was my church, and for so many years I had been in it, or others like it, praying to the muses of all the arts, from every ancient world into now, with whatever my past lives had done or allowed to not be done, as the karmic offering on this alter of sacrifice. I say alter, because I wished to be a butterfly and spread my wings, a swan from grey to purest white.

I swept the floor again once more, heard the endless tape on the music box, which repeated the same loop over and over again. I had grown to worship the clacks of changing direction as signs of my devotion. A rosary of sorts.

The clanging came again, I rolled sideways from my split, and then around to seated on the floor, and then, without touching hands to the wooden slats, rolled up to standing. My tights pulled across my chest and I walked flatfooted in my floor shoes over to it. There was a distant voice that was my ma. She told me I had another hour before she could make it. I listened, bade her farewell, and knew that I was done for the night.


I surveyed the lack of wood, and the forest of reflections, saw my black clad figure standing there, with smooth curves that were barely sketched. I was impossibly thin, and hated myself. I had given up the burgeoning roundness of my peers, who compared cup sizes with nervous giggles, or flaunted dresses that showed as much cleavage, and sometimes more, as they had. I could have been mistaken for a girl still not ripe to adulthood. Except I could not, I stood, walked and looked the wrong way. There standing weight on one foot next to the phone, my stance was more dancer like than any I could attain on stage or in practice.

I looked at the far wall, with its dark green metal door, and reddish exit sign over it, the handle to escape a fire bent in from some forgotten mishap, black iron extra barre's leaning against the sides of the alcove that it was set in, and then to the mirrors again. She was finished too.

This evening I was party to a minor crime. The young teacher who was supposed to be there was not, and she had given me a copy of the keys. Her excuse had been the kind that a person just barely an adult gives when still unsure of that role, saying more than an adult would, but less than a fellow student, and enough to know that she should not have been absent. Of course, I assumed it was sex, but would later learn it was that she was behind on her rent and was working an extra job waitressing. She was caught that next year, but not disciplined, because the head teacher had done much much worse in her younger days. This the head teacher had told us, her features gaunt with vampiric age, in a tea and cookies gathering after the Nutcracker of the year before. We had been in her house, and in her small sitting room on the second floor, surrounded by plush furniture and seated with a giggly solemnity on her blue oriental carpets. There she had warned us that dancers live by their bodies, and once upon a time, she had been forced to sell hers. I didn't ever find out what she meant, only that she regarded it as a great sacrifice for her art.

I picked up my dance bag from the corner, and was startled to hear, quite softly, coming from the teacher's private practice room, music still. But I did not have the desire to check who it was, lest it be clear that I was leaving with a blasé disregard for needing someone to unlock the door and let me out.

From there I navigated down the dark green stairway, with the black rubber diamond impressed steps, set at very tiny increments. There was only one light, and I startled again at the bottom, because I thought I heard a click and the music stopping.

I had a tell tale heart moment as I fished for the keys, unhooked them from a ring on the inside of my pink hello kitty dance bag… yes I had the umbrella and the coat, though the coat had long since been given away… and drew them up with an exaggerated exactness, and with perfect aim slide them into the slit. I turned the keys with an unyielding pressure, and the deadbolt lock slipped open from the other side. I clicked off the light switches that controlled the main teaching room, and there was a gauzy not seeing in front of my eyes.

I slipped open, straining to hear the comforting sounds of the bad pianistic rendering of Ci Darem la Mano, but could to hear anything but the shifting bang of vents from the heating. The temperature was warm, and I half thought to turn the thermostat down, but knew that it was now the responsibility of who ever had the light that shown like a rim around the teacher's door.

I walked to the showers, there being only one set here, as opposed to the locker rooms below where they were safely ensconced.


In that white tiled room, with its small windows, I undressed hurriedly, rolling down my leg warmers, pulling off everything. I was afraid, so afraid, but I could not bear the weight on my skin another moment. The tight tile of the walls induced a kind of vertigo. I reached out, turned a knob, and stood aside as the water spat out. That first burst would be cold, but now, on a night without a sporting event, it would be warm quickly enough. When the steam began to rise from the falling stream, it was time to twist the chrome knob, flecked with tarnish, to induce a small amount of cold water with the stream of warmth.

Under that stream I slide my body, still practicing my arm positions and trying to move with the grace that I imagined could still be reached.

It was after wetting myself down that I realized I had forgotten the soap, and stepped forward, still using floor shoe walking, pressed my palms to the wall, pulled my leg back and spun slow around to face my dance bag. It was then I startled.


There was a fellow. Male. Student. I knew him well, he was destined for something. Perhaps not ballet, or even the dance, but something. It was the quality he had that made it impossible to take your eyes off of him. From the shock of straw blond hair, to the cruel line it traced swept away from his forehead, to the wide doe like blue green eyes, to the aquiline nose, to the flowering rose pink of his lips, to the setting of his jaw that traced just so a "V" that was sharp enough but not too sharp, to his neck that was slightly too thin for his head, to the perfect contours of his shoulders, to the flatness of his chest and purity of his abdomen, down to his very large and powerful thighs and legs.

Of course, this being of that age, he was sniggered as being homosexual, even though he always had a girlfriend if he wanted it. Adonis was a word that was coined to stamp his face on it, and he was both a gentleman, and rich with a love of purely beautiful things, and a mind that was a parade of sublime terrible hopes of other worlds far beyond suburbia.

He was completely naked, having carelessly and casually shed his clothes and dropped them on his dance bag before turning inward.

He now stared at my eyes.

I stepped back, my buns hitting the tile wall, and bending. The wall was not particularly cold, but a rattle chilled upwards. My face was flush, though I am sure he could not see it. My arms formed a circle in front of me, half trying to hide my nakedness, and half still following the exercises.

He stared. And I began to stare. Stare at his mid section, and the only thing on his body that was moving save for the slight rise and fall of his chest. It twinged upwards, and then in a continuous slow lift, as if it were pressing a ballerina high into the air above his head with one arm, reached upwards like an arm. Finally it was simply a spear that pointed upwards and was just shy of his navel.

There he stood like a statue.

There I stood like a victim of a car accident.

I could not help but trading my glance between that face, so swept by a natural wind with its sunken cheek bones and ruddy flesh, and the visible sign of his being not just a male, but a man.

It was at this particular moment that I realized how inarticulate my art as teacher had been. It was not that being nude had any terror or novelty for me. I had drawn enough naked works of art, and stared at enough art books that the mere fact of a man having his sexuality thrust forward did not stir anything in me as out of the ordinary. In fact, I thought of it as the natural condition, because in reality had had a mortal terror of interaction, and had only allowed my self to absorb the sights of the human body fully in art. I would later learn to overcome this.

Nor was it his being erect. I was not, in a sort of technical way, a virgin, I had clasped my hand over men locked in firm need and throbbing readiness. I had taken them inside me, though in a clumsy way, more than once. Though each time had produced a strange disconnect.

No, it was that no story, painting, sculpture or play, not film, nor ballet, had prepared me for this. The novels that were approved of had all been soft and gushing in their descriptions of something called love, and the stories talked in a kind of cliché about


As if a woman was a cow to be pulled along by desire, her consciousness dragged along like a sack behind. Neither the gooey weepy approved version of femininity, nor the sex stories of steaming holes were, in any way that I could understand, remotely like this moment.

I stared at his eyes at this.

Since I was very small, I had wanted something, to be rushed like a wave, stared at and overwhelmed by it. I had felt this tidal heave in my chest. I had often felt the sensations of arousal. But until this moment, that, and the erotomechanics of sex, the visual cues of sexuality and maleness, and lived in different places. I had felt warm waves in my mind, I had felt my body ripple with the pulsing of muscles, the wildfire sweep of goose bumps and the shiverpulsepointpush that begins in a place in front of the hips and behind the loosening relief of pissing.

Years of art had made me know the sights. Years of ballet had made me aware of my body. Years of movies had made me eager for romance. Years of being aimed at medical school had taught me both the words and the earnest matter of factness of the human condition known as sex. But they were, like my body in the mirrors, in pieces and all angled at strange points. The ceiling and I shared that pointedness.

So the sex story girls with their faux surprise, the romantic heroines with their protestations of "I am Heathcliff!" were there and then pressed aside in my mind. For the first time, I yearned. For the first time, I could feel the stretching sense in my palms that made my figures want to stretch out. The alignment of the bright sunlight of romance, and the dark moon of desire, came then and there into alignment. Then and there the easy words of romance were blotted out. Strange shapes of darkness crowded around the peripheries of my vision, and in the center of a shifting oval was his face.

Eclipsed was my waking world of articulate expression, but burning bright was the corona of my need. And in that moment of alignment I knew, that the only language that would speak to this moment, was taught in French, but was spoken in gesture. The dance. The dance. The. The. The.

It was then also that I was intensely aware of the slight prickle that came from having shaven pubic hair, but having missed an appointment with one of the pink razors I smuggled into the house. My Ba


Again the cliché's were failing me. The romance novels talked of nothing but vague emotional rhapsodies, and the sex stories were about gallons of wetness. I was showering, of course I was wet. Instead, it was the prickliness, which I felt certain had to be imagination more than true sensation, the difficulty filling my lungs with air, the sense of my consciousness dropping down in my body.

But most of all, I was in the grip with the eclipse of alignment, that brought together my long long long wanting of something, with the sights and intense concentration on the body, and also, also also, my earnest checklist mentality of doing what was supposed to be done.


I stared. His erection was still a great spear point, and he had fallen into the stance that every romantic hero takes, legs in second, arms in fourth. Beckoning. God, such turn out.

I banged my hard hips against the tile, and spread my feet to second as well, creating a sense of exposure and I hoped invitation.


I rolled to standing, and settled into second position. I wanted him to come to me, and if my first, somewhat club inspired stance against the wall did not do it, then perhaps, I thought, this might. But I desperately wanted him to come to me. His saying of my name had put a burn to my cheeks. Both sets. I could feel not just blood, but an itch to my lips.

Both sets.

I wanted to pull myself up, and felt as if a wire drew straight through my body and pulled out the very top of my head was drawing me up. I wished, at that moment I knew more about the dance of men and women. The craving to align was so strong, I pulled on my muscles in a way that I imagined was opening myself for him.

But I did not advance. I knew that not only did I not have dance not 10, but I did not have looks anything like 10 either. No tits, no ass. And no time to see the wizard on Park and 73rd.

His lip twitched, and I could tell that he, like me, was locked.

"I don't have long."

I let myself slide under the water and let it run over my hair. But he did not even inch closer. I spread my legs wider and bent down, sweeping them against the tile floor, and then bent up.

He looked, but did not move. Nothing on him was moving.

"I'm not a virgin."

He looked at me.

"I have…"

"Is she a virgin?"


And with an edge from out of a soundtrack.

"Then you haven't had anything yet."

There was a bang of the heat going off. We didn't startle.

I pushed my hands up over my chest, I fiddled with my nipples, like they were knobs. I looked at him. He looked at me.

Then, ratcheting down, like gnome was manipulating a mechanical gear, his erection dropped step by step. First it grew smaller in my sight, as it pointed to me like a spear, and then it hung long downward, and finally the tip retreated upwards until it was, still larger than its relaxed state, but no longer more than the comb of a cock that crows, rather than the weapon of lust imagination.

He turned to face me.

"Not now."

I was left staring as he bent down and dressed. Each piece of clothing sliding back over his body and transforming him again into that distant unattainable. Had not gotten the part, I would not, when auditions came, do more than get the back of the corps.
But in that midnight eclipse, I had found alignment, and even as, in that moment, the moon slide away and lit me again with the ordinary need to be in the right place at the right time, came over me. My showering completed in double time, and I was on the back lobby chair doing homework when Ma arrived.

We would only dance once together for more than a few steps. We never would have sex, but once, once, once, before the eyes of a dozen catty fellow students, and two teachers and who knew how many parents, we would make love.

The Dance of Three

You wanted she and I, she and I.
You wanted she and I to dance the dance
to dance the dance of three.

You wanted her hands on me, her hands on me,
just to know it, just to see.
Her hadns about my bosom lush,
slowly, slowly without a rush.
Her lips on my nipples red,
with all the words of passion said.

You wanted she and I, She and I,
To dance the dance,
To dance the dance of three.

You wanted her lips on my bright pearl,
her eager tongue over softness whirl'd,
her cupped palms upon my hips,
while farther down her kisses slip.

You wanted me to take your member in my mouth,
and feel me stifle coming's shouts.
you wanted me to have my eyes grow wide,
as you ever pressed it deep inside.

And then like thief of heaven you would change,
and the whole erection rearrange,
so that between her soft thighs you would break,
and her wet desire then would take.

The desire built by pleasuring me.
You know, you know that is what you wanted free.

You wanted she and I.
She and I.
You wanted she and I to dance the dance of three.

You wanted then to take my hips,
and plunge the ring of fire that lives there,
while your mouth devoured her to make us a pair.

You wanted she and I, so much she and I
to dance the dance,
to dance.
to dance the dance of three.

Which is why I smile as she sighs,
and looks not into your eyes,
but shing forward breast to breast begins to touch,
her need so clear and now so much.

Which is why you are so astonished when she sighs,
and in that ahlted dance of three,
looks to softness and says
"Darling will you marry me?"

You wanted.
But she and I, she and I,
have finished with this dance of three.


O holy lamb, what soft prayer was heard?
What wind makes you, a glorious wave,
that crashes on my golden shores?
What rain falls, that showers your kisses on me?

I do not mistake that rolling wave that runs
from the rock that pierces the surface of my desires,
you have no idea how hard it is,
how how its roots go down into me and wrap around my depths.

Ah but it is not for you , for you, for you
but for the money that through either flew.
My rich burning is not ashamed to be,
for the money that you gave to me.

I sit and grasp my pleasure with inner grip,
while your hands from the keyboard slip,
and I pulse with desperation,
not for you r love, and mine is imitation.

Not it is the cruel whoregasm that I crave,
and silent hours that make me brave.

AH, oh dear, the time is near,
I am coming quick, bold and without fear.

It's not the stupid things you say,
nor how you rush while your wife's away.
It's vanity that makes me glow,
and that you want me enough to part with money.
This I know.

You want your aged hands on my young soft skin,
you want your real cock to invade my within
and when you can't have these wishes cold,
sudden neo-youth's desire turns very old.

You seek for my address, and real abode,
with every power of intern-nodes
calling engines of search and find...

But all you have is truly my mind.
The one that weaves these dreams for you,
taht sees your darkest wishes through
that caresses your scar'd life,
and calms the pounding inner strife.

You do not understand love of which I give,
to be in half existence here,
so that your there might live.

By giving you what your passion demands,
though we be parted by many lands,
my curves though an image of what is real,
are the only thing you need to feel.

I know you want me to be desire's slave
and chant your name in real world's days.
But you and I know it cannot be,
that is why you came here, to me.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

The Lillie Black Test

Your primary avatar:

1. Do you have a shape different from the default?
2. Do you have a skin different from the default?
3. Do you have a skin which depicts nipples/public hair/anything that would get you banned from a PG Sim if it were exposed?
4. Do you own a sex attachment (for men, a cock etc.)
5. Do you own a scripted sex attachment?
6. with a HUD?
7. Do you have multiple shapes/skins just for being nude?
8. Do you own a prim sexual attachment other than a cock?
9. Do you own piercings of erogenous zones?
10. Chains to go with them?

Your basic experience:

11. Have you SL danced on a PG pose ball with another avatar?
12. Have you SL danced with the hopes of getting SL sex?
13. Have you cruised the nude beaches hoping for SL sex?
14. Have you been to Phat Cats or other major dance hall and taken someone to another location hoping to have SL sex?
15. Have you used an SL PG, but erotic pose ball? (e.g. Kiss)
16. Have you used an attachment, such as the kiss or hug attachment with intent?
17. Have you used a multi-attachment, eg, Rendez-vous?
18. Have you had a "date" on SL?
19. Have you used a verb or word associated with sex that your spell checker does not know
20. Have you asked someone to have SL sex?

Common experiences.

21. Have you cybered (sexual acts by text) in SL?
22. Have you used a pose ball animation pair with another avatar to have SL sex?
23. Have you used a multi-animation bed as part of SL sex?
24. Have you used a sex menu on something other than a bed or couch for SL sex?
25. Have you used private voice communication (e.g. skype) as part of SL sex?
26. Have you used SL public voice to have SL sex?
27. Have you used cam as part of SL sex?
28. Had RL sexual experience with someone you met, and had SL sex with, first?
29. Had your first IM to someone be a proposition for SL sex/been propositioned on a first IM?
30. Accepted and had SL sex?

Baby kink.

31. Have you been to an orgy room/free sex room?
32. And had SL sex there?
33. Have you been to a strip club in SL?
34. And ended up publicly naked while there?
35. Been banned from a Sim because of being too sexual?
36. Had public sex in SL in an area not normally devoted to public sex?
37. In a PG Sim?
38. Have you used SL to simulate a sexual activity you would not ordinarily perform?
39. Have you then tried this activity RL?
40. Have you then made this activity part of your sexual repertoire?

Soft BDSM.

41. Have you participated in acts of restraint in SL as the person bound? (Bondage)
42. Have you participated in acts of restraint in SL as the binding person?
43. Have you participated in acts involving accepting pain in SL? (Discipline)
44. Have you participated in acts involving inflicting pain in SL?
45. Have you cruised for a partner solely for the purposes of bondage/discipline?
46. Have you offered yourself to a partner solely for the purposes of bondage/discipline?
47. Have you accepted a collar, or other form of outside of control of your avatar for the purposes of sexual or erotic experience?
48. Have you collared, or otherwise taken control of another avatar for the purposes of sexual or erotic experience?
49. Have you scripted a sex scene which required the adherence to strict rules by the other parties? (Dominance)
50. Have you accepted a heavily scripted sex scene? (Submission?)

We ain't nothin but mammals (mostly, sort of, well... give it up carbon unit, you've been assimilated.)

51. Been in an steady SL relationship
52. Rented a place specifically to have SL sex?
53. Bought land specifically to advance an ongoing SL relationship.
54. Been partnered in SL?
55. Been pregnant, had your primary partner pregnant in SL?
56. Been collared/collared another in SL?
57. Been partnered/collared more than once?
58. Proposed an RL relationship to anyone you had an SL relationship with?
59. Introduced someone to SL for the purposes of having an SL relationship with them?
60. Been divorced in SL?

SL's National Pass time.

61. Have you had SL sex with one person in SL while involved with another outside of SL?
62. Done so breaking the rules of either relationship? (Cheating)
63. Done so breaking the rules of both relationships?
64. Had SL sex with someone you knew was cheating on an RL partner?
65. Had an SL relationship breaking the rules of an existing SL relationship?
66. Had more than one such relationship simultaneously?
67. Had more than two SL sex partners in a 24 hour period?
68. Had more than five SL sex partners in a 24 hour period?
69. Begun a relationship in SL with the express purpose of cheating/convincing the other person to cheat?
70. Gone back to a relationship after promising not to?

SL's Fastest Growing Religion

71. Have you had sex with both genders in SL?
72. Have you had sex with both genders in SL simultaneously?
73. Have you played the opposite gender with the intent of passing (e.g. not merely a camper alt) in a sexual context?
74. Been hetero-gendered for an extended period of time (more than a week)?
75. Been involved in a relationship with your non-primary gender?
76. Created an avatar specifically to experiment with SL sex with your non-preferred gender?
77. Been trans-sexual in SL (body of one gender, sex organs of the other.)
78. Been hermaphroditic in SL (both sets of sex organs.)
79. Had sex as trans-sexual in SL?
80. Had sex as a hermaphrodite in SL?

The backbone of the economy, entry level.

81. Have you ever accepted Linden for dancing/companionship in SL?
82. Have you ever accepted Linden for cyber in SL?
83. Have you ever accepted Linden for vox in SL? (Voice escorting?)
84. Have you ever accepted Linden for cam based from SL?
85. Have you ever taken out an ad for escorting in SL?
86. Have you ever stripped for tips in SL?
87. Have you done so on a regular basis/been employed as a dancer who strips?
88. Have you been an escort in a club?
89. Worked arranging SL sex for others? (Madame/Pimp)
90. Provided exotic services for Linden? (any fetish, BDSM, etc.)

Soft Kink.

91. Do you own an set of fetish gear? (E.g. latex suit, heavy rubber)
92. Do you own more than 10 sets of fetish gear?
93. Have you participated in oral foot fetish?
94. Have you participated in genital foot fetish?
95. Have you participated in sex toy fetish? (E.g. strap ons)
96. Have you participated in inorganic fetish? (E.g Sex machines).
97. Taken pictures of SL sex acts you were involved in?
98. Taken machanima of SL sex acts you were involved in?
99. Posted either of these to the web?

More post-mammalian behavior. (The sex maybe fake, but everything else is pretty much real. Tanner Mills)

100. Have you ever fallen in love in SL, not as roleplay?
101. Had someone fall in love with you in SL, not as roleplay?
102. Been dumped in SL? (Been in love and had an SL relationship terminated.)
103. Dumped some one in sl? (Had them be in love with you, and terminated the sexual relationship.)
104. Dumped someone RL in favor of an SL relationship?
105. Made large changes in your sexual identity because of SL? (E.g. identifying as bisexual after having had bisexual experiences in SL.)
106. Bought a plane ticket, had a plane ticket bought for an ITF? (In The Flesh)
107. Proposed marriage to someone in SL. That is recognized in some RL jurisdiction.
108. Been proposed to?
109. Accepted?
110. Gone through with it?

The Fur Flies.

111. Have you ever had SL sex as a mostly anthropoid, but clearly not human avatar?
112. Have you ever had SL with a clearly anthropoid, but clearly not human avatar?
113. Have you ever yiffed? (had sex as/with a animal avatar, or mostly animal avatar.)
114. Yiffed with both genders?
115. Had sex as a non-human/non-animal. (E.g. Dragon)
116. Had sex with/as a tiny?
117. Had sex with/as a non-human/non-animal avatar? (E.g. robot)
118. Been double penetrated by a single avatar simultaneously. (E.g. Centaur, alien with multiple appendages.)
119. Been in a furry relationship?
120. Been in relationship where one partner was never human?

Your Avatar and Alts.

121. Have you ever participated in altrotic behavior? (SL sexual acts with an alt under your control at the time?)
122. Had sustained separate relationships as your alt and primary at the same time?
123. Had an alt expressly for the purpose of behavior you desired, but did not want associated with your primary?
124. Run alts of both genders in sexual situations within 24 hours?
125. Had an alt pass as a separate person for an extended period of time in a sexual context?
126. Transferred from a primary to an alt because the sex was better as the alt?
127. Used prims for extreme transformation? (E.g. Prim breasts of extreme size, bimbo-izing, but not furry, tiny or other non-human.)
128. Created an alt expressly to have SL sex with a particular person?
129. Revealed one of your alts for the express purpose of getting SL sex with that alt?
130. Had sex simultaneously as alt and primary? need not be in the same place.

Hard Kink
131. Participated in water sports or other play with feces?
132. Attached RL sex toys to SL command?
133. Exposed your RL to risk of discovery of SL sex practices?
134. Engaged in RL sex work as the result of an SL relationship?
135. Max penetration? (Three for human female, two for human male)
136. Been imprisoned for long periods of time, and unable to leave the keyboard.
137. Practiced extended orgasm command/denial? (I.e. unallowed to orgasm except at command. Required to orgasm as close to command as possible?)
138. Gang banged?
139. Fuck camped?
140. Been ordered to take all comers as part of D/S?

The Backbone of the economy, advanced level.
141. Is your primary SL activity in the direct sex industry?
142. Have you ever managed a club/owned a club whose purpose was SL sex?
143. Have you ever exposed your RL as part of SL sex when not required by the transaction? (Cam doesn't count here, but camming in a cyber session would.)
144. Given RL control for Linden?
145. Trained new escorts?
146. Engaged in acts unpleasant to you for Linden on a regular basis? (However you define you.)
147. Freelanced in a forbidden area?
148. Tried to work an escort for a freebie?
149. Engaged in group sex for Linden?
150. Produced permanent erotica associated with SL, for pay? (E.g. Pictures, stories etc.)

151. Do you have a safe word?
152. Do you know your hard limits?
153. Have you broken through a hard limit in SL?
154. Have you had sex with someone more than twice your age in SL?
155. Less than half your age?
156. have you been required to engage in public humiliation?
157. Have you been required to wear text or tag under someone else's control?
158. Have you been required to transform as part of a relationship? (E.g. forced feminzation, sissification, major changes to avatar. If you think it is, then it is.)
159. Have you required humiliation, transformation or tag from another as a precondition to a relationship?
160. Had a relationship expressly for acting through a major transformation?


161. have you ever engaged in sex as part of a persona that is very different from you? (However you construe you)
162. Joined a roleplay Sim that involved sex as part of roleplay? (E.g. Lost Angels).
163. Spent more than four hours straight roleplaying a single sex scene?
164. Spent more than 24 hours without leaving character?
165. Participated in violent roleplay? (E.g. Kidnap, rape.)
166. Joined a group that advertises anonymous or forced participation in violent roleplay?
167. Adopted as part of your identity roleplayed behaviors?
168. Convinced another to roleplay a persona very different from their own? (Again however the other person defines it.)
169. Have you ever been primarily in roleplay character for more than a month continuously? (Again, however you define not being you.)

Dolcett and other extremes.
181. Have you ever been dismembered as part of SL sex?
182. Have you ever been snuffed as part of SL sex?
183. Have you ever been bang banged as part of SL sex? (Killed on a spot you have set to home, and therefore immediately returned to be killable again.)
184. Have you ever dismembered another avatar as part of SL sex?
185. Have you ever snuffed another avatar as part of SL sex?
186. Have you ever accepted money for extreme activities?
187. Have you ever participated in cannibalism in SL? (Gynophagy etc.)
188. Have you ever been put in a death trap as part of a sex scene?
189. Have you ever been required to engage in SL violence against a third party as part of a sex scene, when that third party was unaware of the agreement? (Sawmetrics)
190. Performed nearly impossible acts? (E.g. Womb fucking.)


191. Have you been a pet for an extended period of time? (Been expected to provide sex access with no questions for another, but not been expected to humiliate yourself as part of the position.)
192. Have you ever owned a pet?
193. Have you ever been a slave for an extended period? (Expected to perform deference regardless of your own wishes.)
194. Owned a slave?
195. Been sold to an individual not previously known to you, and performed as a result?
196. Bought an individual not previously known to you?
197. Been part of a harem? (owned with multiple others, without having outside interests yourself.)
198. Owned a harem? (Owned multiple others, at least two had no other sexual outlets.)
199. Been to a slave/master course or courses?
200. Taught a slave master/course?


For those that believe they have no rl, then the answer to those questions is no. This many not seem "fair" but it is, there is a purity involved in not having an rl, that is reflected.

However many questions are not related to "RL" but "you," by which I mean your identity as the player controlling the avatar.

Two Hundred Questions is just enough to make me think of about another 100 that should be there. Perhaps I will revise this one with suggestions.

Friday, September 7, 2007

My love is like a dead, dead rose.
Whose skin is changed to textured lands,
worn by wind and sand.

Whose edges are singed with umber burned,
and touched by rich siena.
Whose veins are whitened with time.

Whose petals are pressed in hallowed memory,
pressed between the pages of all our eternities,
made meaning by echo'd remember'd rhymes.

This, these, those and so selected,
the fair fertility of first blush turned,
all other flowers of the field rejected,
and this, ripened silk remains,
I cast into the wind, and scatter,
missing all, missing not, missing nothing.

A garden of the past is watered by salt tears,
of all the lost hopes for splendid years.

Good-bye, und tchüss, beijos and ciao,
from out of the past and towards the now.

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

You Dumb Cunt

You Dumb Cunt.

Don't you know your hem is wrong, and that fabric is garish? Don't you know that round toes are so 2002? Can't you see that top is trashy and hangs all over like some refugee from some bad 80's movie? And that handbag... soooo don't get me started.

You Dumb Cunt.

It wasn't Satre that wrote Sinfonie Pastorale, it was Gide, and the original symphony was so not written by Mozart. And haven't you heard of Bouchard, or Tiepolo?

You Dumb Cunt.

That Chinese restaurant is terrible, and vindaloo is from India. What's with this thing you have for bad Italian wines?

You Dumb Cunt.

Couldn't you just open Architectural Digest once? Don't you know those sex tips from Cosmo are so laaaaame?

You Dumb Cunt.

You can't kid me, I know you'd never hot kiss another girl, let alone put on a show. And your thighs, that you flaunt before the world, show you have trouble taking any position but missionary. And don't tell me that cute little prop pillow has any mileage on it.

Oh my god.

Journey? Fabio? Achy Breaky Heart?

You Dumb Cunt.

Rudolph Guiliani is a Republican. Bill Richardson is a Democrat. And no, Saddam didn't have WMD. And Jefferson didn't write the Gettysburg address, while we are on the subject.

Roll. My. Eyes.

Iraq isn't in Africa. Nepal is in Asia. Ming came before Qing.

What is with you?

No one goes to Paris in the summer who wants to find food that's worth eating, and I know you've never skied the alps. The sand on that beach on Oahu is just, all, wrong.

You. Dumb. Cunt.

Alright, you have him. He can't dance and watches too much football anyway.

Saturday, September 1, 2007

Mistress Pain enters the House of Pleasure,
and all the stars align.
She is ghostly white of face,
and deepest black of skin.
She is of every age and every nation,
for all the sensations in all the kingdoms,
are each and once the same.

Mistress Pain takes her pleasure,
and the coils of it wrap the legs in agony,
and rip the senses from their place.
Wrought of bone that breaks the body,
that is gate way to new life.

Do not snear at her coming,
every baby born must pass
through rapt deformation of the very skull,
tearing and torn from mother's hips,
whose screaming cries, come from the darkest reach of torment,
into the cries of joy of the wheel turned again.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Freedom (Free) (Free) The only kind they care about.

Anyone want free sex?
Any girl for free cam?
Like my cock?
Can you help me, I want free sex, cunt.
Wanna fuck?
I never pay for sex.

I want free sex, is there a girl?
Do you have free sex?
I wanna fuck, do you wanna fuck with me?
Any girl for free?

Where are you from?
Can I have your address?
Do you like my cock?
Any girl for free sex?
(With a playdope?)
Any girl for free sex?
(And become my cumslut slave?)
Any girl for free sex?
(Of course I'm ugly, that's to see
if you really are a slut.)
I need free sex!

Are you are girl?
Will you marry me?
Say my name slut!
Join me on msn!

I'm your master, slut!
Will you be my free s
Say my name, slut!
Say! My! Name! Slut!
Free Sex Room! No Escorts!

Give me a free sample OK?
I wanna try SL sex.
Hey, you have a sexy ass!
Are they real?
Wanna fat fuck slut face?

Any girl for free sex?
Call me for free sex?
Don't you want to have fun?
You crazy bitch!

Do you so deep.
Make you feel it slut.
In your ass.
Make you feel it slut.
Fuck you so deep.
Feel it slut.
HHHH so deep.
hhhhh so deep.

Any girl want free sex?
(It's worth every linden!)
Do you so deep.
Say my name slut.
Say my name slut.
Say my name slut.
I bought you for free!
(Crazy bitch!)

You want sexy Italian male?
I'm worth a freebie.

I never pay for sex.
(Or anything else)
I don't have any Linden.
(Because I never pay for anything)
Make you feel it so deep.
How about a chocolate milkshake?
I'll give you 100L for half an hour!
You are so perfect.
(Now suck my cock you slut!)
I haven't got any Linden.
Why can't you have sex for free?
You crazy bitch!

(Who needs clothes, I have a free cock!)

You are my free slave, SLUT!
Pump you once in the ass and then in the cunt.
Pump you deep. Make you feel it.

Any girl for free sex?

Hop on the poseball.

Any girl for free sex?


The land of free!
What's wrong with you, you crazy bitch?
I want you to enjoy it.
(Because that means you are a slut!)

And they wonder why I charge.

These, my tears, fall on barren ground

These, my tears fall on barren ground.
I feel them burn from the corners of my eyes,
and stream down my cheeks.
I feel them touch and pull at my chin,
before the fall.

I seem the fall, and land,
upon the black soft wiry hair,
that grows a thicket before my sex.
They land, and for a moment,
seem to sting, but that is only
the sobs that shudder in my chest.

I am gone for want of you.
This leaving I cannot bear,
these thoughts I cannot air,
this rain of love lost I cannot share.

I cannot. These two
two words
these two words
are the only words that matter.

I paid the pain,
and grovlled in your lap,
before your cock,
both phsyical and in words.

You stuffed that condescension into me
all your boasts and brags I took,
and sheltered thee on that pedestal of my desire.

But it was foolish whoring.
I should have known.

The droplet of that first tear now crawls on my skin,
search path through my forest thicket,
and not pricks me at the crest of that
which so many men havesought to break
and batter down by their bombast.

That worship of the cock,
my face hammered down to submit.

And so often I have not,
only to do it for thee.

The burning rivulet of now sits a cusp the cliff,
my cliff that is gateway between the last fragment of public skin,
and the entrance to my inner self.

My fury at my weakness now collides with a self-loathing
a self-despair,
a self-hatred.
It is the air,
the air I cannot breath.

I cannot
these two
these two words
are all my world.

On pillows primped and propped,
I wail and wane in my confidence.
I cannot, I cannot
I am not.

And only that tingle of tear,
that now sorches my raw exposure,
makes me know that life is still alive.

I am, because that tear touches,
the door that covers the mountain
that so often has leapt up to Mohammed.
That moutnain that in me is hidden, and rises from inner sea,
like the infernos of Ha'wai'i, that rise from abyssmal depths.

I am, only because the now rage cold in me.
I am because that tear now slowly flows,
it flows over my hidden ground.

It reaches that, my entrance.
Does it, or is it only my imagining?
It must be the burning of shame, not in physical world,
but in my mind alone.
That tear must have fallen into barren ground,
by now.

And yet, I feel it still,
and all its sisters that are now a stream upon my face,
cutting a new channel.

I feel the eyes of so many upon me,
so much shame for failures past and failures yet to come.

And at my entrance that ghostly tear now falls
and smears itself to a ghastly acid dew.
How I wish that it could sear me shut,
never to open again.

These my tears, they fall
the fall is on barren ground.

Thursday, August 2, 2007

The Night of Blood and Flowers

I was born with a misfortune. My friends could all scratch the "9" from their id and carefully, oh so carefully, type in "5" or "4". There wasn't any improvement to be had from "0."

Some how that digit became a higher wall, in truth erasing two small numbers is no different from erasing one. Or so little that it should not have been. But somehow it assumed an enormity of a Long Wall between Beijing and the barbarian hoardes.

So I ignored the whole problem. It simply dropped into the dark abyss, with my ID, and my purse, into the yawing dark slit of my hand bag, zipped up and forgotten about. As with my complete lack of attention to any other appropriate prepartions for what I was about to do, it simply dropped out of my mind and into gentle journey down the languid twists and turns of denial, that river in Egypt we all spend so many of our days boating upon.

The costume was jeans and a shirt, I was, in fact, supposed to be going to study at a friends. I was, she was, and we were, just not what our parents thought. Her older sister, with a sly wink, had said that she would cover. Being college age her voice sounded "adult" and she would play "aunt" who was holding down the house. I had packed my real clothes in a bag, dumped them out my window just as it had gotten dark.

I left the door when the horn sounded, making appropriate noises of parting from my parental units and down the stairs. Clopped noisily down, they let me wear the black high risers as a harmless affectation (they never did figure out why I did bell bottoms, then so horribly out of fashion) , good for me because they took for-ev-er to lace up. I opened and slammed the door of the car, my friend started engine and the radio loudly and lurched it forward. This provided cover for me to roll the window down and open the door again slightly. The car rolled forward a dozen meters, and I popped out, grabbed the bag sitting on the clump of snow that it had landed on, and was back in the car, holding the door in place until we were out the driveway, around the block and I could slam it shut in place.

Before we were even really safely away, I was pulling out the black clothes I had selected and the big black pleated skirt with leather laces holding together the panels. I put the black rayon blouse that sort of looked like silk if you didn't look too close over my shoulders loosely, and then pulled my arms in from my pullover and rolled it up. There was a brief moment when the bra that I had shoplifted for the occasion peaked out at the world and I hastily began buttoning the blouse. The skirt was the far easier trick of putting it on and wiggling out of my jeans. By the Jersey Turnpike I was applying black lipstick, eyeshadow and rubbing in circles a whitish blush to give me that undead look.

It was 8pm, and the club started taking people at 9. We were clubbing goth, and I had decided, without deciding, that tonight I was going to go as far as I could go.

She peeled us off the right exit, and we found an abandon lot not to far away where we could straighten out all the details that were crumpled from the ride. Loli-goth was not a word we knew, but it was a word we wore. We picked "the tomb" night at the small club, because they almost never had a line. Parking the car in the only actual lot took a few minutes, and there we met, or was it encountered? I've forgotten whether it was planned, the two other friends who pulled this routine with their parents of pretending to study late, but tearing down the highway, homework already done, to club, and club goth.

We were the line, and the bouncer relented. I found a way to filter my way back, after their fake ids had passed the test. Instead, I fumbled for a moment in my bag. We both know what that meant, my friend looked back at me with glaring anger bordering on hate, because she knew what it could mean. One way way way under age could spell doom for the whole expedition. There was a grinding sound from within the club and lights played on the black door that was open a crack. Already the stale smell of old beer was out there.

I reached up and I kissed the bouncer, and nibbled on his ear. Something impelled my lips to say "I'll be back out soon." It was a slow soft coo I didn't know I had in my voice, that fluttered into his ear that was brushed by my lips as I said it. My hips were stretched up, and I was on the tip of a toe, my body leaning into his.

He ran a hand down the outside of my thigh, over the panels of the skirt. My heart settled backdown, and then I startled as he expertly poked his fingers between the laces of the panels, his finger chaffed up the inside of my thigh, a small wave of flesh before it, a taut pulling behind it, a catching feeling at the point of contact. He pressed the fingers up, and an startle hit me as he touched the ridge of flesh between my legs, and tried to swirl his fingers in a circle. There wasn't there what he thought was there, he was too far to the right. But I wiggled my hips and faked a smile that I hoped was good enough and gave him a flash of my eyes as I had seen a hundred screen heroines do.

He waved me on, pretending to have checke something, and pinched my right ass cheek as I somewhat fawnifically (meaning wobbly in that way of finding your platform legs) half stumbled into the waiting bodies of my friends. At the time I imagined that their arms reached out to embrace me or at least catch me. I think instead they were already turning to get in, and simply were grazing me, glad that I, the youngest, hadn't just messed everything up.

The door swung half closed, to be pulled open again by the people behind us, they were boys, older, but still with that gangle that clings to them for long after we have gotten all our curves in place. One had a shock of hair that had been washed and slept in recently, as if he had tried to get something done in the afternoon and taken a nap instead. One tosseled lock jutted down across his left forehead and was in the way of his eye. It was something out of anime, and I responded. He was already staring at me, and I think aware that he was staring at me. I was aware that I had let myself stare too long at him.

This was going to be the one, as simple as that, because he was going to follow me all night, or at least the hour and a bit we had before having to turn around, peel back down the road, strip the make up and deposit me at my house by the requisite 10:30. I let my eyes drink in a but of his hollowed out cheeks, his still angled jaw that had not acquired any jowels of age... my real thing then was older men, so I looked for all the signs of experience and power, and found their absence in every inch of his cheeks that didn't need shaving.

No, I am not going to tell you his race, because that is a huge part of the point of goth. We are all pale white. We all have black hair. We are all wearing the same clothes. We are all dead or hoping to be dead, even though we barely know what it means to be alive.

What I, the writer, should do now, is spend paragraphs on how I flittered about the various stations of the cross, pretending to go to the bar, the dance floor, the conversation area. You know, pacing, get you to hang on it all, set the scene. Because I know why your reading, and you know why I am writing. And that is the problem. I don't remember enough of that to write about the yellowed lampshades, the cracked black leather of the couches, the unvarnished slats of hardwood floor, the curve of the black plastic bar with cigarette burns gouged in it. It's just flashes, because all the time I was conscious of a rising dread and heat that mixed somewhere between mi diaphram and my thighs, a kind of vague mixing as if I was hungry and ready to throw up at the same time.

Until I plopped on the couch and stared across the conversation area and out towards the bar, it is all flashed pictures in my mind, mixed to the soundtrack of the music and the churning in my body.

And plopping there, I saw him trying to dance and look at me only as much as he felt comfortable with, which was a great deal more than I felt comfortable with. But he made no move towards me. He just kind of shook their lamely on the floor. His thin legs accentuated by his black jeans, his hard but still underdeveloped muscles peaking through the grill work of his top, and the calculated rips on his sides, his boots almost dragging between the moments that he suddenly jerked it up.

What I was filled with for him, is the opposite of desire. I didn't want him, didn't want to want him, and knew as sure as if I had been a fire hydrant, that I'd some how in the rules of the club, been pissed upon, and only a bigger male could take me. Problem was, it was all the passing for drinking age types, like me, who were there.

Now normally I would have been very verbal, showing off how well I passed for college freshman girl, talking about classes and papers. But tonight I was sitting there, a flower. I'd been flowered, sitting there, waiting to be nipped. My butt felt like it had grown roots to that spot. The minutes, precious minutes, clicked by.

And then nature decided to take a hand in things. There was that pressing sudden urgency. The four cokes I had downed to be up at this hour and bright eyed, having awoken at 5 am to study, had caught up to me. I got up and my walk was off kilter from trying to pull my muscles in and some how stain across... hmmm... there is a particular place, it has an antanomical name, but it is "there" and you know the there I mean when the only thing on your mind is getting to the magic door, and you know you have that pretending to be happy desperate look on your face that says "ladies room! coming thro-who!"

Of course, he was in my way.

Of course.

Oh yeah, of course. Because he took my getting up as making a move for him. Not having had the courage to come and talk to me. He thought my face was lit up for him

Dork. Dork. Dork. Dork.

There comes in every journey down denile when you hear the roaring sounds of the cataract, the heaving rumbling sounds you feel in your feet and up your legs, and in your body that reality is about to intrude upon you. You know why you are doing what you are doing. You know why you weren't being bright and talking and handing out your woodcut printed cards that look (oh) (so) (cute). It's because you've come here for the night of blood and flowers. See. Even the you still hangs there.

I came there.

I wanted finally to have something resembling sex.

It was my night of blood and flowers.

I. Not you. Ugh. See how long this hangs on? How many misdirected alleys. It wasn't the sex, but the sex. I'll get to that. Now. No more delays.

I was moving purposefully to the black square cul de sac hall that goes to "guys" "chicks" and then a turn that goes out the back or another door that is "employees only." He banged into me behind me as I stopped in front of the girls door. He was looking into my eyes as I turned. A kind of blank "now that I've caught it what do I do with it?" incomprehension. Half my being called out to be four feet through the door and into the safety of "chicks" and half wanted me to get this over with.

"I'll be right back." I forced a giggle. "I've got to do something."

Don't be nervous don't be scared. Be prepared. I retreated through the door, gave a flirtatious look backwards (when did I learn to just do that?) and let the door close.

In the dank one on toilet recess of this small black walled room, with its rust stained sink I surveyed and looked for some spot where communal agriculture wasn't about to break out any minute with the bacteria. I finally wiped the top of the toilet with the tp I brought with me (always always always have a mini roll packed in plastic! Only a guy thinks that a towel is enough to take on the gal-hax-see!).

I pulled out my diaphram and contraceptive jelly. I had pilfered one from my dad's office, easy enough, and you can get the "lube" as we called it, any place. My fingers were shaking, and enough of my mind was together to realize that I wasn't really all that wet, but wetter than I though I would be, just from raw anxiety, and he wasn't going to be ept enough to lick the stamp before sticking it, and there was no time... precious minutes... to eptify his probably virgin brain. I at least, had a dirty mind and could do the thinking for both of us. What thinking there was anyway.

I shimmie down my cotton panties. The elastic is almost out on these, but they are my most comfortable pair, that has been with me for a year of living strangely a double life of quiet grade grub, and girl looking for trouble. Down over my black and white thigh highs, down over my lace ups. Down. Gone. I shove them in my purse, because there is no wa-ay I am going to let them touch any surface here.

So I put my one boot easily up on the toilet seat, spread myself in a rather clinical way with one hand, fold the rubberesque apparatus half filled with grey jelly, slide up, twist it with the tips of my fingers, and push it back into place, I think. I'd practiced this in front of a mirror at home several times. You know, anything that is on the final. Just get up early, and your parents will think you are studying for school.

I then grab the tube again, and smear some around the rim of my opening. There is something desperate going on here. It is numbing and cold and slick only in a sticky way. The door swings open and bangs my butt. I didn't lock the door. I expected it to be another girl. I spin land gracefully, give my best "what do you think you are doing here" glare. And see him.

Wretch. Loaded, still bladder full. And there, he, is.

I don't even have time to protest, how can I with the accoutrements of being avant-sex still sitting on the toilet, before there is a lip lock. My hand is still covered with jell and I am smearing it off on the wall, acquiring dust at a rate about equal to the loss of jell. Finally his pushing me back enough to let the door slam close gets me in rage of the stack of unused tp, and I am able to grab, wrap arms to an embrace around his thin waist, and wipe with both hands. Unwrap, drop, maybe it hit the sink. I don't remember. Do they still say "ew gross!" now? We did then.

My heart is beating. It is pounding within my ears. I am pushing, half pushing, pressing, half pressing, him away. He is incredibly sweaty, he is gripping me. My nipples feel his chest, and are pressed back in like two small hard weiqi stones back into the soft firmness of my breasts. I feel a flush wave pass over my body. He is giving me a fumbling kiss. It can't be rape at this point. I want it, or at least want it over. My lips feel full, my breasts feel full. Lord ever does my bladder feel full.

I hear a zrcriptcha. Zipper, his. I'm not wearing panties, I am suddenly cold between my legs and a roar of cold sweat. My skin feels like it is a reptile leather, soft and supple, but without feeling. The combination of his mouth sucking on my neck, raising a monster hickie, his body pressed on me, the feel of his arm somewhere jutting into my oh so urgency ugh filled. Can you tell this was what I was thinking?

I finally found a solution, I sat down, my hands reflexively brushing up the back of my skirt, and I let my self pee. And pee. I looked up and him. He looked down at me.

There was a half mumbled "sorry" from him. He almost turned to go, but then his eyes stared down, and I knew he could see something, perhaps what ever of my cleavage there was to be seen. He was transfixed.

I wiped myself and stood up. This time I kissed him. I twisted my head to get the noses properly aligned. And I planted my lips on his. He grabbed my arms.


He stopped, and with that casual long armed reach back half stepped, and just latched the door without even looking.

He was back pressing into me. I kissed and kissed and hoped to float away on kisses. I wanted to have done it, but I wasn't sure I wanted to be there for it. I wasn't even clear on the moment when the head of his dick pressed on my outside. I could feel the skirt had been lifted, and it rested over his forearms, but when, actually he met me...

This is the moment that you can never describe. I had, as I've recounted, put things in myself before. And not just birth control. I'd done tampons for ballet. If the hymen is the flag of virginity, mine had long ago struck its colors. It wasn't that. It was that... Well, you can't tickle yourself, and this was a tickling. As numbe as I was from the jelly, as over charged as I was from fear. There was this rattling in my skull from side to side. Admitting that this is what I was here for, but not here for.

He was sort of flopping against my body. He managed to get a bit of himself in and out, as if he was an inch long and I was an inch deep. The stickiness produced a vague sloshing feeling. I felt the muscles on the sides of my entrace clench and then surrender and relax a bit more, I felt my insides catch against him, and still feel something that made my neck, of all places, sweat. This went on for some repetitions, maybe 15 or so, and then there was a banging on the door.

There was a voice.

My friend's voice.

"Are you OK? Lil-lian. Are you ok?"

No. I was not OK. But I didn't want to be.

There was a pop as he pulled himself out. He shoved something in my hands, a small scrap of paper, I would later know he'd written his number on it. He pulled up his pants.

"Bye cutie. Please call me. Lillian" The name he'd copped from my friend was smarmy sweet on his lips.

In the car, later. I felt stinging. There was a trace of blood on my panties when I looked down to check at the smear of now pasty white fluids. I would feel that sting for days, even though there was only that trace of blood that one time. It would be three scrubbings in hydrogen peroxide before that stain would be reduced to a slight pink floret against the white. My insides were cramped. My period would come days early. My intestine's felt curled and gurgly, and at the same time fizzy.

I never saw him, that club, or that skirt again. I packed it away, in a box, hid it in the attic. I carefully made sure the box was lost when we moved just before I left for college.

But there would never be another fumbling moment like that, because I felt myself a flower, that could bloom before the world. There was a feeling on my cheeks, and in places which I only knew the names of from pictures, that suddenly had a meaning the way "Shanghai" has a meaning when you take a boat along the curve of the Yangtze and see the old and new buildings mingled in together. It becomes a place, a place you've journeyed to and come back.

My parents knew I'd been up to something, because over the next several weeks several times transgressions that would have been laughed off, were given harsh punishments. My next exam, the doctor, who knew my father, chattered in a nervous groove. On the way back out I went to the receptionist, and said "I'd like to change doctors, I want a..." an instead I pointed at a name "I want doctor Hsieh please."

And that was that was that was that.

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

it is about everything

oh god
oh god
oh god

sometime I cannot even feign eloquence in the face of overwhelming pleasure.

oh god.

That expression, ripped from my lips by the touch of another's, where a flash rushes over my face, my skin rippling, tickling, goosebumping. A light headedness that mere alcohol could never produce. Ahha oh.

But what is it about? Why, why, why, why, why?

It isn't about the size of your cock, or your checkbook. It isn't about your toys, or the places you can take me, rl, sl or bed. It isn't about the home you talk about, the children you have, the things you want.

It's about everything dear, it is about everything. It is about how I want you to be my everything, my whole world. To get lost in your mind, lost in the things that you create, could create, can even dream of creating.

It is about everything, because when we are as one, that is what you are, I see neither sky, nor earth, nor even myself. I feel myself only as you press upon me, in me and through me.

oh god oh god how it feels with your lips suck the skin of my neck, and I can feel the welt rising, knowing that I will there be marked as yours.

oh god oh god, how I shake like an autumn leaf just ready to let go and soar into free fall. Death, so swet an embrace that death that is when I let go of all the things my mother said, and my father feared in his quiet moments. I am falling upwards, into your sky.

oh god oh god, when you have your hands on my, smooth and rough. I want them to be soft, but they are not, they are hte hands you handle the world with, and os I want you to handle me.

oh god oh god, what you do to everything, I want you to do to me. The way you take a shaft of wood, the way you do what you could. I want it to be tender, I know I should. But the force is making me giddy.

When you have your tongue on my pearl, my bright and searing diamond made of heat. How your tongue feels as if it will rip me from my body, pull me up. I want it to be soft, but like a cat you tear at me, and I shake and stammer out your name. oh god, oh god, the ripple runs up through me, and jerks my limbs like a puppet, only the strings, I feel them, I feel them within my body, torquing, torturing, taut and taunting. I am coming for the first time with you, from there, from there, from the shivering shaft that makes me suqirm and writhe.

It is like the tolling of the bell, and it tolls once, wrung from me by you.

Then you have your hard curve pressing on me, I am tight and closed and open all at once, feeling wet within and clenched without. I want you tyo be softly, but you are not, instead pressing, pressing pressing on me, as if you were pressing on every part of me, and I am surrounded by you, until all my awareness drains to that one point, were you are breaking through me.

I am stabbed. You have stabbed me. No knife can plunge in so deep and hard.

Kill me darling. Kill me. Stab me stabe me stabe me. Rape me if you can. Oh god oh god. I want to be every woman you have ever had, every will have, ever will dream of. All at once. I want to be softly your girl, warmly your wife, passionately your victim, coldly your whore, by turns on each stroke, a different woman as you turn me inside out.

Oh god oh god, I pulse and clench around you, giving your crest that deepest kiss, over and over and over again that deepest kiss that showers down upon you, my outer lips rubbed raw with your pounding.

And it is like a bell, and I come the second time. But my shame is this as my midriff clenches around oyu, and I can think of nothing but hodling you within me... I feel a shameful pressing in my inside, I want to tear away to piss out this passion. Oh god it burns and itches, oh god oh god. But I cannot bear that you might leave me.

Oh god. Oh god.

But however long you have me, I know, whether in midnight to your other, or the morning to your world of work. Or in some different moment when the tides of your boroding nature call you. I know I shall be alone, as you face that restless inner sea, from which your everything arrives and emerges.

Oh god. Oh god I hate you in that moment, and I am angry because I am so in love with everything of you.

And so in my anger I lie on my bed, and I think of you. I have stolen your shirt, it reeks of you. I wear it, and it surrounds me, you surround me, and I can smell your sweat scent rising from it. I remember vivid the touch and kisses, the stabbing shame of being so overwhelmed. My face is flush, my feet are warm, you know not what that means, my cheek is burning. And from no where and everywhere, I come again, the pleasure flooding in to my head like light and rising steam at once.

It is the bell that tolls again and again, you cannot leave me. Promise you will never leave me. Promise you will live beyond me, and let me die first, because I could not ever bear to be alone in this world without you, my everything.

Oh god oh god. I can't believe that I have become this way.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

The Inner Life of Sex:
Peripheries of Desire

I'm starting this here, because while this post isn't NC-17, it will rapidly head there.

One thing to get firmly in mind, is that every woman is different, as every man is different. Every night is different. What drives me wild one night, will hurt on another. Learning the map of a woman's desire, and learning the nuances of the evening, are the first skill of the intrepid sexual oral adventurer. In this, I think, men and women are the same. Our moons of desire have many phases and faces.

However, my experience is that there is something that is different between men and women. For a woman, it is more important to get her body to tell her mind that you are the one, than to directly try and press the matter. Many men worship size, because in their minds, they think that if they can stretch a girl out, then she won't be satisfied with less. There are girls who worship size out there, and endowment of the right fit is certainly a plus. But the size script, of the man stretching the woman out, gets it in reverse. Yes there is a very particular feeling to having a man who is just slightly larger than you can accomodate easily, but that feeling comes not because he is larger than your last lover, but because of the inner life of sex.

You see, if I don't want you to be the one, I can be tight for the next man in my life just by waiting a few weeks and doing some kagels. I know tight feels good for a man, but being tight isn't what makes sex good for a woman. Instead, being tight is a sign of the body embracing, not a sign of the body being pushed. Even rape fantasies turn on something simple: wanting it, underneath it all, wanting it.

This means that people who, rl or sl, try and simply force the issue by say, emoting or by say, just pushing ahead when it is clearly too early, aren't creating that deep need in a woman, but are, instead, coming off as ... um ... a bad cocksman, and selfish as well. I don't know where the script of "stretch her out marks her as your territory" came from, but it is simply reversed. You aren't going to win a woman by stretching her out, but instead, by wanting her to wrap herself tightly, tightly, tightly around you, hold you inside. For ever. Never letting gone, never leaving. It is that hope forever which is sweet, and tingling. Since men, I know, hope for it as well, it is only a matter of bridging that gap.

So realize that approaching the corners of erogenous zones is essential. Let me take one example, along the inner thighs, if you kiss them, and it causes my muscles to tighten, it pulls on me. Suddenly, it isn't just you, it is my body telling me "this is the one." Ask women who have conceived, many will tell you that there was a whole body experience with the man who was the potential father. Make my body pull on me, make it stretch me, make it tease me, and I will be the right size for you, or will have sex with you until it does work.

So don't just think pink, kiss and tease, so that muscles tighten, that skin becomes flush and warm. Remember that under a woman's skin is a layer of fat, and thus the skin is often cold, the sign of good insulation. A woman's body also pulls blood into the center faster. This means we are less likely to have hypothermia, but it also means that our fingers and toes often feel like ice. Muscle's rippling and skin heating, digits flexible and flush, so common and easy for a man in his prime, is a different experience for most women. When combined with erotic sensation it feels... it feels as if your spirit has broken through your skin. But often it doesn't need to be that spiritual to feel very, very good.

Don't knock it boys, more than one man has been saved by having warm feet on a cold night.

This is particularly true of those "secondary sex characteristics" that catch your eye in a swim suit. What are breasts and full hips? Well to be blunt for a moment, they are well sculpted fat. Which means that making them warm is mmmmm a good thing.

By warming the skin around the pinnacle, it makes reaching it that much more, more, more.

These sensations create a small web of details, details that all begin to sing out the same desire, and spell out the same name. And if you know how to write on the skin as a canvas, that name can be yours. So lick long up and down the spine, kiss the curves of the waist, and spiral towards the nipples. Kiss the neck, the ears, and every part where blood may come to the surface, because it is this welling up of life that starts moving the deep waters of desire that you crave so much.

Saturday, July 7, 2007

Monday, June 25, 2007

What if they gave an orgy, and nobody came?
The open scandals of sex in the undercity.

A friend of mine calls such places "The warrens of the undercity," those vast dark gathering places of people who gather in the blackness of the soul, and cry out in the emptiness. One such cluster of places are where streetwalkers congregate, looking for quick tricks to turn. The mirror of them is the orgy room. The streetwalkers cluster alone and wait for the few men willing to pay to drop out of the sky. An orgy room is where clusters of newbie men sit, with cheap cocks errect and attached, waiting for the few women willing to just fuck anonymously to drop out of the sky.

(Click on pictures for full size versions.)

If the open scandal of SL escorting is how, without males playing females and women cheating on their husbands, it would be very difficult to pay for a blow job in sl, the open scandal of orgy rooms is how few people are actually having sex. I went to 6 the other night, and in most of them only one couple was having sex at one time. The most I saw was three. The reason this is over on Raise the Red Lantern, is that I took pictures.

The first picture is from the Neva orgy room. The largest actually active one, the only ones higher on the list that night were camping farms with no, or few, actual people. Three couples were having sex at the peak. One person shouted for 45 minutes "any woman want to spend the night with an angel." He wasn't getting any. Many males tried the approach of hopping on half a pose ball and waiting. They didn't get high rates of success either.

This next picture comes from "Nymphos paradise." I am not sure that is true, but be that as it may, the score here is one couple, and they probably were a couple before they came, since they were using their own pose balls. This has been my experience: that if you see a good looking couple having sex in an orgy room, it is because they are a couple who has a penchant for public sex.

Score here? One raw newbie chick. Yummy if you are still into biting the erasers off of pencils. When getting good looking is 0L, you can do it just by visiting the Yedo Freebie room, and being a reasonably good looking barbie requires on a a short side trip to Bare Rose Tokyo for the 1L basic AOs, and 10L for prim shoes. That's right for 11L you too can out of that newbie gear and into a gown, a shape, a skin, a walk and spiked heels. Then send in your newbie hair coupons at Gurl 6 and Diversity... and well, you won't look like the girl in this picture... or the next one either.

Again, one raw newbie chick, and a man getting in my face after not having taken the first "no." This gets me to my thoughts on the matter. Clearly, there are women who want to have sex, and have sex at rates that would not cover my weekly take out expenses... (full sink, no time, forget to eat, you know the routine I think. If I didn't forget to eat, SL would be really bad for my wasteline...) Clearly there are men who want sex. But the terms are incomensurable, the men want to hop on a pose ball, or at most make a few noises about how cute the girl is. The girls want to look good, and have some spending money for that pleasure of sl... shopping.

The costs for keeping a girl happy aren't high. In fact, if you think about it, the cost you can get an sl pixel prostitute for are less than what it would take to buy a girl a cup of coffee and feed her a chocolate croissant as an extravagance. The time it takes to find a girl willing to have sex by going dancing, that is couple's dancing, is a hit or miss affair. We like romantic moments, and that's the cost of having sex without paying for it, give the girl a couple of magic moments.

One way to look at it is money, if there were other work for women, they wouldn't need to make virtual sex their entry level occupation. If there were enough work for men, they might be willing to, gasp take girls out on excursions and dates, buy them trinkets and act like... ummm... you know, men. As opposed to prickbots. But that isn't the way I look at it, because while buying Linden from Linden Labs can be a pain in the neck, there are enough other sources. And since the Linden exchange rate is around 260L:1USD, it doesn't take much to be able to be generous on sl.

No, the problem is social. There are men who not only can't pay, but do not want to pay. Not just not want to pay money, which I can understand, but who don't want to pay anything. Not time, not emotional investment, not presents, not caring, not conversation even. And since the sex they want, the other part of this is not just the pictures, but the complete absence of text in any of the sex acts other than one, that I saw on this excursion, is of such dismal quality, they feel it is more worth their time to stand around, dick upright, saying "any girl want to have fun?" and IMing every female who goes through about "where are you from?"

Think about that last. A man who isn't even willing to spend 1L on his own cock, wants to, immediately, know a personal piece of information about a girl, one that narrows down where she is and makes her vulnerable to being stalked. And stalking is a problem on sl. Even the Pepsi-Cola company is willing to give me some free iTunes downloads to get my email address out of me.

So it isn't about money, though money would put many more women into circulation as being willing to have unpaid sex, and, I think, take many of the men playing women out of circulation as being willing to have sex with men. It is about a social system which is fundamentally broken. And I don't mean SL's social system, but instead the one that is pouring both streams of people into SL. Not to knock my profession, but what exactly does it say about us pixel prostitutes that we are willing to engage in some fairly complex hard core pornography to format for rates that wouldn't hire a data entry person on a work study job for some biology professor?

One last picture, one last thought. SL is about bringing people together, between streetwalking and orgies, there is a picture of a world of people apart. A problem, a real proble, to be solved. Because if you peruse the top sites on sl, they consist, almost entirely, of camping farms and orgy rooms.

If streetwalking is selling the hopelessness, boredom and despair of women on sl, then orgy rooms are selling the hopelessness, boredom and despaire of men on sl. By loudly proclaiming "FREE SEX!" and "NO ESCORTS!" they are avoiding a larger truth, and that is the costs of orgy sex are time, both simulator and real, and the soul crushing emptiness of the results.

The warrens of the undercity are a reflection of that which is above the water. It isn't SL which is broken, it is us.

It is only us.

Friday, June 15, 2007

it is, it is, it is not, it is

It is and it is not. It is how I call your name and you do not answer. I opened my mind to you and all you desired was for me to open my legs. This gate is not open. But yet it is.

It is, it is not, it is, it is.

A humming song that rattles down my brain and leaves me empty dizzy down across my throat as your lips do touch it softly like the dry wind that off of desert flows. Your face like sand leaves trails across my skin and scars its surface in a thousand puncture me penetrations. The pain and burn that come from this drive me awakening to another realm, I want to fly away from your vicious monstrous mind that batters at my sense of self. But I cannot. I am it under this assault, and erased by its irresistability.

It is, it is not, it is, it is.

You think then having me by the throat that you can smash me with the revelation of your power over others, a contempt that screechs over wire and into my eye as if my ear. You think, you do not think, you know, you do not know. It is at the moment that I grow ever cold to you and turn to let you find your own bliss. The flowing spring stops to instant winter without end. The past is frozen within its ice until uncovered by the washing years as a picture of what once when it was. It is better this way.

It is, it is not, it is, it is.

Ah yes, my cunt, that thing that you think makes all holy or sacred or profane, that raises your ire and bends your hate for me to focal point. Ah yes, my cunt, from which flows la difference. The engine of difference, that wheels and turns and clicks and whirs from out of every age into this.

It is, it is not, it is, it is.

Seek thee thine own bliss. We must all find it and follow it.

Even if it is.

It is not.

It is.

It is.

Friday, May 25, 2007

Eden (Club Review)

The life cycle of a successful club turns hard when it becomes a festival of lag. In comes another new club, often one fitted on its own sim, to fill the void. You know a club is too crowded when it tells people coming in to detach not only AO's but prim clothing. Eden is the latest entrant into the sweepstakes for top end escort club.

The build is at a high standard of quality, with sleek rock gardening and smooth biege tile. The girls are at the level of emote quality that you would expect. Eden is not generous with its girls, it demands minimum hours, 150L for training and exclusivity. The girls don't stand head and shoulders above other top clubs at the present time, the are good, but they are not better than Arsheba, which is the reigning queen of quality dancing - an Arsehba birl would never chat when she meant to emote. But while Arsheba is the queen, uneasily sits that crown as examples like this show:

Ambrosa Jano pants gently as her head leans to one side of the pole Her body glistening with sweat being on stage so long. She moaned out as she slide up to the pole again playfully grinding her hips against it. The slick lips of her pussy spreading her moist juice as she slide down. Her face came close to the pole licking it off as she stared over to the people blushing a deep crimson.

A bit long for a more crowded space, but well crafted work. Kudos dear, if they don't get warm on that, they don't have a pulse. Yes it is basic slut, but it is rocco in its execution.

And already the tip jars are telling the tale: most were well over the topless line of 150L when I was there, and it was not a crowd in full swing. This is a place where the serious tippers are going to come, because the smooth animation is just so much better than the herk and jerk of a laggy club.

The smooth low lag environment and incredibly spacious build are destined to draw people in, is there anything here that isn't in the standard package? No, not really, but the uncluttered easy to nagivate design means that even as traffic comes in - and it will come in - people will still be able to get to the floor, to the dancers, or to the nooks for more intimate conversation.

There are, as should be expected from this kind of ambitious build, a few rough edges to smooth out. Security was not inevidence, and I was harrased when entering the sim. Ours is a business that attracts people who haven't learned good manners unfortunately. The staff was polite, but not particularly so. Instead they were, as they should be, focused very heavily on the paying clients. There was a small amount of roleplay going on with a master and his slave that added a nice touch to the procedings.

Another area where Eden is strong is managing expectations. They have automatic shouters with prices for stripping and lap dances, and senior people all over the floor and poles to make sure that patrons have a good guide into how to enter the demi-monde of SL. So many clubs leave patrons wondering what to do, and how to do it.

In short, if the top club you go to has lag that is driving you crazy, and you want to go to the newest and freshest, I can almost assure you that Eden and it's alt arty competitor NC-17 are where you will visit, and many well end up. And given the very professional and focused nature of the staff, which shows through in the layout, employees, decor, music selection and details, what ever small problems there are will be ironed smooth in very short order.

There are several other clubs trying to be the next fresh place. Eden is it.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

The river of joy

It isn't sex, until someone gets wet.

The change from our walking state, where we are so drive and divorced from the sensations of our body, to that other state, where rain comes to the mountains and the rivers flow, is the transformation that we must leap over, from that cold winter of waking life, to the spring of fertility, passion and desire. It is why the slut trick of talking about how wet she is works, and always will.

But this transformation is far more complex than simply the flowing of effluvia itself. It is the chnage from a body, and a self, that are trying to protect, to one that is receptive, sensitive, and ready to have life leap across the gap from one physicality to another, and to bond tightly with that other being.

From the perspective of fertility, the crucial task is to create a river over which will flow the sperm and down which will float the ovum. From the perspective of bringing the results of that union to fruit and harvest, the task is to create a bond within two people so powerful that over time they will be attached to each other as powefully that they will be attached, as well, to that fruit. It is not just the body that becomes fluid, but the brain as well, where hard nerves bend like stone that has heated until it burns.

It must also be a bond so powerful that either of the two people involved must be willing to give their lives for the results. Hence the power of water in sex and death paintings and music. Women throw themselves into the sea for their lost lovers, it is a ship and the sea that flows around the sex and death of Tristan and Isolde, and potion which draws them into it. Andromache is chained above the sea. The failed love in Schubert ends with the brook taking in the wanderer.

But this is the teleology of this river, it is not the phenomenology. Or to put it a simpler way, the end isn't the ride.

/me shifts her hips back and forth as she leans first on one foot and then the other.

In second life, describing the visible mechanics of the coming of spring, wetness flowing, touching oneself, chats that talk about "how hot it is in here" are often the way to to create the impression that sex is about happen. When working a club floor and there are many men about, it creates the compulsion for the men to pay for sex. They know someone is going to get it, and they aren't paying for sex per se, but to cut to the front of the line.

The orgiastic female who holds the troop over is fertile and all the boys want their throw with her. She is the physical goddess, a reflection of something more primal even, than humanity itself. And corresponding to the woman's river of fertility, must be the man's own moisture, that drop of rain that falls down.

/me flushes as she takes the rose from your hand and looks down shyly.

But these outside forces are pale to use, compared to the solidity of our own feeling. While the weight of ages may weigh on us, we could care less at that moment that our whole consciousness drops from our heads, down into our lower body, and we stare at a person or avatar and can only say "uhhhhhn." Feeling that is easy on sl, we can all be pretty if we want. It is easier and safer to send the signals of availability. And it is easier and safer to express sexual apprecation for someone else.

/me looks softly into your eyes, and gently lets her fingers play over the back of your hand, half leading, half pleading, to take the dance floor.

But what is most seductive about Second Life, is that it is possible to be drawn across the line by one's avatar. I, and I know other people, have slid into intimacy with others, because of the lethal effectiveness of the slow dance pose balls, whose touching and kissing and swaying make the mind imagine a pulsing rhythm and warm touch. The mind can imagine the body doing by seeing, so long as there is that all important identification between avatar and player. His hand caresses your hip, your mouth touches his neck, your breasts ache to slip out of your dress.

Blood flows to the skin, and its ice thins as the warmth wells up from below, and showers down from above. The river is flowing.

Once this moment has happened, there is a powerful urge to unclench that that band that runs round the inside of our skull, like an iron mask from Dumas, that is the tight grasp of our inhibitions and control. The mental dam that is meant to hold back the flood. Once unclenched, the spirit flows down, the muscles relax, and the warmth flood to the midriff with it. The exposed midriff is sexy because it is through there and from there, that the animal emotions must be controlled.

/me rolls her abdomen and gyrates her hips wildly.

Every society knows that the inhibtions of the working days, where raising food and building houses are the order of the day, are also lethal to formation of this flood of river. As the savannah needs its rainy season, so does the sexual spirit. We have carnivals, both fixed in time, and impromptu, to help this unclenching. Second life is such a carnival.

/me places her hand over yours, and slides it down the curve of her waist, pulling at the fabric from the pressure, until it is firmly planted on the back of her hips.

In such moments, the flow ceases to go from player to avatar, and goes in the other direction. In such moments it is clear that on the screen the inevitable animal logic is to follow the warmth to wear it leads, and seek the moisture that is welling up from below.

At this point there is a need to imagine closeness, and reinforce virtual physical intimacy with emotional intimacy. The next step of spring is to make the spirit flow. To admit some deep fear, feeling or fantasy. To look into a soul, even across the ether, and allow a some hidden part to coallesce into words, from scattered droplets.

Intimacy is what created the bond. And around the fear of loss must flood that intimacy. It is perfectly reasonable, how better to know whether someone will desert you or hurt you, then by giving them a chance to do so right at the outset? Sometimes the harsh put down is really just the test of the other person, to see if they will take rebuke as a challenge to do better.

/me fixes her gaze on yours, her face seemis to fall towards you and places her lips close to your ear until you can feel the breath from her pursed lips. She whispers in a very low, barely audible tone.

This is the floating time, when your feet have been lifted up off the floor, your spirit up off the pedastal of its every day repose. You are waiting and hoping. Either hoping for that admission, or hoping that it will flutter and alight, and be handled with care like a butterfly.

Once this moment has come, the rest is preparation, anticipation, because already within, there is flowing that river of join, and it seeks nothing more, than to meet a passionate tide, from distant sea.