During this time, I came to realize that I was much better off and that your family were the people who proved to have your best interests at heart. The people you were blood related to were just relatives unless they proved to be worth being called family. I was thinking today about the evolution of this blog and its readership and how I’ve come to think of you guys as my online family. I receive a tremendous amount of support and encouragement from you all and it means a lot to me.

What spurred all of this introspection was actually my latest writing exercise in my Seminar on Fiction at school. The challenge was to take people’s normal inclinations to try and craft a story around the people we see, i.e., the man in leather and tattoos must ride a Harley Davidson, a Pitbull owner must be a thug, etc. As I wrote my piece, I realized that I’ve crafted identities in my mind for my “frequent flyers” – those of you who comment regularly and whom I talk to enough that we’ve shared a bit of ourselves.

The irony is I’m quite confident I’m completely off base. But, I think we are associative creatures at heart and it’s hard to connect with someone who is just a disembodied set of key strokes. So, by nature, we’ll create personas in our minds. All of you have taken shape in my mind and I picture you and hear your voice as I read your blogs or comments. I like the idea of having a family of my choice.

I’d planned to end this piece with descriptions of those of you I feel closest to, but I don’t want to put anyone on display or alienate anyone inadvertently. Instead, I’ll end the piece with my submission for class.

Much love everyone!

——————————————–

Character Building from 3 a.m. Epiphany

“There she is,” Judy jerked her head in the direction of the door as she took a long draw on her vanilla milkshake.

“Who,” I craned my head trying to see through the crowd of diners.

“The stripper,” she said with a smirk.

“Why do you insist that she’s a stripper? You don’t even know her.”

“Oh, come on. Just look at her. Jeans that were painted on, spike heels, a black bra showing through that light pink t-shirt and a butterfly tattoo peeking out over her tit.” Judy raised an arrogant eyebrow as she spoke as if to dare me to argue.

“She could just as easily be a teacher or librarian, you know.” It irked me the way she so conveniently labeled people. Once she bestowed a label, she never looked further.

“Jesus, Christy. Are your eyes even open? No one would hire a woman who looks like she walked out of the club to teach their children. And everyone knows librarians are frumpy and wear glasses.”

“Who’s everyone?” my tone was snide, but she was irritating me.

“Everyone, that’s who,” she snipped off each word. “Besides, can you see her in front of class? I can’t, but I absolutely can see her hanging off a pole in a thong with those ginormous ta-ta’s bouncing and dollar bills littering the stage.”

“I think she’s probably just an ink girl,” I said dismissively as I picked my rootbeer float up off the formica tabletop and began to spoon foam into my mouth.

“What the devil is an ink girl?” she sounded peeved. Judy never liked it when her judgments were challenged.

“One of those girls that wears their hair in those 1950’s hairstyles with bright red lips and inks their bodies all over the place. I guarantee you there are a whole hell of a lot more tattoos under those clothes.”

Judy was silent and staring at the woman as if she’d suddenly developed x-ray vision and could discern what and how many tattoos covered the woman’s porcelain skin.

As we watched, the woman turned and threw her arms around a large man of indeterminate race. His face was shadowed by a black Yankees ball cap and he wore an oversized black t-shirt with baggy jeans and blindingly white sneakers. A large glittering cross adorned a thick gold chain that hung around his neck.

Judy turned to face me, triumph radiating from her cornflower blue eyes, “See,” she waggled a finger at me, “stripper.”

Are You a Child of the 80′s?

Take a look at this list. If you can identify with more than half of them, you are a child of the 80′s.

• You know what “Sike” means.
• You know the profound meaning of “Wax on, Wax off”.
• You know that another name for a keyboard is a “Synthesizer”.
• You were only cool if you hung out at the Roller Rink and actually knew how to skate.
• You can sing the McDonald’s Big Mack Filet-o-fish, quarter pounder, French Fry song while jump roping.
• You wore 3-8 different colored socks in layers and thought that the more you could wear the cooler you were.
• You know who Mr. T is.
• You actually believed for a minute that K.I.T. (The knight rider) actually was real.
• You know who Fat Albert is.
• You wore fluorescent, neon clothing.
• You could break dance, or wish you could.
• You wanted to be The Incredible Hulk for Halloween.
• You believed that “By the power of Greyskull, you HAD the power!”
• Partying “like it’s 1999″ seemed SO far away.
• You thought that Transformers were more than meets the eye.
• You wanted to be on Star Search.
• You can remember Michael Jackson when he was black.
• You wore a banana clip at some point during your youth.
• You remember the garbage pail kids, and owned some.
• You knew what Willis was “talkin’ ’bout.”
• You HAD to have your MTV.
• You always wondered why Tootie always wore those skates.
• You actually thought “Dirty Dancing” was a REALLY good movie.
• You watched Purple Rain over and over again.
• Your all time favorite movie was Footloose and you actually thought that Kevin Bacon was HOT in it!!!
• You remember the episode of Good Times when Flo broke down after James’ funeral.
• You remember when ATARI was a state of the art video game system.
• You own any cassettes.
• You were led to believe that in the year 2000 we’d all be living on the moon.
• You remember and/or owned any of the Care Bear Glass collection from Pizza Hut or any other stupid collection they came out with.
• Poltergeist freaked you out.
• You carried your lunch to school in a Gremlins or an ET lunch box.
• You have pondered why Smurfette was the ONLY female smurf.
• You know what leg warmers are and probably had a pair.
• You wore biker shorts underneath a short skirt and felt stylish.
• You had a Swatch Watch with the Swatch Guard.
• You thought UTFOs “Roxanne, Roxanne” song was the bomb!
• You remember when Saturday Night Live was funny.
• You had Wonder Woman or Superman underoos.
• You know what a “Push Up” ice cream is.
• You had to come in the house when the street lights came on.

Ignore Me by Adriano10 at Deviant Art

I have a few email only subscribers. Generally speaking, they aren’t bloggers and follow me exclusively via email. A few of these dear people email me regularly. One in particular, takes me to task occasionally about how I reply to every email and comment and that I don’t need to respond right away all the time. The reality is, yes, I do. In order for me to feel right, I must respond as promptly as possible.

Here’s the thing. I hate to be ignored. I don’t just dislike it, I HATE it. There are very few things in life I hate, but being ignored is probably at the top of my list. Why? Well, I spent my entire childhood being ignored, overlooked, pushed aside and generally forgotten about. I’ll spare you the sordid details, they aren’t truly relevant. My parents sucked, my personal drama, moving on … but these things shape you.

This translates in a few different ways here in my corner of the Internet:

• I appreciate every reader I have and the fact that, while they are reading my rambles, they could be reading something else. Add in the fact that they took the time to comment and let me know that they connected in any way with what I had to say and they deserve at least an acknowledgment and thank you. Period.
• If a reader leaves a comment, that opens up a conversation. If that person were standing in front of me would I leave them hanging? I imagine a scenario where a reader taps me on the shoulder and says, “Hey! Great post, thanks for sharing!” Would I walk past and say nothing or would I acknowledge them? Obviously, I’d acknowledge them. So, I comment back with at a minimum a thank you and however many exclamation points or emoticons it takes to get past the “duplicate” comment censor that WordPress invokes.  Grrrr, that thing annoys me, why can’t I just say thank you twice!
• Speaking strictly for myself, not replying is like saying “you aren’t good enough to notice.” Now, that is STRICTLY my baggage speaking, because that’s the message I was getting … not good enough. We are associative creatures, that’s what resulted for me. I refuse to send that message whether that is how it is received or not.

So, while it may sound like I’m ranting, I’m really not. It occurred to me that it may come off like I’m always trying to get the last word in. I’m not. I’m trying to say that I’ve grown to be completely OCD about replying to comments and emails. I literally tried to not reply to an email from that particular reader and couldn’t concentrate on anything I was doing until I did. Long story short, if you haven’t gotten a reply from me, it’s because I haven’t seen it yet. Once I do, I reply promptly. Period.

Not all bloggers do this, and to each his own. I admit, it’s time consuming, but it makes me happy to see comments and emails and I enjoy the conversation. I’ve made more friends online than I ever expected was possible. It’s awesome to know I have like-minded people in my corner literally around the world.

So, my last word on the subject (haha … yeah that was bad, sue me) is simply … Thank you!

The first and most obvious is the “N” word. Black people can use this word without restriction, but woe to anyone else who uses it. Frankly, this is as it should be. The “N” word was used to equate blacks to animals. For them to own the word and embrace it in their own way is their right. The same holds true for other racial pejoratives.

For instance, as an Italian, I take serious issue with anyone who calls me a WOP or a dago. For those of you that don’t know, WOP stands for “without official papers” and comes from the fact that many poor Italians landed here without passports. A dago is a bastardization of Diego, but again comes from the Italian immigration. It’s the same as using Spic for Hispanic. Now, I think both terms are stupid and would never use them myself, but when I was called this it was grounds for a knuckle sandwich growing up if you weren’t Italian.

Once you get into the sexual arena, however, it gets a bit trickier. There are no obvious racial connections to guide the usage of these words. Cunt in particular can be very tricky. Many, many women are offended by the word cunt. In fact, when I started this blog, I was too.

Over time, as I’ve read other blogs and seen other women embrace the word cunt, I’ve come to realize that cunt is not a derogatory word. It is the embodiment of the raw sexuality that the word vagina simply cannot convey. To simply say the word cunt brings out a depth of tone and a full-chest exhalation. It is visceral in and of itself in a way that vagina and even pussy are not. I’m serious, say the word out loud and feel the difference. Cunt is raw, vagina is not and pussy is hit or miss.

I have recently begun to use the words pussy and cunt in relation to myself on my blog. Why? Because I realized that these were artificial boundaries I was living within. Speaking strictly about America, we’ve bred an entire culture of shame around sex that has prevented us from truly exploring ourselves as sexual creatures and locked us into artificial roles for no good reason. Add in the perception that the only right way to write about sex is to not do it at all and we’re all figuring it out as we go along.

Do these words belong to women exclusively, however? No, but when a man uses it, it’s all about context. For instance, within a sexual exchange to talk about fucking her cunt or for her to be your cunt, well that’s fine. Start calling a woman a cunt and mean it the same way you mean to call her a bitch, i.e., nothing more than an insult, then you’re getting into dicier water. Some women are okay with that, some are not. You’re taking your chances there.

Bimodal’s question stemmed more from whether or not, as a man, he could use words like cunt and pussy and not be perceived negatively. I think anyone who is reading a blog that clearly identifies that it has sexual content should be prepared for words like cunt and pussy. If you are that easily offended, you probably should be reading something G-rated.

As always, just my $.02.

I'm on the hunt (image by Pyrotech07 at Deviant Art)

For Beta-Readers! I have a new short story, about 13,000 words in length. It’s contemporary erotic fiction with only the barest hints of BDSM. I need five people who are willing to read it and give me their thoughts on what worked for them, what didn’t work for them and any other comments they wish to make. If you’re interested you can leave a comment below or email me through the Contact Gillian page.

I gotta admit, there are areas on this story that trouble me and I’m looking for outside perspective as well as turnaround in one week. If you can accommodate me, you’ll get my pure gratitude and a free copy of the finished product!

***I GOT MY FIVE! THANK YOU!***

Last time I checked, I didn’t need spanx just yet. None of my email involves weight loss or other body conscious type text for the Gmail scanner bots (don’t fool yourself, they are sifting your email) … so why spanx??? Go figure …

Cheers to all of us thieves!

76) In your opinion, what makes a great relationship?

Trust, first and foremost, but this gets tricky because it takes honor and communication to build trust. So, it’s really a symbiosis.

77) How did/could someone win your heart?

The man that will win my devotion will be firmly patient, he’ll refuse to accept anything less than my best and he’ll spank me when I need spanking, fuck me when I need fucking and make me laugh through my tears when it’s all done.

78) In your world, what brings on more creativity?

Reading and communing with other bloggers.

79) What is the single best decision you have made in your life so far?

To have my daughter. I didn’t want children. On top of that, her father and I had just broken up when I found out I was pregnant, but she has proven to be the most incredible being I’ve ever met. My second best decision, to read Seducing Jane Porter since it introduced me to erotica and BDSM.

80) Why did you break up with your last ex?

He was using me and disrespecting me.

81) What would you want to be written on your tombstone?

She loved well.

82) What is your favorite word?

“Fuck” in all of its connotations.

83) Give me the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word: delusional.

Crazy

84) What is a saying you use a lot?

It is what it is.

85) Are you watching Idol this season? If yes, how do you like it?

Nope, I’ve never watched it. Don’t plan to start now.

86) Were you surprised that House got canceled?

I didn’t know it got cancelled, but I’m not surprised. I stopped watching it after they switched out the team. It just got too repetitive and they couldn’t figure out what they wanted to do with House.

87) What is your current desktop picture?

My desktop wallpaper

88) If you could press a button and make anyone in the world instantaneously explode, who would it be?

Any pedophile anywhere.

89) What would be a question where you’d not tell the truth?

I can’t think of one. If I don’t want to answer, I’m just going to tell you that I’m not going to answer, but I do try to avoid hurting peoples feelings around issues of opinion related to their appearance.

90) One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by WEEPING ANGELS. The Weeping Angles aren’t really doing anything, they’re just standing around your bed. What would you do?

Ask them why they are there and why they are crying.

91) You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What is that power?

The ability to transport myself anywhere, like in the movie Jumper. I sooo want to be able to do that.

92) You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again?

There are too many to choose from. That’s the nature of regret, you want to change so  much.

93) You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?

When my mother allowed my dog Corky to die. That scarred me in ways I’m still understanding.

94) You have the opportunity to sleep with the music-celebrity of your choice. (let’s say that you are both single and available) Who might it be?

There just isn’t a musician I’d want to do the do with, but Commander Taylor on the other hand, is seriously doing it for me these days!

Commander Taylor

95) You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go?

The Alhambra in Spain.

96) Do you have any relatives or friends in jail?

Not currently, but my former brother-in-law did time.

97) Who’s winning the U.S. Republican presidential nomination? Why?

Don’t know, don’t discuss politics.

98) Who’s winning the next U.S. Presidential election?

See #97

99) If the whole world were listening to you right now, what would you say?

Embrace your pain, let honesty reign.

For those of you that delay satisfaction until the very last moment (I’m still caught up in my EHS, sex is very much on the brain ) you can post your link in the comments and I’ll update the main page throughout the day.

I’ve been asked about rules, there are none, but just remember the theme is baring your sexual soul whether that’s through prose or poetry, whether it’s fiction or non-fiction it must be revealing. No other restrictions apply.

Also, a huge thank you to Wagner of Deviant Art who graciously allowed me to use his Velma for my banner.

Trapped Soul by AnimeGirl 1429 at Deviant Art

I recently remarked in an email exchange with a reader that I’d had two sexual experiences that let me know I wasn’t a lesbian, which prompted the natural response of “I’m curious” about those experiences. Since, I’ve been surprised again and again by how many people seem to have similar experiences to mine, I figured I’d go ahead and post about it.

As I’ve made pretty clear by now, my sexual history begins at the age of ten when I accidentally discovered how to make myself come. For the next four years, I would masturbate relentlessly and slowly begin working boys into the picture. It was fairly tame, kissing, fondling, etc. nothing major and I was coming regularly with boys, they just weren’t the ones making it happen. I was.

When I finally gave up my virginity, it was strictly because I’d heard that orgasms with penetration were better than orgasms without it. Frankly, the first orgasm I ever had while being penetrated was okay at best. It was definitely nicer to have something to grip onto, but a couple fingers were just as nice. This was the general tone of sex for me … blah. More often than not, I’d just opt to masturbate rather than deal with the sticky mess, condoms and the inconvenient requirement to get him off too. Looking back, I can completely see that there was no spark in the sex because it was a business transaction rather than a sexual exploration of any kind, but I didn’t know that then. I also had no understanding of how giving pleasure could create pleasure in its own right. I was too self-centered. I wanted an orgasm, I didn’t care about  anything else.

Because I didn’t enjoy sex as a rule, I began to wonder if maybe I was repressing lesbian tendencies. Homosexuality of any kind was reviled in my household. I grew up with extremely bigoted parents. In addition, I often found myself checking women out, eyeing their breasts and their asses and admiring their beauty. I’d latch on to the girls I’d meet hoping each one was a new best friend only to be disappointed when the friendships faltered. I wondered if the reason I couldn’t ever lose myself in sex, couldn’t get off on just being with a guy was because I was actually a lesbian. In short, I was searching in all the wrong places for why sex was so unfulfilling.

I feel I must digress for a moment and say that it wouldn’t have mattered if I had been a lesbian. I have no issue with homosexuality in any of its iterations. Anyway, back to the story …

The first clue I was wrong came after a weekend full of skydiving and training on formula one race car driving. I came home and literally jumped my guy. I just tackled him to the floor the moment I saw him and shoved my tongue in his mouth. What ensued was a battle for domination that he refused to let me win instead of accommodating me like he usually did and he ended up fucking me hard, fast and relentlessly. It was animalistic, it was visceral and I came hard, for the first time ever, without having to fantasize about much rougher sex than I was actually having. It also let me know, I wasn’t a lesbian. I wanted cock and I wanted it rough, dirty and hot.

That would be the only time I would have sex like that for nine more years. The second time was much like the first. It was raw, it was dirty and I came without resorting to fantasy. I simply was caught up in the sensations my guy was providing. I’ve been fucking since I was fourteen. That’s twenty-four years of repressed, frigid sex with only two exceptions. So, why not more if both times were with my guy? In actuality he was furious at me both of those times and that anger colored the nature of the intercourse.

You see, I’ve generally made sex a living hell between us because I’ve absolutely refused to take down my walls and let him in, I’ve whined about how he touched me. Complained about what I did or didn’t like. Put so many restrictions on what, how and when he could do things to me that in the end it was easier for him not to try. I made sure he couldn’t please me no matter what he did. That was the point. I wanted someone to blame because what was really going on was that I was ashamed of what I wanted.

My fantasies are explicit, rough, often downright filthy and I crave that. A line from my favorite poem puts it perfectly. In my head, I am “the lust goddess without guilt.” But in real life I can barely choke out the word cock. I never refer to my own body parts as anything other than “bits” and have never spent a moment naked that didn’t involve actively participating in sex or taking a bath or shower. My repression goes deep.

To think I might have been a lesbian was a convenient deflection from the truth … that I want to be bound and fucked hard. That I want to be submitted and owned sexually. That I crave a man who’s not going to let me get away with being repressed. That I want to be spanked and then come while my ass still stings. That the best way to deal with my whining is to slam his cock in my mouth and shut me up. That there are times I imagine being drenched in come and wallowing in it.

I can write this here, but I can’t say this to anyone. My guy believes BDSM is the manifestation of a psychological problem. I think I sensed this and it only added to my shame. So, while I accept and even embrace these aspects of my psychology now, I still do not have a relationship that supports exploring it.

Am I a lesbian? No, not even a little, but I want very much to be a naughty girl. I’ve come to understand that my fascination with women stemmed more from my need to identify as a female. I’ve rejected any trace of femininity for most of my life, viewing women as weak. I wore my hair short, I have a boyish figure. There’s a lot that has gone into this, namely watching so many women around me allow themselves to be victims. My sister never left her husband, not even when he sliced her head open so deep she needed staples. My mother hates my father, but never left him either. I see now that I was suppressing this part of my personality so that I would feel strong. The problem is that I’ve never felt strong. I’ve always felt ashamed, weak and cowardly.

As I’ve explored my sexuality, I’ve also explored my femininity. I am growing to appreciate my body. There’s a lot to be said for petite with a nice ass. Recently, a fellow blogger even extolled the virtues of A-cup breasts. My hair is growing out and currently reaches just over my shoulders and I often paint my nails. I no longer snub sparkles or ruffles and love high heels. I have even embraced pink when the mood strikes. Slowly, the cracks and fissures in my soul are filling in and day by day I feel more whole and more uniquely me.

If I’m lucky, one day I’ll be able to be in real-life the sexual being I am inside my head. Until then, I’m just working on getting to know and love the rest of me too.

Anyway, for your Saturday reading pleasure …

Don’t feel sorry for me

I am the perpetrator
of my destiny

The sculptor
of my soul

And solely responsible
for every hole
that remains
unfilled

My victimization ended
the day I rended
roots planted at my birth
and fled

I only wish
I had seen
that I was dead
inside

I’d learned to hide
to cower in fear
shackle myself
just to be near
another

Unwilling to see
any other course

But, those days are past
and I feel that
I am becoming uniquely me
healing the ravages of
parental manifest destiny

Don’t feel sorry for me

Instead, take my hand
smile wide
and let’s go on a magic ride
together
I wonder … how far will we fly?