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I am a beautiful girl with unkempt wings. I swirl my hair around and intoxicate the boys—and perhaps some women? I am stunning with my much-applied creams; such effort gives my face a sensual flush. I feel the greedy eyes of men on me. Hint of lip gloss. Large, natural bosom. Four-five inches of belly showing above tight blue jeans. 200 brush strokes on a crowded 767. Passport in order. Ready for New York.
My asshole is so clean, when I bend over the pole and put it inches from an ugly shmoe’s face, it must make him rock-hard.
Of course I despise men. Why in the world would I take hours a day to make myself as desirable as possible—and yet remain impenetrable? I’m stunning, and I know it. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I can get any man. I’ve been blessed with beauty. Also, I have deep black pools for eyes, and soak up books as well. I maintain an innocent flourish, and appear friendly to all comers.
Guy comes up to me in flight, says Excuse me, I’ve been trying to solve the world problems and you distract me…
Now that’s a turn on.
My last affair: a guy named Frank. Persisted at the club. Had a wad of bills. Went home with him and churned him up. Got him wriggling and moaning. Let him kiss me. Moved in two days later. Stayed for three months. Went out to nice places. Met his mother. Took off with another guy. Didn’t return Frank’s phone calls. Ran into him the other day. Abroad. Got up to go to the bathroom. Slipped out side door.
Sometimes I cry while fingering myself. I oiled a cucumber and stuck it up my ass. It felt good.
Seeing mom tomorrow.
Went to a matinee with Mom. Chicago. Pretty nice musical. It reminded me of the machinations of Voltaire. Now there was a fine example of legerdemain! Absolutely hilarious!
In the shower today, I rubbed the backbrush hard against my bush. God I came so beautifully! I bent down and looked at my asshole and cunt in the mirror. So beautiful. I wish I could crawl up and kiss them both! Lick it all up! I read Dickens tonight. About his visit to the Tombs in New York. The horror of conditions makes you wonder: whither prison reform? Similar: Rikers today.
Turns out it was an inside job, robbing of the Dali at Rikers. What else?
OK, more important things: put a little Wesson around my clit and gently rubbed. I did it with my ass scrunched up against the full-length mirror, my head propped on three pillows, looking down. I shuddered so hard!
Then I put a dab of Wesson on my nipples and rubbed slowly in circular motion. I had the videocamera on, careful that it didn’t show my face.
I dropped the unmarked cassette off on a table in the post office when no one was looking.
Took $1000 for the simplest five minutes! Guy in the back after a "slow dance" just didn’t care—nor did I. I took him into a back "beaver room" and satisfied him with the tiniest effort. Boy was that a killing!
A drink. Drambuie. Alone. Logs in the fire. Some thoughts: why not the simple married life? I’m a whore, ok. Who isn’t? But say I settle down. Get mind control. Realize there’s better. Why not kids? Why not? OK, so I’d have little respect for my man. Is that a problem?
Analyze: why hate men? Was I abused? No.
What is it about them that disgusts me so?
Their lack of self-control!
I dress so provocatively, perhaps, to test them! Can they not still engage me in real talk? Tell me of their obsessions!
It can’t all be about sex. I have a lot of depth. (I can get six inches in my twat without effort; sometimes eight.)
But enough joking!
Seriously, Melissa. You’re going to grow old and crumply. Who will love you then?
I made myself so perfect so that…everyone would like me. But then they’d like me for false reasons!
Get real! From now on—yes!
I had a terrible time on the subway. There were no seats. I was dressed provocatively and felt, as I walked through the cars, looking for a seat, that I was going through some kind of gauntlet: keep your head straight ahead, Melissa. Each stare was meant for you and you cannot acknowledge them! Plow forward. Ah, there’s a seat. Ooops! Opposite a leering guy. Are my nipples showing? No! Then what’s he looking at? My face is stunning. How do I hide it?
I got off at my stop and made my wax appointment. Going to the beach Sunday.
I let her cunt fall onto my face and lapped up. She was on mine at the same time and it felt great! We twirled around and kissed passionately. It felt good to let myself go. Thank God it was another stunning woman! No regrets. No pawing. Just straight out passion. She fingered my asshole and it sent me reeling!
Working her finger in and around and around! I felt all my troubles fly away!
What was her name? I hardly remember. Cat?
I have dinner with Thomas tonight. Possible talent agency hook-up.
I hope to get out of this racket!
Naked in front of my mirror: an out-and-out assessment. Beautifully formed boobs—natural. A few ounces of unwanted body fat on abs. Turn around, nicely formed taut ass. Long legs. One despicable feature: bouncy, fleshy arms. Too white. (That’ll be cured Sunday!) Oh, and the bite marks on my ass. Luckily they’re near the interior and won’t be exposed even with my skimpy bottoms.
My face. Aquiline nose, nice straight off-pink lips (the ones on my face, buddy). Beautiful skin texture.Globes of innocent black eyes. Sort of a look of chagrin, helpfulness. Playfulness?
Hint of depression deep down. Zounds!
Went to bed alone with a book.
Criminal Culture in Modern Society
. Some old text. But I read this luminous passage:
When out of the stark childhood from which so many of our outcasts have "graduated," their proclivities towards aberrant behavior well implanted, it is no wonder they fall prey to easy influence, and have trouble finding, let alone adhering to, the road back to "normalcy."
Who taught me what? I can’t remember any Draconian episodes from way back. Just a cultural thing?
How many numbers do I have on my phone? Ten, and only two I call. Thomas and Jane.
Tomorrow’s beach day. Weather will be fine. Today—I decided to set up a afternoon café outing with the two, Thomas and Jane. Both are my friends. They know and put up with me. I don’t tell them some things, but can speak pretty openly with them.
Thomas and I joked about the crazy world of modeling—he has connections I can use. And Jane. We just laugh a lot. And keep secrets from Thomas. Like at the café, she sat opposite me, and I pushed the hard toe of my sandals into her crotch! She could hardly keep straight!
All right. Some true confessions. I fell hard for guy in high school. We never "consummated" but played around a lot. He always challenged me. Made me feel out of sorts, sometimes. We palled around a lot together, going to drag races and concerts. Never did drugs. We broke off when we went to separate colleges. I missed him, and realized perhaps it was the last real relationship.
Don’t think by my flighty "sexcapades" that I’m incapable of deeper love. I’m not. It’s just so out-and-out impossible to imagine. What do people really pledge to? What do people really want?
I’m just confused—and using my extraordinary beauty to make a statement! I know in the bed at night I’m ugly. With all the lights out and I’m laying there alone, maybe after having just brought myself to orgasm with a broomstick (just kidding!) I lay awake and dream, dream of being as ugly on the outside as I feel. Then I’m hideous. So I hate the guys that want me because they obviously don’t see the insides. Then, of course, only a saint would want me!
I wake up and make myself as beautiful as possible.
No one cares.
OK. The beach. The other day. I lay on my stomach, unhooked, and had Thomas put cream on me. It felt good—but we have nothing going on. But through the slits in my eyes I counted the drooling walkers-by. Guy after guy with boners or not were salivating. Good. They’re out. Now who was that fat guy who seemed not to care? Intriguing. Not easily catchable.
I flipped around (after hooking up) and sat with my legs akimbo, looking up at the sun with my eyes closed.
Saw the fat guy looking through my slits (at my slit!). Good.
Back at the club, I get a special joy bending way over and putting my ass in guys’ faces. They’re not allowed to touch, of course, and I make good money. But I like the power of being so close to what they want—and denying them. It doesn’t give me a long-ranging thrill, but a temporary one.
Not a good one, really. It’s just play.
What do I want? Someone good to come take me away? Oh, we all say that, but maybe I’m into the game too far to relent.
What can I do before it’s too late?
I brought home a loser. Why? Just for the difference. Once in a while, I act "normal." I want to have real affair so I try. So I got home this guy—Wolf, I think his name was. Didn’t really care. I gave him a bj quick. He came in under 10 seconds. Whew! Then I let him chew at me for a while and then I tried at passion and love on the bed. You know, holding kissing. He wasn’t bad. He tried. He made some good statements. But it didn’t work in the end. He stayed for breakfast.
I went out with Jane alone and told her I was quitting—or thinking of quitting—the club. She asked what next? I told her I’d lined up some clothing model jobs and would be OK for a while, but I wanted to try things without the constant sex intimations. Something cultural. Balzacian? I wanted to change my ways! Maybe go back to school a bit. Dress down. I don’t know. Something different! She followed me in the bathroom and wanted to fuck in the stalls. I demurred. I was serious! (Do I need all new friends?) What next? Accounting?
I have to get creative sexually because otherwise I’m bored by the drudgery. Even the creative ways I stimulate myself have to be altered. Yet I have a catholic upbringing—small "c"—meaning, I think, that there’s a certain standard of normalcy I somehow have to adhere to. No cream cheese or whips. Just straight stimulation. Yet if that doesn’t work… You see the quandary I’m in?
Tonight I put in a video of a couple of girls very slowly making love and gently manipulated myself. It felt wonderful.
I sloshed my juices into my mouth and felt so exposed!
Melissa St. Worth was arrested today. By an undercover cop for soliciting at a notable bar downtown where management sought—by virtue of tonight’s activity it would seem successfully—to stem the tide of sleaziness at their establishment. Melissa gave me—Thomas—the password and log-in information for 100words and told me to make sure not to exceed the exact amount. The proprietor was a "tough prick," she told me. Whatever. Hopefully she’ll be out on bail in a day or two—slow processing, but I’ll write until she takes back the reins. I read over her diaries. Wow. Fucked-up!
Melissa’s still incarcerated. I visited her and boy was she wrapping the guards around their nightsticks! Seriously, she looks awful good, raunchy and smelly and stands out in any crowd. She’s got a dirty mouth too when she wants and was giving it to them good. I guess she knows she just has to get past a judge and she’ll be sprung. Not her proudest moment, but she’ll survive. Hey! Maybe it’ll be "life transforming." That would be good. I’d like to see a little more in the way of accomplishment for Melissa. We’ve never been intimate. Just good friends.
The thing is, I have a girlfriend who’s pretty open about my seeing—seeing, not fucking—other women. I love her, I’m loyal to her, so it’s no big deal seeing others. But for Melissa, considering I’m the one straight guy that doesn’t hit on her, I guess she values that—and good. Why not? But now. Wait. That’s her coming in the door. "Hey fuck you too!" I say to her. "OK I’ll stop."
Fucker left me 25 words. OK: jail sucks, the guards suck, the judges suck and I can’t stand this fucking shit anymore! Court: Sept 15th.
I’ve got exactly $17,459 dollars saved. You would think I have no excuses but to get out, and it’s true. I gave my notice. Debauchery: have your last day! (At least on the job.) Tonight I went back and didn’t give a shit. I put my asshole right into the noses of at least 10 men. God it felt good. Let ‘em lick! And in the back room I let Mikey—the horny mafia type who helps run the place—pistol-fuck me. I use that term because there ain’t no dick that hard!
Beckett late night. Something about I. Literary!
I spent the night undoing dozens of wire hangers. Then with the iron as straight as I could make it I looped them together as best I could and then wrapped them around my naked flesh. I wanted to capture—tie up—myself as fiercely as possible. Did it hard enough to leave marks. When as tied up as I could get myself I lubricated an unsharpened pencil and masturbated myself—in the ass—with the eraser end. All while lying prone facing the mirror. Watching my face in agony/ecstasy. I put on the tape recorder and recorded dramatic "arrival."
Had a job interview today and looked prim and proper. Nice business suit—black, with white dress shirt and red silk scarf. Sitting at the desk I imagined the opening of one of those hot porno scenes where the guy took me on the desk—but that was fantasy. I paid attention and got an appointment for a follow-up. Some photos. $400 a day. Leaving the job in a few.
At work tonight I didn’t wipe on purpose. Peered back to get shocked reaction. Guys didn’t care. They still stuffed the money in—my straps.
Couple of drinks at home.
Took the morning to luxuriate. Bubble bath. Played to the guy I scoped out fingering his telescope nearby. Lay on my big flat table up against the picture window, cunt open to the cityscapes. Imagined him peering in. I know, better at night, but figured he could manage. Wriggled around a bit. (Should I paste my phone number to the window?)
Read from an old book, "Cityscapes":
Our direct sampling found that in direct proportion to urban density we observe urban alienation: to the extent the landscape is shrouded, so is a pall cast over the inhabitants’ putatively sunny outlook.
Did crack with the super tonight and he fucked me raw. A big drooling fat-cocked muscleman with a pot belly, he drove it up me so hard if a pillow wasn’t over my head the whole building would have come crashing down. I felt super-high and reamed his ass so hard I would have sucked out all his shit if he wasn’t clean. God it was liberating!
We sat and listened to some samba station in a cold funk for two hours afterwards.
I had a hot bath after letting him out the door. Fixed my latch—and my snatch!
Curled up with Mr. Proust:
I would fall asleep again, and…would reawaken for short snatches only…to open my eyes to stare at the shifting kaleidoscope of the darkness, to savor, in a momentary glimpse of consciousness, the sleep which lay heavy on the furniture…
Sometimes a woman would be born during my sleep…conceived from the pleasure I was on the point of enjoying…my body, conscious that its own warmth was permeating hers, would strive to become one with her, and I would awake. The rest of humanity seemed very remote in comparison…
My cheek was still warm from her kiss.
I did some home repairs. Put up a new calendar. Did the dishes. Polished the cabinets. Made some shopping lists.
I go through the motions at work. I’m quitting in a couple of days. Just socking away a little more cash. Will have near 20G.
Paul called. An ex fling from a "business trip" I’d taken to Milwaukee. Had spent a fiery three nights with him and we spoke once in a while.
My dad, from whom I’ve been relatively estranged, called and said he’d be in town in a few weeks. We made a date.
I read more Proust.
I arranged my books, thought to get rid of a few. I thought I might spend an afternoon at Barnes and Noble. Pick out some new copies.
Maybe I should read some Russian history. When I get down, and realize my ugliness, I think back on all the truly uglier men in history—Stalin, Lenin, the others. What were they doing? What propelled them to give so little? To delude themselves so much?
Me, it’s out of fear. I know that. I know I’d kill myself if I ever had to live so simple. Corn and potatoes. Two kids. Nope.
Well, it’s another month, the first time I’ve ever kept the discipline to write at this website. I’d seen it before, and was intrigued. I liked the writings of a few people—the ones who seemed to be most real, who tried to connect to crucial things. By the way, I’m not available. Don’t bother writing to me because I won’t respond!
I don’t really want to connect. I want to just drift off. Be by myself. Maybe go to another country and start over. New York, it’s for the dogs.
Greece, I’ve heard good things about Greece.
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