I feel neither coherent nor productive, so you’re getting a stream of consciousness while I continue my sick leave from gainful employment. What did you do today? I corrected my insurer who flipped my name “Is this Leslie Pearl?” No.

I don’t feel particularly good. The stomach ache is abating into nausea instead of immobilizing pangs. I still don’t particularly want to eat anything and carry my mood about like a heavy object. I think dealing with the absolute bullshit I had piled up (double anti-sexual assault shit in two volunteering groups, an absolute imbecile outing me on fetlife, my abusive grandmother popping clogs, a family member having a meltdown on my doorstep and work sucking awfully) explains my worn out state but I need to figure out how to get from hiding on the couch in a blanket burrito watching Hannibal to going back to my job and careering for cash monies.

I realized I wasn’t writing anymore which kinda bugged me, so you get this. Ramblings.

I’m told I’m beautiful, a lot. Wildcard also easily draws in the attraction of women, and wears it with a constant sort of “are you having me on?!” background disbelief, like he’s not entirely sure why. His good looks are easy to explain- he has gigantic eyes, heavy lidded with long lashes, a perfect nose and the spacing of his teeth make his mouth push his lips into a sensual pout. When he’s not thinking about anything but an exciting idea his eyes get sparkly and intense, dark and compelling. He’s not just handsome, he’s pretty.

He wears his beard and his hair knowing what suit him. The beard’s always short cropped, straight lines following the hollow under his cheeks, the hair’s something stylish and classic- he’s willing to pay more at a salon and listen to good advice from an expert. His clothes are picked to suit him, with a sort of Captain America Vintage Prep vibe.

Myself I don’t know why I am perceived as beautiful. Many, many women get told that by men, but I draw in more than my female peers seem to report. It’s not a subject you’re supposed to embrace- and I don’t have the slenderness to assume a professional, non-sexual modeling career in in my future. But I look like the girls in all the porn, a white brunette, thinner than the average, nice but not particularly large breasts, small waist, massive hips and buttocks. Women deny the number of my hips when I do sizing “NO! Your hips are not 38″ around!” (Or 40″ if I’m running fatter.) I seem to unintentionally gain and lose the same 15 pounds based on my health. Right now I’m sick and my breasts are smaller.

My hair is, under the 4C dye I refresh every few weeks, salt and pepper. I’m thirty-one, and the first greys came at 16 or so. I don’t particularly like it, and turn it back to a brown that’s almost black, to match my eyebrows.

When Wildcard and I have sex, he seldom penetrates my vagina. Usually he achieves orgasm in some combination of hand-and-mouth. He does not go down on me, and I dislike oral sex. When he does penetrate me, it’s hard for me to fit him inside. My clit bangs out orgasms in minutes of the right kind of touching, but my vagina is a tense creature that coils itself up, especially without regular insertions. He finds it so stimulating he has to stay still inside me and half pulled out, and that hurts. He’s just too physically large to rest with the head of his penis in the antechamber of my vagina and not to the wider point of full insertions.

I’ve never found a solution that the speed I like being done at is the speed by which guys come. It’s not a failure in the guy, it’s just the sort of stroke that gets them off gets me off. I don’t like sex where the guy just goes and goes and goes forever though.

I noticed that everything that’s idealized about female orgasms is discouraged in men. If you are a woman people want you to come constantly, ideally basically at will. If you’re a guy everything is piled on not coming and there’s nothing treated more sad than being able to come from imagination. It gets called “premature ejaculation”.

When I was a child I learned about kegels, and can do them easily to this day. They make no difference other than entertaining partners, apparently providing novelty. Squinch. Squinch.

I know I like anal stimulation, and I would probably enjoy anal sex, but the prep and getting me relaxed enough is so fundamentally un-sexy. So the subject comes up and then passes along.

I tie him up sometimes, with velcro cuffs, or make him a rope harness, cinched tight. He likes it when it’s tightly squeezing around the base of his cock and balls. These harnesses serve virtually no restraining purpose. Lingerie. When a friend started a panties for people who have packages company I bought him a pair. They don’t feel feminine on him and he likes being stroked through the black mesh. I don’t like thongs on men.

I like fucking fully clothed or without taking off the sexy lingerie I like wearing. I have stocking fetish.

I like bad language in bed, I like aggression and wrestling. I want a sort of dirtiness that I don’t intrinsically believe in. I read a lot of erotica on the darker end of the spectrum where the genders don’t matter but the victim experiences a fundamental loss of control that’s often permanently damaging. I don’t like castration stories though. My fantasy victims are used by multiple partner but aroused by it- I separate arousal from consent and fantasize about non-con.

I had a lot of cybersex in my life, which translates into writing porn well. People prefer sentimental emotional erotica over mechanical erotica. Feelings matter.

I have not been inspired to write erotica in a while. I made a few stabs at it, but the tension is missing and I want to tease out what is going on there.

 

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Rambles and Stream of Consciousness