My writing has changed lately. Not here, not this writing, but my regular writing, the kind that doesn’t keep me up at night sometimes, with my finger over the Delete key.

It (my writing) used to be very sharp and angry, with abrupt sentences and words pressed staccato against one another with ridiculous urgency. Maybe that’s why it (my blogwriting) used to be so popular, and my (regular) writing a little bit of a failure.

Words Pressed Staccato are what people want to see. It’s anger, drama, flash, dynamism. Violence, intercourse, breast, they don’t have squat against Guns, Fuck, Tits. Maybe it’s the abruptness of the words themselves: Guns! Fuck! Tits!

They appeal. More than “Violence, Intercourse, Breast” anyway.

My words don’t do that anymore, so neither does my (regular) writing, or my (blogwriting) for that matter. It’s because I don’t feel Guns! Fuck! Tits! anymore, now, lately, or not so much lately but currently, it’s “Sleep, Cry, Pine” because rather than missing the person who made me write Guns! Fuck! Tits! anymore, I’m lonely for him. He made me angry with him, then miss him, and then ache and wither and wilt and shrivel up in all the places inside of me that were good,

but now I’m just lonely for him.

That isn’t a feeling you can describe to anyone who hasn’t felt it before. It’s a hopeless sort of thing, like knowing you miss someone, but they’re dead, so you shouldn’t; but you do anyway.

Those people have a habit of taking away your staccatos and your ferocity, your anger, drama, flash, dynamism, your GunsFuckTitsCunt, and leaving you with soft, lazy, round words and sounds that don’t rat-a-tat-tat but roll off your tongue like some fucking bitter medicine.

- are officially frenz with benefits. (Can you really “officially” be frenz with benefits? Isn’t that arrangement based around the fact that you don’t really care for something official at the time?)

I’m too tired/frazzled to go into specifics right now, but it was just fine. No fucking, just some good ol’ American making out on the couch. With an 18 year old boy. With metal things in his mouth for me to bite.

And God, he’s a cuddlewhore. I love it, mostly because I don’t see him enough for cuddlewhoring to become an annoyance. He’s just so sweet and warm, even though he kisses too fast and has done things in the past I disapprove of.

I went home last night smelling like him. While I’m not a cuddlewhore, I am a scentwhore, and the smell of someone’s cologne on my pillow can wake me up from a sound sleep just wanting.

I want to give him kisses and touch pinkie fingers with him in the hallway.

(Okay, maybe I have a touch of cuddlewhore in me, too. But just a touch.)

My feelings were hurt the other day.

I was a crazy ex-girlfriend. Someone complained about me, the flaws I didn’t want anyone to know, they complained about me, and that wounded me. (I’ve mentioned that I’m a sensitive little bugger, right?)

Anyway, I dwelled on that for a while, and finally came to a conclusion:

When you date people who complain about crazy/bitchy ex-companions, then chances are, someday you’re going to be a crazy/bitchy ex-companion yourself.

“Since you are only here for the friends you have made, quit looking at prospective Masters profiles. Effective now, you are blocked from this Master’s profile since you are a hateful little whatever.”

I would like to apologize to any of Y/you R/readers whom may have been offended by My curious meanderings through [site]. It wasn’t My intention to set My eyes upon Y/your glorious countenance B/but T/to B/be H/honest,

it’s kinda amusing

I don’t remember how we met, because the dream never specified, but we had. It must have been an ordinary meeting because my dream self was a little gobstopped to find that he’d worn a dress to the theatre. He looked exactly like a woman, down to the generous dip of cleavage and obviously naturally honey blond hair.

We were watching a pretentious art performance, and he must have sensed my boredom, because he took me by the hand and lead me out into the streets, which were really nothing more than dark alleys and graffiti-covered brick.

In the middle of this, a torn down, barnhouse-type building. It looked like something from an old west movie on the inside. Dark, lit by gaslights hanging from the wall, only it looked like some weird gothic saloon.

My male companion had an electric blue corset on now, with black leather pants and a look on his face that said he wasn’t taking himself seriously, so it was alright, as well as a little sexy. Myself? I dream in first person, so I don’t know what I was wearing. Probably jeans and a tshirt because reality doesn’t humble me enough, it needs to sneak into my dreams too.

His friends were in a band that must not have sucked, because afterwards we laughed with them and conducted rambling, moonshine toasts.

We went to his apartment, which looked like my own very first apartment. White, concrete walls, dingy lino floors, and painfully unflattering florescent lighting. I must have looked like hell, but he sat down on a metal folding chair, legs spread from under the flowing skirt he’d changed into, and I sat down in front of him. When I pulled up the fabric, I saw two non-functioning penises. One was half erect and seeming to stare right up at me, and the other hung limply from behind his testicles; unwanted and, he informed me, soon to be disposed of.

I envied his confidence in sharing something so weird with me, but more than anything, I envied him for that thing he was so ready to get lopped off.

Oh well. What tranny has, fucked up cunt wants.

On my hands and knees, I leaned forward, taking that top dick in my mouth. My hair was very long and very auburn, something it hadn’t been in years, all of a sudden. I was naked, something I’m never in front of anyone- I’ve been naked with two girls I skinny-dipped with regularly, while drunk, and I’ve been naked with a man I was with for nearly five years. Aside from that, it just doesn’t happen- not even in the hospital, I do the locker room maneuver of putting the paper smock on above my shirt, before removing it.

My nakedness was very startling and upsetting. I buried my face onto his thigh and started sobbing the kind of hoarse, limpid, heartbreaking sobs that I would have laughed at if it had been anyone else. Empathetic, yes?

From the corner of my eye, I saw his roommate looking on enviously. Whether he was jealous of me or of my two-penii’d friend I don’t know, but as he wiped snot and tears off his leg, the latter muttered something about his roommate being some pathetic submissive and waved him out the door, which the apparently pathetic submissive did without argument.

I sucked him off then, with his fingers tugging and yanking at my hair like I was a dog to be guided, and he turned me around to come on my ass. Suddenly I was in panties and searching for the shower, arms criss-crossed over my chest. When I found it, I scrubbed at myself until he came into the shower with me, kissing me, and grimacing at his own taste.

The next thing I knew, I was sneaking out of his house and hiding from him in a library that seems to pop up in my dreams from time to time. The funny thing is though, I think I was in love with that two-dicked freak.

I don’t feel good. Or well.

And I walked, and I walked, and I walked.

It was cold out, through back alleys and open air memorial parks, and I heard the ice crunch beneath my shoes like a mini-fanfare for each step.

They sounded all the way to a theatre, which I followed to its back alley. Someone let me in, amazingly, and I was presented to three doors. One to a larger parlor-type-room with nice, 1920’s-style decor, and another that looked to be a utility closet, by the Employee’s Only sign on the door.

The third, when opened, lead down, down, down, into utter darkness.

I don’t need to tell you which door caught my attention.

And so I walked down, down, down those steps, and found myself in a room darker than dark. There were theatre props and old furniture all around the moldy, stagnant place. How big it was, whether it was just one room or one of many, I don’t know yet. It felt very large though, remembering that odd sense we bipedal greater apes have for gaging our surroundings.

My only source of light came from a distance, through that cracked open door. Though I was too afraid to grope around for a lightswitch, I was also afraid that someone would shut that door and leave me in darkness, or worse yet, decide to lock it.

I stayed for a minute or two, until my skin erupted in a prickling of goosebumps, and it was time to go back up.

The real world wasn’t as nice as the basement prop burial ground I found, although according to my scientific learnings, I’m far less likely to be eaten by a hungry ghost.

Last night I drank, a lot. I was still kinda poopy-feeling when I caught my reflection in one of the gilded mirrors of my new playground. Ye gods.

Walking around in the wind had left my hair a frizzy mess. My eyes had bags under them, bags with their own bags.  My skin was this ghastly winter pale, with two pimples from my upcoming period. They sit there, silently mocking me from my chin. That’s okay, though. Bought some face scrubby things; ’tis the day whitehead of reckoning, it is.

Anyway, I wasn’t feeling that great when I came across a group of people roooughly my own age. One of them I recognized from CollarMe but didn’t say anything, because that would be creepy and intrusive, and three that were so my type in their own different ways that I tucked immediately into shygirl mode and hid behind my hair.

It was lame. It’s a sad day when Last’s idea of being smooth is stuttering, “Uh, h-h-hi. Um, how are you? ‘Kay.”

Bad Last! Fail! Epic fail!

Dominance is not about esteem, neither is it about respect. It’s not about having all the answers, not about being haughty or what have you.

Dominance is just that. Dominance. We humans are pack animals, and within a pack, there will ALWAYS be a dominant force.

Within my own packs, be it work, or school, or social circles, I am at most times dominant. It just comes down to instinct; the all too animalistic need to stare someone in the eye when you talk, to hold a handshake just a little too long, to bring poise to your stature as soon as a potentially oppositional presence enters the arena, but more than anything, to remember that at any time within your ‘pack’, weakness is a time to step back. To allow for help and for healing salves to be applied to whatever wounds your pride is suffering from, and to let yourself be soothed by the satisfaction that you’ve surrounded yourself by loving individuals trustworthy enough to not only tolerate your insecurities and indiscretions, but to keep things rolling until you’re able to resume your post again.

This is my philosophy on friendship, sex, love, life. It applies in the bedroom, when a good fuck can be cathartic and freeing. It applies to friendships, to count on someone to pick up the phone and call when you can’t bring yourself to be the bigger person. It applies to love, above all things, when that dominance can be taken by force if needed, to fall into the role of the comforted rather than the caretaker.

I don’t know where I’m going with this. Maybe I’m tired of the ego, or feeling inadequate myself, but to me, dominance is to have the sort of mastery of one’s self as to know when to surrender. The worst, absolute worst, kind of weakness is the kind that’s too cowardly to seek correction.

hello im michael a dom of 6 years looking for a princess out of my bed and a slut in it.  are you a good girl?

Read my profile again and ask yourself, “Am I messaging the right person?”

lol yes you want to talk or not?

The literary fairy =/= neither good girl nor princess.

what is your name?you have a photo?

READA DE PROFILE, POR FAVOR.

nice attitude bye -your not worth talking with

First thing’s first: I love groveling.

I love to see a man on his belly, laying on top of me, I’m gripping him with SOME part of my body and I don’t care which, and all I can hear is a steady stream of, “Oh God, please please please please please“.

This can’t be a constant thing, of course. I don’t want it every time, but some of the time, delicious.

I think that my taste for this, and it is a vanilla thing for me, is why I hate getting mail consisting of Mistress this, and Please that. I am NOT a fucking mistress! Stop calling me that! I’m a tshirt and sandal-wearing hippie scum who hates getting called “Miss” at nice restaurants, by people who are being paid to be polite, let alone by perfect strangers.

It could be this defensiveness that makes me really hate the sort of mansubs who were spoiled by bad porn and pro-dommes. They behave so respectful that, at first, my mind registers it as sarcasm. When it finally hits home that they’re being sincere, I get the willies.

I mean, I don’t even know these men! Where do they get off pretending that they’re loathsome worms beneath the foot of yours truly? … Oh, right.

Regardless, it makes me feel so objectified, and so used by these creeps, that words just don’t come. Isn’t that the sort of social etiquette you’re supposed to learn when you’re in the second grade?

I don’t message subs with “ON UR KNEES TAEK IT LOLOL”, despite how many (of the aforementioned, normal subs would and should verbally bitchslap whoever does this kind of thing) would love this. So why do I keep getting messages that, despite clear indication that I’m not a mistress and don’t like being humbled at on my profile, that consist of… well, a lot of pathetic wank?

Rant rant.

Bitch bitch.

Whine whine.

Ah, I feel much better now. Fucking creeps.