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Is there something in the water?
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Dec 2, 2006 10:21 am
746 Views
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Seems to be a lot of anger rolling round, a lot of people promising one thing and not being able to deliver, a lot of bullshit, and just general uncool stuff.
I'm not immune. Today the ex springs on me the Mistress who was only his "ego shag" is now turning into potential wife number two. And oh, by the way he's been taking my son over to meet her regularly without me knowing about it.
Cue serious Oya-space.
I like to think I'm benevolent. He's helping me out considerably, doing what he can not to screw me over till I get my balance. I try to stay cool as a result and be the good friend and so on.
But What. The. Fuck.
I unloaded, and bigtime. It sucked, I felt like I was just re-enacting one of my parents' many arguments or something. I felt like I was being a very unreasoning bitch. But the blatant disrespect, not only to me, but to this wench he has said time and time again is just an "ego lay", he's now promising this nice secure future solely for what, a shag? To boost his ego? How can I respect someone he set up himself as just a fling - and why act so shocked when I'm appalled all these trips out which are supposedly "child time" is really "hang out with my bitch" time? Like I want this woman anywhere near my son, and lo and behold he's still trying to find a way to find his cake and eat it too, hopefully without telling me about it. But when the phone rings all the damn time and his phone buzzes with texts every few minutes, I can put two and two together.
I'm on a more even keel now several hours later, but this is only due to the fact I have shut everything off. I've killed it, buried it, and now look at him with a complete indifference he says he finds alarming.
But you expect what exactly, dude? Do what you want, man.
But you better be fucking CERTAIN that, from now on, I'm going to do just the same, and fuck your feelings to the contrary.
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Jewelry faff
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Dec 1, 2006 7:07 am
711 Views
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Woot....now I just need a professional photographer who will work for sex to make these look better than I do in still life.
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Bellydance is not for wimps
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Nov 30, 2006 10:29 pm
729 Views
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Gah, I've just stepped up my drills as of yesterday, and my arms are KILLING ME. It's no joke working your snake arms for ten minutes at a stretch. Bellydancing requires your arms to never fall below ribcage level, though there are some aspects of the dance which allow you to put your hands by your hips, so after a while if you're not used to it, your muscles are screaming for release.
At least I'm managing to get more tummy isolations now, but it was jolly frustrating at first. I was just too bloodyminded to quit however, and I feel I'm starting to get the isolations down - I only used to be able to get the tummy rolls to go down one direction, I worked on doing both last night and it was a bitch, but I'm getting there.
Zills. I've always hated zills - I mostly work with veils if I can. There's just too many body parts moving in bellydance and now I've got to make these cymbals move in time as well? I don't bloody think so. However that too is coming a bit easier though only through extreme bloodymindedness on my part - I took a friend's suggestion and just sat there working with the zills for a good three songs. Sprog showed so much interest in the zills I think I'll be buying myself a new pair and letting him keep my old ones. He's turning into a rhythm/dancing sprog - cool by me! I may even get him a drum for grins.
I'm going into the gym today to start on my weightlifting routine and I already feel like I've been lifting weights. My trainer wants me to do more core-work, but I'm bringing in my tribal dance DvD and will tell her to watch it. Only after she's done the primary movements can she tell me if I really need any more core work!
One shouldn't complain however - there's not a whole lot of core workouts and toning exercises out there which help shape you up AND make you look sensual at the same time. Gotta love it.
*****
Now and again, I watch Rachel Brice's videos because she's an amazing dancer. But also, because this amazing dancer was inspired by a dancer who weighed in around 300 pounds or more (well skinny people always use the 300 pound mark like it's some monumental number, so who knows exactly). However, in LA, where Thin is In, the dancer shook it like she didn't care - because she didn't. Her makeup was perfect, her hair was perfect, she had amazing posture, and she could move. After watching her perform, Rachel said she was in tears and wanted desperately to be able to move that well, that beautifully. So many people forget this when seeing Rachel dance, lauding her for having a "proper" bellydancing body, toned and muscled, and deriding Egyptian bellydance for promoting "flabby" bodies - an attitude which is just completely appalling, but with bellydance gaining popularity as Yet Another Miracle workout, I'm not surprised if the very soul of dance isn't getting sucked out at the roots.
Sod that. The best tribal bellydancer in the world was inspired by a FAT CHICK, people. Get over yo'selfs.
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Le singe est sur la branche
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Nov 29, 2006 11:45 am
702 Views
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I've started learning French online. No, not that kind of French. Languages wasn't very big where I grew up. You were to learn German, German, or German. Who cares that there were all these Irish, Norwegians, and Swedish around there? They didn't count! I am not a big fan of the German language (though I seem to have become a poster girl for German men...must be the hips).
In any event, I found out a year or two ago I have a gift for languages, although I have no time to study extensively - currently I seem to have nothing BUT time, but this isn't a good thing. It means I'm not selling any bloody jewelry. But I digress. I have a photographic memory for words, music, and so forth. If I hear a word that interests me in another language, or a song's lyrics, it just sort of sticks. As a result, I've got loads of languages bashing about in my head with no English words to join it to, and no idea where the hell I picked it up in the first place (at one point I knew how to say "We have been fucked by God" in Finnish...probably due to hanging around sailors in Seattle; try and explain THAT one at a cocktail party).
So, recently I've decided I wanted to learn French. I was studying Dutch before but I've heard from Dutch friends and my ex - who resides in Amsterdam at the moment - the Dutch refuse to actually speak Dutch to anyone who isn't native. In short, it's bloody useless and not worth knowing. But since it seems the French would rather speak French and do general French things (and don't you DARE start on that xenophobic "We hate the French" stuff in my journal, say thankya, blimey, melting pot, everyone melt a bit and move it around, just FUCKING MOVE IT AROUND) I may as well give it a go, as I believe it's the second most used language in the world, though I think it ties with Spanish.
I take an unusual approach of learning, which borrows a bit from how Jackie Chan learned English; one, I watch English movies in French subtitles - I want to be able to say "Why is all the rum gone?" in French. Why this will be useful I don't know, but it SOUNDS cool.
Secondly, Eddie Izzard doing his standup routines in French. This is possibly a dance with death as he curses so often, I'm sure my sentences will be full of expletives and just. Plain. Bollocks.
Ou est le singe?
Anyway, it seems to be sticking. Pronounciation is still a bugger as I can't seem to produce the phlematic "i'm choking on my own tongue" quality French has in some words, but I'm getting there.
At least I can get decent enough I'll know when someone is insulting me in my presence in French and can give a snappy retort.
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So, now I'm popular...
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Nov 28, 2006 10:44 pm
681 Views
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This is weird. I actually can't keep up with comments. It's kind of wild to have an audience, but if my words resonate, that's cool.
I may not respond to everyone individually, but don't feel like I don't hear you. I'm always watching.
Thanks for the props, y0.
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What my friends call "X-mess"
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Nov 27, 2006 10:53 pm
712 Views
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Most of my friends hate Christmas. They're all extreme liberals, artists, poor folk, work in retail or in other avenues which throw greed and stress into sharp relief. They come from broken homes, and remember the screaming fights round the holidays, or from feral-Christian backgrounds which rammed "the true meaning of Christmas" down their throats. As a result, when 1 December rolls around, they're already starting to work themselves into an anxiety of fear and loathing, ranting on and on and on why they HATE the holidays, completely oblivious in most cases to the longing bewilderment in their children's faces, and as their children grow up, the kids parrot the same anxiety and intolerance without understanding where it's coming from.
Yeah, so all the stores are packed with people who look tense and stressed out, people buying presents they don't want to buy, keeping appointments they don't want to keep. All these obligations people don't seem to want to go through, working themselves into a screaming mess before they even start until they say on 26 December "Thank gods that's over"
Fine. That's them. That doesn't have to be me.
Hey, my homelife wasn't any better than most of my friends, and one year all the presents I was bought were taken back because I'd "been bad" (and looking back now I don't even know what the hell it was I did - probably nothing, as usual, it was just an amusing power play). I could project that all on my kid, give him all my anxiety and hatred of the season because of my OWN hangups, or I can get over it and try and enjoy it.
My son loves Christmas lights. For that reason alone, I'm stringing them up EVERYWHERE in the house. I'll admit I'm very fond of them as well - so I'm looking forward to that. I've no money really for presents, and sprog will get loaded down with them at his ex's family, so I'm going to cook. And I love to cook, so not an issue. We're decorating a tree I bought for him this weekend, and I'm including the ex on that. We're going to Bath to buy the Best Fudge on the Planet (caps thoroughly intentional), and the ex is buying my food shopping as well so we can have a huge feast for Yule - I celebrate Solstice. There's a local farmer with the best poultry around, and I'll go and pick up a fresh bird on the 20th, and we'll stuff ourselves stupid on food for days and watch videos and go see the city centre lights, and maybe Stonehenge this year for solstice.
I'll admit, the ex taking sprog up to his family's for the holidays is going to sting. When we were together, it was the first family I got a chance to spend holidays with for a very long time, and I treasured it. I'm alone now again for the holidays, and hearing all the great plans they've got sort of sucks. At the same time, my ex's mum died around Christmas time from cancer, and ever since then, the holidays have really sucked for him. If he's actually looking FORWARD to it for once, I'm certainly not going to refuse him the joy of introducing sproggo to it.
It does mean I'm going to be home alone for Christmas. I don't relish the idea. An empty house isn't going to be very fun, and all my friends will be visiting their families as well. I think I'll end up going into city centre and check out the Yuletide festivities, as they have a evening market on Christmas eve, with mulled wine and lights and chestnuts and all sorts of things. I'll wear my Victorian best, perhaps.
In short...I can either make the holiday a time of angst and woe and constantly bitch about the greed and how AWFUL it is because of childhood experience, or I can see it through my son's eyes.
I'll take the latter, thanks.
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So what ARE you exactly?
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Nov 27, 2006 12:23 am
783 Views
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Man, I hear this so often; "you're not submissive - I don't want my nose broken, but you have submissive tendencies. You're not Dominant though because you can't be Dominant and not want to whip/beat/humiliate/do typical Dominant stuff (I struggle to keep a straight face). So what are you then?"
Oh hurrah...I need to come up with a category.
Am I submissive? Well at the sake of putting it in a bold answer and having even more men without a clue knocking on my door, I could say there are some traits there, but not the typical ones. There isn't anyone alive bar perhaps one or two people I trust enough to restrain me or hit me. Read it again. Only one or two people on this planet. Which means it's probably not you. So don't convince me. Does it mean I don't have a submissive streak? Well that depends on what you mean. I am not a demure, blushing kneeling-and-saying-"Yes Master" in a soft whisper. If you spank me, I'll probably re-arrange your anatomy. But to say it's not there entirely...hm...I can't say that. As in my Sanguine Addiction post there were definite submissive tones there, as there always was with Feral Boy. But it was also rather Dominant on my end because I wanted particular things, and DEMANDED them. He wound me up, but only because I allowed it. The "touch your toes while I beat you with this" never entered into it. However, trying to explain that to the typical "Dominant" is so time consuming I just don't bother and say I'm not submissive at all.
Dominant? I am Dominant as in I know what I want. What I want is NOT to do all the work of restraining, beating, whipping, performing like a poodle in leather. Oh yes, I can be creative. I can give commands, I can bite and scratch (and if I can't, my interest in sex goes out the window, say sorry, HUGE turn off for me if you can't be "marked". Ho and hum), I can plot scenarios and plan with the best, I can play the role, but there still reaches a time where I would like some spoiling, some administering, some seeing to without having to say "here, now here, and harder there please, do you need a fucking diagram?"
Switch? Hm...I think that's close, if you need a label. I like that struggle in bed to see who's going to get their way first. I like being on that equal footing, that equal ground where we can take ideas off one another, without me either being below or above. I like to reserve the right to have a man at my feet when necessary, and to rest my head on his knee when necessary without having to stick to a rigid role.
In short...I want to do what I please. To figure out what that is, you have to leave your assumptions of what I should be at the door. Even more to the point, challenge your own wants and leave those at the door before you walk in.
I am aware I scare men off. I am direct. I am not coy, I don't make typical flirtatious commentary all full of sexual innuendo and images of my nether bits. They are all slavering one minute, I can practically see the fantasy image they're building in their heads. I am the first to say "No, uh-uh, I know what you are thinking; don't. Because that isn't me. This is." They don't dig that, and they move on to the next best thing. I have to just sort of deal with that, and keep trying, like everyone else, but I cannot stress it enough; if you build up a fantasy image of me, you're selling me short. What I can be is so beyond your typical naked bird with leather accessories, you've no idea.
You have to leave that shit at the door, all labels, all toys, all trappings. I work in silk and velvet, wear a collar and file my nails to points. Don't find a box for it, just work with it.
Prepare yourself for serendipity.
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Choose what you see
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Nov 26, 2006 2:35 am
720 Views
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Choose what you see at a woman's halfla:
Older women, mostly out of shape, dressed in costumes which make them look like exhibits of bad taste, bellies hanging out shamelessly - as well as the flab. Women in their fifties in fuck-me-thigh high boots doing stilted rhythms to Sisters of Mercy, PVC and corsets meant for women half their age.
People tripping, half-made costumes coming undone, veils getting tangled over faces, instructors who dance worse than their students, no one dancing in time, male bellydancers which just seems so utterly ridiculous you can hardly keep from laughing as they attempt to shake nonexistent hips.
The dancing to an Arabian remix of "Flashdance" which everyone apparently loves, but grates on your ears like a cheesegrater in your head. Everywhere people who should be covering that shit UP letting it all hang out in unpleasant ways. Politics and dramas between troupes being acted out in catty female ways as always happens when you get a group of women together.
Immense boredom and hoping you can get the images of these fat women who think they can move out of your head later on, preferably with alcohol.
***************
A woman in her late fifties with more tattoos than I'd ever dare to get, head high and proud as she shakes her hips in ways 20 year old hoochie mamas try to emulate, but can't manage. She's got equipoise; the skanks don't. Every bellydancers' eyes unfocus in the dance, looking beyond, looking WITHIN, with the occasional sexy glance from side to side, aware what their bodies awaken in the viewer. A Filipino dancer combining salsa and bellydance with a grace and flirtatious smile which knocks the breath out of you whenever she meets your gaze.
Hip belts fall off, bras come undone, veils fly free, or tangle, or the dancers trip. They laugh, they keep dancing. What of it? They're among other dancers.
The woman next to me says "I do this for me...not for anyone else. Anyone who doesn't like it can go to hell." She's fifty-two. She doesn't look it.
Male bellydancers who shouldn't be able to move that way, but DOES. He's not seen as an interloper, but as an instructor and friend. Trills, tribal calls, and the one last jam where everyone hits the floor, and they try to coax you on, but you refuse for now...fully aware someday you'll take your turn.
Come dance with us. We are women, this is our space, we're doing this for us. Smiles, laughter, all squabbles and politics forgotten when it's time to just get together and do what they do best.
Together. Because they do it for themselves, as all women can, and should, do.
And anyone who has a problem with it can go to hell.
**********
Choose what you want to see in life...and understand the person living it doesn't give a damn what you think. Meet them in their own space, with respect, or move the hell on. Your attendance in their world is a privilege, not a right.
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Sanguine addiction explained
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Nov 24, 2006 3:01 am
853 Views
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Don't spill a drop dear
Let me kiss the curse away
Yourself in my mouth
Will you leave me with your taste? - Type O Negative, "Wolf Moon"
Have I mentioned before my best sex oral and otherwise, was during my menstruation? I can hear you men going "ewwwwwwww" already. Gods forbid you touch the fount when it is bleeding. Why exactly? I've seen people into scat, golden showers, want women to drink buckets of their cum, but if a woman is bleeding, they act like it's napalm. Women do the same thing, however, referring to their menses as the "curse", "monthly enemy", all sorts of things. I had the same issue for most of my life.
A fellow I was seeing in Seattle played "Wolf Moon" for me one night when I told him I couldn't have sex (not "didn't want to", but "COULDN'T", because society plants that little seed a woman must be unsexual and unclean during her period). He made me listen to the song, sang the lyrics in my ear while we lay upon his bed. Of course, it turned me on, but I struggled anyway. All I could think of was it was sexy, I was getting aroused, but I was still cramping like a fiend.
"It will help, just let me show you."
It sounded like the worst "Just let me fuck you ok?" line I'd ever heard, but he was so serious. I insisted he put several towels underneath me and that I had a shower first (like I said, that good ol' unclean training). I bathed in my scent of roses and lay down on the bed, while he put "Wolf Moon" on repeat. I have never seen a man so turned on in my life. His eyes weren't just shining, the pupils were nearly red. He was going feral - my favourite state in a man.
I lay down and he approached. I was trying hard to relax, but it was difficult. I was bleeding, I could feel it with every cramp, feel the blood starting to trickle (I'm a heavy bleeder). I looked over at the Feral Boy, trying to think of something smartass to say as I really thought he was just bullshitting, only thinking this was something he was into, but as soon as he saw the volume of blood, or something, hell anything he wouldn't approve of, he'd back off and I'd be left with ten times the embarassment.
Instead, he leaned down, and his nostrils flared. He was inhaling, scenting the blood, and the Boy actually growled. It was the sexiest thing in the world. My body reacted in a big way, and it was like some sort of dam broke inside, a rather large gush of menstrual blood slipped between my legs. I actually started to apologise and half-get up off the bed. There was a part of me that was irritated at my own behaviour, but I couldn't help it. Old stigmas don't die easy.
He just put his hand wordlessly on my shoulder, and pressed me back down, very insistently. Normally, this is the point when I hit someone. I didn't do it then. Maybe I thought of it as a challenge to my own beliefs, to walk my talk about my love of my own femininity in all its forms. I'm not certain. I still don't know. But I lay back down, and the Boy positioned himself between my legs.
He wasn't lying. It was amazing oral sex. It was like a massage for the womb. Did you know you're ultra-sensitive to touch during menstruation? And I mean ULTRA sensitive? You feel EVERYTHING honey, and a talented tongue feels like silk. The scent of blood and the feel of a tongue and a growling man between your legs...dear gods. I lost count of the orgasms. It was almost excrutiating. If I've ever been in a submissive headspace where I couldn't move, but just forced myself to take it over and over again, it was with Feral Boy.
The actual penetration was even better. I got on hands and knees, the blood literally trickling down the insides of my thighs, smeared across my bum, and he took me like his life depended on it. And I do mean TOOK. He didn't just come, he howled - and damned if he didn't sound like a wolf when he did. I'm surprised his neighbor didn't come down to see what the noise was about. Or maybe he was used to the sounds which came round every 28 days or so, as I doubt I was Feral Boy's only passion.
I had soaked the first towel, bled through the second, and Feral Boy had to clean his mattress with a soapy sponge. Blissed out but still feeling a bit like an idiot, I still apologised profusely and watched in embarassment while he got the worst of the stains out, but I noticed he didn't clean them all off...and they weren't the only blood stains either. "I don't want to erase it entirely. There's nothing wrong with it." I remember that the most, the look on his face, with a bit of blood still on his lips, which were smiling wide like a wolf.
"Nothing wrong with it at all."
*************
And here I am trying to settle for chocolate, but I know what I really want.
*grin*
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The Last Drop of Pleasure - Anais Nin
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Nov 23, 2006 11:07 pm
710 Views
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Then Marcel asked me if he had been a good lover that first time in his place.
"You were a good lover, Marcel. I liked the way you gripped my ass with both hands. You gripped it firmly as if you were going to eat into it. I liked the way you took my sex between your two hands. It was the way you took it, so decisively, with so much maleness. It is a little touch of the cave man you have."
"Why do women never tell men this? Why do women make such a secret and mystery of it all? They think it destroys their mystery, but it is not true. And here you come out and say just what you felt. It is wonderful."
"I believe in saying it. There are enough mysteries, and these do not help our enjoyment of each other. Now the war is here and many people will die, knowing nothing because they are tongue-tied about sex. It's ridiculous."
"I am remembering St. Tropez," said Marcel. "The most wonderful summer we have ever had . . ."
As he said this, I saw the place vividly. An artists' colony where society people and actors and actresses went, people with yachts anchored there. The little cafés on the waterfront, the gaiety, the exuberance, the laxity. Everybody in beach costumes. Everybody fraternizingthe yacht people with the artists, the artists with the young postman, the young policeman, the young fishermen, young and dark men of the south.
There was dancing on a patio under the sky. The jazz band came from Martinique and was hotter than the summer night. Marcel and I were sitting in a corner one evening when they announced that they would put all the lights out for five minutes, then for ten, then for fifteen in the middle of each dance.
A man called out, "Choose your partners carefully for the quart d'heure de passion. Choose your partners carefully."
There was a great flurry and bustle for a moment. Then the dance began, and eventually the lights went out. A few women screamed hysterically. A man's voice said, "That's an outrage, I won't stand for it." Someone else screamed, "Turn on the lights."
The dance continued in the dark. One felt that bodies were in heat.
Marcel was in ecstasy, holding me as if he would break me, bending over me, his knees between mine, his penis erect. In five minutes people only had time to get a little friction. When the lights went on everybody looked disturbed. A few faces looked apoplectic, others pale. Marcel's hair was tousled. One woman's linen shorts were wrinkled. One man's linen trousers were wrinkled. The atmosphere was sultry, animal, electric. At the same time there was a surface of refinement to be maintained, a form, an elegance. Some people, who were shocked, were leaving. Some waited as if for a storm. Others waited with a light in their eyes.
"Do you think one of them will scream, turn into a beast, lose his control?" I asked.
"I may," said Marcel.
The second dance began. The lights went out. The voice of the band leader said, "This is the quart d'heure de passion. Messieurs, mesdames, you now have ten minutes of it, and then you will have fifteen."
There were stifled little screams in the audience, women protesting. Marcel and I were clutched like two tango dancers, and at each moment of the dance I thought I would unleash the orgasm. Then the lights went on, and the disorder and feeling in the place was even greater.
"This will turn into an orgy," said Marcel.
People sat down with eyes dazed, as if by the lights. Eyes dazed with the turmoil of the blood, the nerves.
One could no longer tell the difference between the whores, the society women, the bohemians, the town girls. The town girls were beautiful, with the sultry beauty of the south. Every woman was sunburnt and Tahitian, covered with shells and flowers. In the pressure of the dance some of the shells had broken and lay on the dance floor.
Marcel said, "I don't think I can go through the next dance. I will you." His hand was slipping into my shorts and feeling me. His eyes were burning.
Bodies. Legs, so many legs, all brown and glossy, some hairy as foxes'. One man had such a hairy chest that he wore a net shirt to show it off. He looked like an ape. His arms were long and encircled his dance partner as if he would devour her.
The last dance. The lights went out. One woman let out a little bird cry. Another began to defend herself.
Marcel's head fell on my shoulders and he began to bite my shoulder, hard. We pressed against each other and moved against each other. I closed my eyes. I was reeling with pleasure. I was carried by a wave of desire, which came from all the other dancers, from the night, from the music. I thought I would have the orgasm then. Marcel continued to bite me, and I was afraid we would fall on the floor. But then drunkenness saved us, the drunkenness kept us suspended over the act, enjoying all that lay behind the act.
When the lights went on everybody was drunk, tottering with nervous excitement. Marcel said, "They like this better than the actual thing. Most of them like this better. It makes it last so long. But I can't stand any more of it. Let them sit there and enjoy the way they feel, they like to be tickled, they like to sit there with their erections and the women all open and moist, but I want to finish it off, I can't wait. Let's go to the beach."
At the beach the coolness quieted us. We lay on the sand, still hearing the rhythm of the jazz from afar, like a heart thumping, like a penis thumping inside of a woman, and while the waves rolled at our feet, the waves inside of us rolled us over and over each other until we came together, rolling in the sand, to the same thumping of the jazz beats.
Marcel was remembering this, too. He said, "What a marvelous summer. I think everybody knew it would be the last drop of pleasure."
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To link to this blog (OyaD) use [blog OyaD] in your messages.
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