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My sensitive microphone—buried in a back row of books on my upper shelf—recorded my marathon session with Doug last night. Listening later, I was embarrassed in that it seemed we were operating as separate entities, each using the other for personal satisfaction, without their being a sense of communion. Our noises, even our post-coital words and long strung-out sentences—were sent out as emissaries of our own cerebral meandering. We were thinking aloud. There was no give-and-take.
I’ll keep the tape to remind myself I am not all that.
Because I want to burn it also.
I spent a lot of today cleaning, picking up old clothes I’d let lay around for much too long. Made one pile for the dry cleaner, one for the laundry, one for the Salvation Army—and one for the garbage! I dusted, and cleaned the bathroom and mopped the kitchen.
I did so nude, and was tempted to be naughty with the mop stick, but instead satisfied myself by being rather provocative by the stark clear picture window. (I can only imagine a few hard rods stirred by the views through those mashers' telescopes!
I love sex so much! Yeah!
Monthly assessment: I have slinky smooth skin, with a slutty slushy slit, I have curved rounded calves, and mounds of peach pit breasts, I have beautifully cuticled cuticles, long bony fingers. Stick-straight beautiful hair—and almond blue eyes. This month. I’ll think myself—make myself!--different next month. Why not? My body is my armor, my "hot item on sale," and I have to take care to entice and invite even my own interest, for it is myself in my mind that I imagine as men—or women—stroke me.
Read Moliere and so enjoyed his malicious romps! Could I write?
The one thing I never want to become is the hard-assed woman—without a sense of humor—the one who needs to disdain any true feelings in favor of the bizarre. I always know when I’m going to my extremes that they are substitutes. I’m not proud of what I do. But I’m not lost, blindly seeking some "fix." Rather I’m angry and trying to win "purchase" over my outrage. I’ll take a real man—I would!--if he were willing to meet me on my terms.
Which might involve some kinky sex first.
Am I fooling myself? Trust not.
Set the digicam for a full-on beaver shot and slowly caressed myself, fingering and slowly spreading my lips. Moaned. Shouted.
Satisfied, I went to Barnes and Noble and put the tape—a small DV—behind Robespierre so that it couldn’t be seen from the outside shelving.
I’ve done this kind of thing before. The next time I’m in the store I check to see if the tape is gone, if there is a note.
Never is. I also tried to place a personal ad, but it was turned down: Flagrant Cunt, wants Flagpole Dick. Was told it "didn’t meet standards."
The photo-shoot went well. I took different poses, wore a few outfits, worked well with the cameraman and product management people. Won’t say the brand for fear someone’ll send these words and I’ll lose work!
Went to the movies by myself. Saw "Lackluster Fish," some obscure import. Don’t know what attracted me, but I went into the near empty theater and luxuriated in the air conditioning—and the off-beat film.
The lead actress had her wallet stolen and walked up to different strangers and stared at them, as if to divine whether they could provide her clues.
Moody. Dark music.
I think I’ll write my mother tonight. I haven’t had a "heart to heart" with her in a long time.
We turn out differently, don’t we? I thought, when I was little, I’d grow up to be a strong young lady and go out into the world and conquer it! Or at least get a great job with a great future. And one day settle down.
Now, now I don’t know. I’m not unhappy with my "waitressing," it’s just that I had always hoped for something better. Y’know?
Hey, it’s all fake anyway. Or is it?
I listened to the comedian Bill Maher on a tape of his recent live show on HBO and he had the line about a woman thesedays wearing belly shirts has her pussy on advertisement one inch below her pantlines, so that when men meet strange women before they say a word to each other the advertisement is going out. It’s true. I had a man tell me he can imagine licking my slit even before he sees my face. And that when he does see my face I make believe I have no clue my cunt’s my silent partner. True.
What I thought I read in this guy’s eyes: you are stunning, you are a madonna, you could be the mother of my children and the whore of my nights. You are sexy, you are vulgar, you are sweet, you would feel so good to screw, right now there is no more beautiful woman in the world, you are a child, you are destiny!
By the way what he said to me: move a little to the left, a little to the right, hold up your lips—there! Multiply times 1000. Men throughout the city. I need this attention! Always!
Perhaps I exaggerate. I admit I am addicted to the stares. The weight of each stare varies, but at the most, say, an average stare weighs .03 grams. Thus I’m addicted to about 10 kilograms a day. If I wore a nun’s outfit, or a burka, how would I fill that need? Hmmm. What if I wrote instead—as I like to do—a diary, or book, in which I accumulated weight on the pages? Hmmm. Could I write an equivalent of 10 kilograms of attention a day? Reminder: make your next entry here an attempt to present stare equivalence.
Met Donny, an old high school friend, on a walk by the river. We chatted 15 minutes. Oh, the reminder. OK. Here goes: My name is Baba. I love God. My name is Baba. I love Jesus.
Jesus, I’m not making this up. What does this mean? In the scientific house of my soul, careful thought produced those phrases. What does it mean?
Find God instead of lustful stares to compensate my needs? Whew! My mother was right! Oh to the convent!
Yes, Melissa, we have been waiting for you. Right this way. Here is your room of penitence. Repent!
I took the long white penitence candle and inserted it in my wet snatch, in and out, in and out. God it felt so good! The syrupy white hard stick gave me hard penance! I "came" to realize the errors of my ways.
All right, stick a knife in me. I’m done. Broiled my soul in hell.
No good, no where.
I had this creamy stud fuck me doggy style alone in my room until he bled sore! God it felt so good!
He rammed it in so hard I couldn’t find God if it was the last supper! Really.
As an experiment I dressed down, wore baggy pants, a floppy hat bent over my forehead, no make-up, ugly shoes. Shuffled to the store, a block and a half away. Felt naked, unwanted, vulnerable. No respite from depression in the delightful desires of the horny men.
I believe I’m having a crisis of confidence! Now that I’ve stumbled upon an alternative—if I trust my meditations!--I have to wonder whether to continue to live my less than salubrious existence—or plunge into some kind of frightening alternative that leaves me without my usual support from the predictably wanting men.
Yeah I wanna get fucked. Up the ass, around the bush, inside my flaming cunt! Do it to me doggy style, do it to me ram-hard, fuck me and suck me and kiss me all over. I’m a bitch! I’m vulnerable! I need you, you fat hapless toothless bearded man! Can’t you show me what love is? Can’t you give me a dime of your time? Actually, I just want to lay here in your lap, breathing slowly, getting wanted. I look up, dreamily from my perch in your lap, would gladly lap your juices, but see the sun. Smiling.
Meditations in the dark: I’m a duck. A duck waddling without hope of finding a nice breezy sea with friends. I waddle alone. I might see happy groups of people. When any in the group glances back and sees me, even though I am not with them and share their thrill, I get a thrill of my own, as I feel his (or her) eye touch my heartfeathers. It caresses me. I have a dream. I hold a stranger’s hand. Then he fucks me up the ass and I cry. No! We laugh. I forget everything. What’s on TV? Nothing!
I had a miserable day, the day totally alone, in the darkness, in the darkness all around me: then the light, and the light inside! The light inside suddenly enlightened a world much larger than the world of the whole earth! My lamps! My nightlites! My candles! My pilot lights! My TV! What was that world I was staring into, in the heat, after navigating all those stairs? Not a friendly, inviting world, that’s for sure. But now I don’t care! I have my lights back! I watched some show. "Gilligan’s Island." Something about a beautiful woman and no lust!
We went out, Jenna and I. We went drinking. Yeah, we mighta turned some heads, but that wasn’t on our minds—actually!--we just wanted to sit and talk and have a drink or two. Laughed. Told me about "Mafia" Don and Phil and Pete and Maryanne and Jenna’s other friends. My "formers." I told her things were working out OK. I went to the girls’ room and looked in the mirror. Caked on make-up. A little too much. No wrinkles. I put a little cream on and went outside. Jenna was talking up some guy. He left. I stayed.
I took the day off completely. Stayed in bed, watched a few shows, and read some. Two or three books, each opened to where I was. A box of tissues on the bed for the tears or the sniffles.
I ordered in. A light sandwich.
I took out my nice stationery.
Dear Audrey (my mother’s older sister),
Nice of you to write me. Things are OK here. What are you doing?
I read this (don’t remember where): "Frankly, Gentiles never understood. What Jewish people really want is a new chance. With the slate wiped clean."
Hey. Me too!
Ah, my body’s getting weaned! No sex in a few days, and no wants! Now how about that! I feel rested, not crazed. Was it connected with the job?
I’ve never taken pills, though a lot of my friends have. I drink a little.
Read some more: "Clayton took a pitchfork and raked the hay. Molly looked at him forlornly, wishing perhaps that he would have had larger aspirations--but smiled internally, because at least she had a man, and she felt secure."
I know. I want both too!
I decided to place a singles ad: Ex-Fucker, wanting romance.
Checked my inbox—no, not that one, buddy!--and found 53 responses. Duh. "Yes, darling, I am the one. I can give you what you need—and what you don’t think you need anymore!" Goodbye. "Hi. Call Karl. I think I can deliver the goods." Uh-uh. "Hi! Nasty Dave here. Call me, chick." In your dreams.
And then there was this: "Ex—call me if you have the nerve. I think I’ll be OK."
Just the right mixture of daring and humility. I called him. We’re going out tomorrow!
Promise to myself: spend no more than one hour getting ready!
It is late. James just left. We didn’t fuck. Far from it. We talked. We had a glass of red wine and God it was a normal date! It didn’t get vulgar. He saw right away, I think, that I was as real as I could be. I didn’t say one word to win him. Yet I didn’t consciously try to drive him away. He was utterly charming. Not a bad body. But other than a brief fantasy—of naturally pulling out his dick and mouthing it—I stayed away. We even talked politics! (He called himself a "recovering Reaganite.")
I went to "Bed Bath and Beyond" and got a new set of drapes. Orange, with flowers. I had the super install them. Told him I had my period and wasn’t in any mood when he came on to me. I opened the drapes and thought I eyed one of my spy-suitors but didn’t get naked. In the bathroom I did finger my ass with some cold cream for some needed relief!—but didn’t feel particularly exhibitionist. I fought back a strong desire to clothespin my nipples.
What’s wrong with me? God can I get this iron-clad horror off me!
A personal note to all the know-it-alls who read my diary and think they know jack shit about what "my problem" is. It ain’t that simple, buddy. I’m a drifter, a lonely woman who ended up getting the shaft and who realizes I brought a lot of it on myself so I’m not about to blame my "mother and father" or anyone else. I’m mature, to the extent I can be. I recognize I’m a nut—so what!—but I also am endeavoring to do something about the fucked up life I had. So there! What about you?
A blown relationship: I was sixteen. I wanted to be with this guy so badly. But I operated on the periphery of my feelings; I wanted to go in, towards him, but I kept aloof. Why? Because I’d expose myself by opening up to him and risking rejection. But also: I have to admit there was a determination on my part to punish him by not "giving myself" so that I appeared powerful. With what I withheld, I appeared to be in a position to dispense; I held something. There was an anger, too. Which kept him on the periphery.
There is a desire on my part to act pruriently. To expose my anal cavity, to allow men to enter me even—sometimes—without applying proper lubricant. (Though I prefer proper lubricant.) Actually, I love it when I’m entered—anally—and feel myself hurt and dominated and powerless. My hands and arms are plaintively smashing into the mattress, my head is bobbing up in plaintive screams, and I’m getting reamed to Kingdom Come! And then I turn around and nibble at the shit on his cock. No, really: I’m depraved. Why is that? Why do I like sex so much?
I dressed demurely today and no one knew I wore nipple clamps underneath my mohair top. Call it penitence, but I couldn’t help but get off (figuratively) on the silent and constant wincing. It made me sultry for the photo shoot. I appeared "pained" and clearly succeeded in making myself an object of sympathy. It was the look the photographer was looking for, so that was good.
I have an important dinner with Jane tomorrow night. I’m going to ask her for some advice. I want to invest in some Internet stock, and she’s had some success.
Gotta cash up.
Jane and I had an all-business meeting—no flirting, no girl talk. It was pretty much serious. She advised me to invest heavily in Corican, a new start-up which, despite the dotcom dive, seemed a promising venture: apparently there was a strong positioning for its IPO—and a promise of a brilliant new product, a hand-held organizer with GPS capabilities—for under $500. I’m giving $4000. Now that’s in the neighborhood of 20 percent of my net worth, which is no small change. Wish me luck.
Otherwise, I’m making about one-third of stripper cash. At best. Maybe I should supplement?
Made a fucking amazing video. Had three guys up—and up! Lined their cocks with lines of coke. Snorted and configured the four of us so that everything was going on at once. Call me the pornographic choreographer! I had Loser 1 on my thighs, sucking away, had Loser 2 with his cock in my mouth, was fingering Loser 3, and was being caressed by Loser 4. We all switched things around so I got it every which way. Got drunk too. Cum beauty facial. Watched cartoons roasted.
Where to leave this video? You kidding? No way! I’m saving it!
Another month almost over. Have I made progress? Well, I’ve learned a thing or two about myself: that I am roasting in hell for sure. That I can’t get enough cock! And that I profit by taking time off cock. Such complications! (Do I have any will power?)
I should pepper this writing more with literary allusions, don’t you think? OK, here are some of my favorite writers: Brad Easton Ellis (natch), David Sedaris (funny), Candice Bushness (I mean Bushnell). Oh yeah, Proust, Dickens, Balzac, Voltaire, and Munch (just for his name). No, seriously, who hasn’t identified with The Scream?
I’m 28. About 5’7", 115. I have blonde hair, blue eyes, a pretty straight nose. Nice skin complexion, taut ass, decent legs, nice feet. I could lose a few pounds around my mid-section, and I think my shoulders are too broad. Yes, I like to dress provocatively, but also like to dress down—denim, white button-downs, the odd T.
Lately, I’ve taken to twiddling my snatch in public. I see an old man leering, for example. At a Starbucks. I plunge my hand in and lavishly paste my lips with my tongue. If he tries to approach, I yell "Manager!"
Another month, another dollar. Why won’t that photographer call me? I so obviously gave out my number. I couldn’t have been more obvious, yet all he did was smile. Smile! Does he know who he’s smiling at? It’s me? Coquette Melissa. Dynamite Melissa. Melissa who could turn any man into man-jelly! Doesn’t he know how powerful are my great powers? Doesn’t he know I’m the best at what I do? Screw him! Screw all men! I am me, and you can’t have me! Goodbye, cruel people. Take care. Blow off.
You think you’re all so important! Well who am I?
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