Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

I got my camera back the other day, and I am suffused by an overwhelming desire to rip off my clothes in front of it. Spend enough of your life being the good girl, and the desire to be bad becomes almost irresistible. Spend enough time being ignored, and all you want in the world is to be looked at. I set the tripod up tonight in the guest bedroom, hooked the camera to the computer, and started taking off my clothes. I discovered once again that just having the camera recording is an enormous turn on, even when there’s nobody on the other end to see. I don’t know how I ever questioned having an exhibitionist side. I have these intense fantasies about fulfilling anonymous strangers’ sexual desires. Doing anything they ask of me, while they watch, safely, from miles away. I think about the things they’d have me do, and wish that I wasn’t quite so concerned about propriety. Dream that I could make some random person’s night by giving them exactly what they want.

That was the homework I got at the production meeting on Saturday. So this morning, in lieu of getting anything productive written, I’ve been trolling sex addiction web pages for information. It’s a bad sign, I suspect, that I’m finding them a turn on. I’m making mental notes about characteristic behaviors, and realizing that they are all things that my reptilian hindbrain has frequently asked to do - only to be soundly nixed by the rest of my central processing unit. Basically, it seems that to play a sex addict I have to turn off the tight rein I usually have on my baser instincts, and then feel horrible about the things that makes me do. Not, all things considered, that difficult of an assignment. Well, at least not the first part. Especially given the fact that I’ve been fantasizing about taking off my clothes on camera again quite often during the past few days (all the ‘are you a sex addict’ quizzes ask if you’re drawn to participate in phone sex.) As I said to my director, “thanks for giving me one of very few addictions I have a hope in hell of understanding,” although I didn’t necessarily think it would be quite this easy*.

*I’m clearly not a sex addict, but it’s an area where I can clearly see how simple it would be to cross the line. This isn’t the case with drugs, cigarettes, or alcohol, since I’ve never had any real desire to use those substances… let alone abuse them.

Hopefully literally, because I need to get this post written before I leave for my afternoon meeting. My weekend guests/roomies will be here by the time I return, and I can’t write dirty things while they’re around. It would just be wrong. Like the phrase I woke up with in my head this morning, “he burns with the banked fires of one thousand mewing kittens.” What is that supposed to mean? I think the appropriate metaphor is “blazing suns.” Kittens don’t have a lot of banked fires. Not even the really silly ones who keep sticking their whiskers in the candle flames. Anyway, I got up from bed and thought ‘am I supposed to write porn starting with this? It’s going to have to be damned silly porn…’ So what the heck. It’s worth a shot.

———–

His eyes burned with the banked fires of a thousand mewing kittens. There was something in them that spoke of both incandescent rage and humbling helplessness. You wouldn’t want to get in the way of someone with eyes like that. You’d never know whether to fear him or to draw him into your lap and let him cry.

———-

Well that’s never going to work. Can’t start porn with an image of mewing kittens. Well, you probably can, but it’s not going to be any sort of porn that I either want to read or write. Time to rethink. Lets see. I’m feeling pretty fetching today, and I kind of have the hots for one of the women who is going to be at this meeting in a purely physical “I want to get her alone in an alley” way. I’m going to pre-write some history.

———

It was the second time we met. The first time we’d sat across the room from each other. Our eyes kept meeting, and holding, as though we were the only two people there who recognized what a fabulous joke this all was. She was the only one in the room who I hadn’t met before, or worked with, and she was gorgeous. Very much my type. Tall, gothic, with fabulous knee high leather boots and a mouth that looked like it could very easily sport fangs. Plus, she had a sense of humor. There’s nothing like a gorgeous woman with flashing eyes and a natural affinity for sarcasm. Sitting there, I felt like we made some sort of connection, but I didn’t have time to explore it and when the meeting was over had to rush out to someplace else.

This time, however, was different. Thirteen of us in a diner, and she made sure to snag the seat in the booth next to me. She was wearing the boots again. I was seriously outclassed. I might look pretty good in my low cut shirt and dark blue jeans, but I’d chosen footwear for puddle avoidance rather than impressing gorgeous goth girls and was glad my legs were hidden under the table. We chatted a bit, flirted the way girls do when we don’t know if we’re just discussing the universe at large or have a mutual agenda, and then it was time to discuss the film.

Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll. Well, at least the first two. I was waiting to see what the set-up would be. All I could think was ‘out of everyone in this room, the person I’d most want to have a sex scene with is her, but there’s no way that’s going to fly. I don’t see the director thinking that lesbian sex is going to give him the raw desperation he’s looking for. Show what little he knows.‘ The conversation veered off to one of its usual inane tangents with yet another unsubtle plea for money, and as we once again caught each others’ eye I felt her hand brush my thigh under the table. I quirked my eyebrow at her, dropped my hand to press hers to my leg, and smiled. Apparently she wasn’t straight after all, I hadn’t been sure. Yes she put out a vibe that made me want to end up out with her in a back alley, but it might have been undirected.

The meeting was endless, as these things are, made worse by the fact that I could feel the heat of her leg next to mine and her hand burning on my thigh. Not to mention the distraction of her truly magnificent breasts. She was much more interesting to look at than the director, who just kept talking and talking.

Eventually the meeting was over and people started to leave. I went to the ladies room to give the others a chance to depart so that we wouldn’t have to walk to the subway with the rest of the crowd. When I came back out, she was still there.

‘Oh good, you waited,” I grabbed my jacket and put it on to shield myself from the rain.

“Yeah, come on,” she said and I followed her out the door.

“My car is down the…” I cut off as she pulled me into a side alley and pushed me back against the bricks, “Oh,” I said, and then fisted my hands in her hair as she brought her head down to mine.

It was a few minutes later when we came up for air. “I’m not looking for anything long term,” she said as she wrapped my hair around her hands and pulled my head back, “are you okay with that?”

“I don’t care if I never see you after this movie is done, but if you leave right now I’m going to be seriously disappointed,” I moaned as she put her teeth to the curve at the base of my neck, “so please don’t stop,” and then she bit me and I let my head fall back and growled, “more.”

I started to run my hands over the curve of her ass, but she grabbed my wrists with one of her hands and held them above my head, “This is my show.”

———

So much for quick and dirty. I had to stop to go to my meeting, where I discovered I will in fact be playing a sex addict. So, sometime before BRXX I’m going to be having an awkward conversation with my director about whether my being marked up will add to the verisimilitude of the part or if I have to … um… restrain myself. I hope he votes for the first. I’d rather have to deal with embarrassing questions than have to worry about marks. Also, sadly, I discovered two things. First, the girl for whom I was lusting was not at the meeting, and second she has a boyfriend. A vampire boyfriend. I’m going to have to warp the story. Because, really, how could I resist?

———

“Well, well,” The alley darkened, and I heard a deep male voice speaking from the entrance, “What have we here?”

Cara spoke without looking away, “Look, darling! I found a toy! I want to play with her a while. You don’t mind do you?”

“I don’t know,” he said coming closer, “Let me see her.”

Cara stepped to my far side, and brought my wrists down behind my back so that I was standing with my shoulder blades pressed up against her breasts facing her boyfriend. He reached out a hand towards my face and I noticed that his nails were long and sharpened.

As he scratched a line from my cheekbone to my lip, I met his dark gaze solidly with my own. “No,” he said, “I don’t mind. At least not if you let me share.”

“It seems only fair,” Cara said, “you let me share last time, and she won’t object.” She took my ear lobe in her teeth and bit down slowly until I squirmed, “Will you?”

“Um. No.” All the blood had rushed out of my head, and so I stumbled a bit over the words. “I mean, yes. I mean. I don’t object. Whatever you want.”

He grabbed my hair and jerked my head back to stare up at him. “Whatever we want?”

I gasped, and my eyes closed for a moment, “Well, within reason.” I managed to get out, “and I’ll let you know if you’re crossing that line for anything that wouldn’t be a capital offense in the state of New York.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

“Fair enough,” he repeated, “Would you like me to hold her for you, darling? You looked like you were enjoying yourself when I arrived.”

“That would be delightful,” she said and spun me over so he could he pull me back against him, with my arms wrapped backward around his neck. “I do think, however, that she’s wearing far too many clothes, and now that you’re here it seems safe enough to do this,” she pulled my shirt and bra together up over my head and left them still restraining arms. “Nice,” she said, reaching out and grabbing my right nipple in the fingers of her left hand.”

“Not as nice as yours,” he replied.

“No,” she said, as she began to play with my breasts with her hands. “But, then again, I don’t get to do this to mine, do I?” she asked and then sucked one of my nipples into her mouth and bit down hard.

I moaned, and squirmed up against the man I hadn’t even been introduced to as she first held and then futher increased the pressure.

“No,” he admitted, and wrapped his free arm around my waist to hold me more firmly against him, “I suppose you don’t.” I could feel his arousal growing as he continued, “She seems to like it though.”

Cara stepped back for a moment, and smiled, “Appearances can be deceiving. Maybe you should check.” She ran her nails down my chest, and turned her attention to the other breast. “I need to even things out, anyway,” and she bit down again.

As I writhed in arousal and pain, I felt her boyfriend’s hand slip down lower on my stomach to the button of my jeans. He opened them, and then pushed them down towards my ankles, kicking my legs slightly apart with his feet. I felt his hand slide between my legs and he stroked the tip of one sharp nail along the soaking wet seam of my panties making me shiver, “Yes, I think you could say she’s enjoying it.”

————-

And another enforced break as the weekend roomies show up, we discuss our weeks, and we take some time to play with dogs. This is a really tough environment to write porn in. Every time I finally start getting into it I get distracted! While I’m here, though, being distracted, I want to mention that I have noticed a large number of ads in the Craigslist casual encounters section where men are looking for girls to finger in the bathroom at Starbucks (or the erotic books section at Borders, or an elevator.) Is this something that people actually do? I mean, it seems kind of hot, but extremely unlikely. Sort of along the lines of the generic “Latin dancing with someone and then getting pulled into the back hallway to suck them off” impractical fantasy. Is that a generic fantasy? I can’t imagine that it’s not. Partner dancing is such an enormous turn on. Anyway, now that I’m back in the mood…

————-

“Why, you’re quite a little slut, aren’t you Rona?” Cara stood up, and leaned back against the wall. “Why don’t you take over for a little while, Michael. I’ll just stand over here and,”I saw her hand snaking down into her own pants, “watch.”

“Are you sure?” Michael, asked while slipping his fingers beneath the cloth to pinch at my clit with his nails and make me squirm. “I’m sure she’d be happy use that mouth of hers for something other than moaning.”

I started to nod, when he pushed a finger inside me so suddenly that I gasped and came. My knees went weak and I couldn’t help shuddering as the sharpened nail of his thumb continued to scratch along the sides of my clit.

“Mmmm. I think I’m enjoying the show a little too much,” she said. “Do what you want with her. Bite her, fuck her, whatever you want. What I want is to watch you leave her on the ground in the alley, half naked, covered in her own fluids, looking like a whore, trying to pull her clothes back on before anyone can see, while you take me home for the rest of the night.”

“Cara, darling, you are a woman after my own heart.”

“After it? Hell, I have it.” I opened my eyes again to see her smiling with satisfaction, hand still moving between her legs. “So what are you going to do with her?”

“I don’t know,” he pushed me up against the wall, so I could feel the rough bricks scraping against my nipples and the bruises forming on my breasts, and then he ground his hard cock into my ass. “I could have her suck me off, but I think I want to get my teeth in her neck.”

I whimpered when he stepped away from me, and I felt the cold air whisper against my skin. “Don’t move,” he commanded, and I dropped my eyes and listened to the sound of a condom wrapper being ripped open and his zipper being pulled down. He kicked my legs farther apart and bent me farther towards the wall as he worked his way into me. Then he started fucking me. Deep, and hard, until I could feel the rough fabric of his pants scraping against my thighs. I placed my hands against the wall to keep my balance, and as I began to feel his rhythm change, one of his hands fisted in my hair, drew my head back, and he bit down slowly and deeply into my neck. Then, just as his hips stiffened in orgasm, I heard a pop as his teeth penetrated the the skin at the base of my throat. Three more thrusts, three deep sucking sensations against my neck, and he pulled out; his cock slipping from me as his canines withdrew from my skin.

I fell to the dirty pavement of the alley, and heard him say to Cara, “Was it good for you?”

“Oh yes,” she responded, and I could hear her breath slowly returning to normal, “and just look at her now. Naked and helpless.” I heard their lips meet in what sounded like a passionate kiss, “and you taste of fresh blood. Darling,” she moaned, “it’s time for you to take me home.”

Their footsteps echoed against the pavement as they retreated down the alley. I pulled myself together, as best I could, and headed back to my car for the drive home.

I am cursed by the over-thinking bug. Given a situation about which I have any doubts I run it over in my head until it envies a pancake for its relative depth. If I say something stupid, every couple of weeks I’ll end up replaying it in my head until I want to hide under the table. I think this is the reason why I don’t manage to have more sex. Even when I don’t have any doubts, I can pretty much be counted on to say something stupid. The other thing is… I’m terrified I’m bad at sex. I hate being bad at things, and although I am a relatively confident person in most areas (or at least can fake it), take off my clothes and put me in the room with another naked person expecting the possibility of orgasms and I get a little panic-y. I don’t know what to do. To what extent my particular sexual orientation has evolved to cover for this insecurity, I do not know, but I do know it is an excellent palliative. Doing what someone else wants, gets me hot, and having them tell me what they want eases some stress. I don’t have to guess. Of course, the best thing of all is when they just take what they want, because then I truly believe they want me.

Sometimes I find that unbelievable. I know where a lot of my sexual insecurities come from. I had a hard time in school. I was smart. I liked being different too much to try and fit in. I did fine in elementary school, but once I hit Junior High I got a lot of abuse from my classmates, particularly the boys. They spat on me. They dropped bugs in my food. Once, one of them slammed a chair back into my hand where it rested over the edge of my desk and almost broke several of my fingers. I was called lezzie or dyke, and was beaten up several times in the girls locker room. I was the 80’s teen movie cliche. The untouchable ugly girl who walked the halls in her black clothing who everybody hated.

Eventually I got out of that school, and went to a private school where I made friends, but it took a hell of a lot longer than that for me to trust that anyone could be interested in _me_, and I hurt some people along the way by giving into terror. My first kiss was part of a rehearsal for a scene from Taming of the Shrew when I was 17. I remember that on my birthday the previous year we were at a restaurant, and someone made a “sweet 16 and never been kissed” joke, and I must have blushed because all of a sudden they were taunting one of the waiters “kiss her kiss her.” I didn’t run screaming from the room, but I wanted to. It hurt. A lot.

When I went off to college, I came out as bisexual, and slowly became comfortable with my sexuality - but primarily in the abstract. I don’t think during my entire four years I ever went out on more than 2-3 dates with someone, at least in part because I’d run away before I thought it might be expected that it would be time to have sex. Ironically, I spent much of those 4 years working as a safer-sex peer educator, while I don’t think I ever even got to second base. There was a second irony, though, too. I had been masturbating almost once a day, if not more, since I hit puberty. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in sex, I was just scared of it.

Fast forward to graduate school. I had met a wonderful woman at a strange-acquaintance’s party and when we stumbled upon each other a year later at a science fiction convention she invited me to “one of _those_ parties.” A room full of people, nice people, engaging in BDSM. It was a fantasy come true (somewhat literally, since the staple of my preferred masturbation fodder had been rape fantasies and explicit pain scenes since I was 12). It was also where I met my first boyfriend. I was 22. In the time while we were dating, I experienced a lot of firsts. I discovered that I really enjoyed pain. I found out I was not inherently opposed to polyamory. I didn’t make it to third base. He was a wonderfully patient guy (and had at least 2 other girlfriends), but I either wasn’t comfortable enough with him, or attracted enough to him, to explore that far sexually. I could sleep with him, but there wasn’t any genital contact.

We broke up, eventually, for various reasons. He couldn’t understand my primary relationship being with school, I couldn’t understand his aversion to my giggling while we kissed. The breakup didn’t go well, but I had started dating someone new. Technically, someones new. The couple to whom I eventually lost my virginity. I’m not sure what it was, but the first time I met the man in person, after much e-mail conversation and flirting, I knew I wanted to sleep with him. Hell, the first time I met him in person I probably would have fucked him in a public hallway. He kissed me and all the neuroses disappeared, at least for a little while. I still remember him saying to me “Remember how you feel right now… consider it a promise,” and walking back down the hall to go home with the other man I was still dating with a glazed look in my eye knowing I was never going to get that from him. I think it was less than two months later that I lost just about every possible virginity I could to both a man and a woman in one amazing night, and only shortly thereafter that I first had penetrative sex. It was great. He knew that he was my first (and so did she), and so they were really good at providing… instruction in a way that didn’t feel awkward. But I still over thought. As, if you’ve read the rest of this blog, you’ve probably learned.

In the many years since then, I’ve only had sex with 3 other men and 2 women. Only one of those men do I regret (and no, it’s not anyone to whom I have given the address of this blog) , but I’m still extremely twitchy, and picky, about sex, because I’m still afraid that I’m bad at it or doing it wrong. I’m comfortable bottoming in just about any situation; I started doing that a while before I became sexually active and never felt these kind of nerves about it. Maybe because I think that people have fewer expectations about “skill.” BDSM isn’t something a woman in her twenties or thirties is necessarily supposed to know about, unlike sex. I also put the weight of these expectations on myself. To be perfectly frank, I generally find it mortifying to admit these nerves, or my relative inexperience (at least for the circles in which I travel) to people I might otherwise be interested in being sexual with. To say to them “please tell me what you want, or if I’m doing something wrong, because I honestly don’t know. I won’t be offended. I’d actually feel more comfortable with a little, or a lot of, direction.” I feel like it’s imposing. So, most of the time, I don’t. And I don’t sleep with them. And by and large I continue to be an extremely sexually frustrated woman who is very glad she reviews sex toys as part of her job.

Mind you, I had a blast the other weekend, but god only knows if it will happen again*. So I am keeping my eyes open for other people with whom I can be comfortable enough to share these things, and hopefully have some more guilt-free sex. God only knows I have it constantly on the brain, so it would be nice if I could manage to get some more than once every couple of years. I also really miss having a local Playspace that I adored. I was a lot less sexually frustrated when I could count on getting a good beating just about every week.

It’s hard. On one hand, I’d really like to fall in love, get married, and have kids. On the other hand, I’d be pretty darn happy to be someone’s sexual pet every once in a while, check some things off my to do list, and otherwise go on living my wonderful life with my dog… maybe having a baby on my own. Of course, what would be ideal would be to find both. Someone to fall in love and have children with who doesn’t preclude the possibility of fabulous kinky sex and occasional sensual decadence. Someone to cook breakfast with in the morning who will take me up against the wall at night. Someone who wants the things I want, but also wants me.

I don’t really think they’re out there, but it’s a nice fantasy. In the mean time, I’m going to have to work on being more comfortable saying ‘yes’ to the things I want rather than sighing about not getting them. Oh, and on not over-thinking. Because I spend way too much time dwelling on what I have or haven’t done, or have or haven’t said, than simply doing, or saying, something else.

See? I’ve just done it again. To make up for it, I promise the next post will be nothing but dirty.

* I’m getting better, I really am, but my rampant insecurity sometimes makes it difficult for me to believe anyone would want to sleep with me once, let alone twice.

“Today we’re going to practice counting.”

“Aw, crap.”

“Aw, crap?” he punched me casually on the shoulder while I was still struggling out of my boots. “What kind of response is ‘Aw, crap?’ ?”

“I was a math major. Math majors don’t count. We do partial differential equations in our heads, but counting? This is going to kick my ass.”

“I’d like to point out to you,” he continued, as he positioned me over the horse, “that you are the one who asked for a formal caning scene.”

I propped myself up on my elbows, “Clearly I was out of my head, what I meant to say was… HEY!”

He had knocked my arms back out from underneath me, and I flopped back over with a loud *huff* of air.

“Yes?”

“That counting sounds delightful.” I then went on, under my breath, “Would you prefer base ten, or is binary the choice of the evening?”

He fisted his hand in my hair and raised my face to look at him, “You are a very lucky girl, because I am an extremely nice man who is going to resist the temptation to make you count in binary while I cane you. Count yourself lucky.”

“One, ten, eleven, lucky”

“Brat,” he said, but he was smiling as smacked me on the ass and grabbed the first cane.

“Now, you know how this works, right?” he asked and swung the cane.

I yelped.

“Nope. That was a cute noise, but you’re supposed to say ‘Thank you sir, one.’ Lets try again”

I both felt and heard the cane strike against against my skin, and spoke up, “Thank you sir, two.”

“Two? You really can’t count. You don’t get credit unless you get the number right. You really need to work on your motivation.”

The cane swung again and I could feel it strike perfectly next to the two previous blows. I bit back the curse as the sensation rushed through me and said, “One, thank you sir.”

“You’re really not good at this, are you? That was supposed to be ‘Thank you sir, one.’”

“Oh, bloody hell,” I yelped again as the cane came swinging down.

“One for bad language. Shall we start again?”

“Once more with feeling!” smack, the came came down again and I gasped in a breath as the sensation flooded through me. My back arched. “Thank you sir, one.” I continued, “damn, but I’d forgotten how much I like this.”

“What was that? An addendum? I don’t believe we negotiated footnotes. One more try?”

*smack*

“And the number of thy counting shall be three!”

*smack*

“No Monty Python jokes. The number of thy counting shall be one.” He paused for a second to take aim and carefully laid the 8th stroke right on top of the seventh.

I inhaled the scream and he waited patiently for me to speak. Slowly I managed to get the words out. “Thank you sir, one.”

He paused and waited as my breathing slowly returned to normal. Then the cane came down once more, and instead of gasping I started to giggle.

The cane struck again and again, until my ass and thighs were covered with my own personal barcode of red, and I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

“Thank you sir, one!” I barely managed to get it out as I slid towards the floor trying to calm down enough to get some air.

He pulled me up by my hair and spun me to look at him. The look in his eyes was unreadable as I asked, plaintively, “But I thought we were going for a dozen?”

His hand fisted harder behind my neck, and for a moment I thought I had actually made him angry, but then his smile broke through and he started to laugh, “At this rate, that would take until next year. Why don’t we try for a more reasonable goal,” he chuckled as he put me back over the horse, “like two.”

I knew that if I could see him, one eyebrow would be raised, and I smiled as he laid down yet another stroke, “Oh ye of little faith,”

*strike”

“Thank you sir, one.”

Sadly, the rest of my body doesn’t often follow, but it does bring back a conversation I had with a friend a few years ago about how he had always wanted to have sex with a sleeping/unconscious girl. (Why? Because my reptilian hindbrain is making ‘fuck me’ noises while my gross superstructure’s only desire is to pass into blissful states of liquid unconsciousness. That’s why.) If I recall correctly, one of the main motivations for his desire was to be able to use a woman how he wanted, solely for his own pleasure, without needing to think about her at all. To have his own real life real doll. Being the sort of person I am, I, of course, found this incredibly hot. Alas, though, it never happened.

Fast forward to last month, when I was reminded viscerally once again that my primary sexual kink is being used as an instrument of someone else’s pleasure. (I don’t know what my primary kinkual kink is. Maybe singletails? The knife fetish is in another realm entirely.) So, as of late, my reptilian hindbrain has been spending the early morning tormenting my sleep-deprived, overly analytical, forebrain with the desire to just turn my body over to someone else for a few days to do with as they will.

Together, then, my brain and body get terribly excited by the prospect. I’m not terribly goal-oriented when it comes to having sex with other people. If I just want orgasms, I can give them to myself… and usually do so with the assistance of erotica where the female protagonist has abdicated control. So what turns me on in, for lack of a better term, interactive sex is being told what my partner wants… or letting them take it.

Someday I’m going to find someone who wants to keep me as a sex toy for the weekend… who I’ll feel comfortable saying yes to. Hopefully, it will be sooner rather than later. My reptilian hindbrain really does get quite annoyingly frisky… maybe a few days of getting what it’s asking for would convince it to take a short nap in the sun.

“Don’t throw me into the brier patch, bre’er fox,” I said. Then suddenly I thought, “What an excellent idea. Throw me in. Do.”

I want to write a book of erotic fairy tales. I know it’s been done before, but there is a reason that fables last so long. They resonate. In the meantime; however, I was thinking about the brier patch.

I like pain.

Part of it is the intensity of the stimulation. Hurt me. More. Make me pay attention to nothing else. Make me scream.

Part of it, though, is proving I can. It’s a way of conquering fear. It’s harder to be afraid of something you embrace and seek out with abandon.

So beat me with sticks and scratch me with thorns. Grant me pain as an avenue of escape. Throw me in, bre’er Fox. It’s where I live.

I picture it, and smile. A tumble in the woods. Rough bark against my back, or the chill of ice cold river water rushing past my toes. Skin caught on brambles, branches percussive against my skin… and if you make me scream, I win.

Although it may be difficult to credit, I am extremely shy. I cover it well, because in my many professions it is necessary to be outgoing, shiny, and bold, but there is a reason why in my non-creative jobs I tend to be known as “the shy, quiet, one.”

I bring this up, because I was informed earlier this week that my voiceovers have been added to the web trailers on the adult film website, and I can’t bring myself to watch them. I have, in general, no problems watching porn. I may not find it arousing all the time, but it rarely bothers me unless the female actors have disturbingly large fake breasts. Yet, the thought of watching hardcore pornography trailers with my voice narrating the action makes me want to run and hide, blushing, in the closet. I’m not entirely certain why. It doesn’t bother me that other people might watch them, I just am far too embarrassed to do so myself. Which is really kind a shame, because I suspect that these are films I would actually like.

I wonder if this at all related to the fact that I’m more embarrassed to be around naked people than to be naked around people. With the second, it’s more that I tend to feel that I should be embarrassed rather than actually feeling embarrassed. With the first I just have no idea where to look. My eyes wander inappropriately. I, to continue a theme, want to hide blushing in the closet. I should keep a chair in there, or something. Maybe a bean bag. That would be portable and I could bring it for different sized closets at events where there were likely to be naked people around. It would be awesome! Every time I said something stupid, or glanced somewhere inappropriate, I could run away and take a flying dive face-first into a giant squishy pile of beans. And, in interim times, George (for what else would one name such a chair) could live in my car to facilitate napping on long drives!

I am going to stop writing this ridiculous entry now, because I am laughing too hard at the mental image of “Still Life of Naked Girl Half Swallowed By Beanbag.” In my mind it looks like disturbingly like an Olivia pin-up.

… which would be a far more interesting admission if it weren’t just a matter of my hair getting frisky. All things considered, my hair is far more into bondage than I am. Most of the time my reaction to getting tied up is “I wonder how easy this will be to escape,” but it seems to actively enjoy coming up with creative methods of ensnarement. I knew that “kinky”was an accepted descriptor for curly hair, but I really never thought that this was what people meant when they said it! Learn something new every day.

and yet, in a week when my libido is low at any other time of day, that’s when I can be counted on to be thinking about sex. Part of it, I suppose, is that I wake up stimulated by the remnants of dreams which often tend to be either terrifying or sexual, both emotions that arouse. Last night, in my dreams, I was once again an exhibitionist. Parading in front of open shades in white lace bra, panties, and garter belt, I was pretending I didn’t think anyone could see while desperately hoping someone was watching.

I can’t quite figure out whether the origin of my exhibitionist fantasies is truly in a desire to be watched, or whether it comes from a desire to be naughty. “What will they think of me?” is less an exclamation of dismay than a hope that just for once instead of being the brain I’ll be the body. I enjoy being whistled at or cat-called by men on the street; it’s a form of attention I didn’t get when I was young and still don’t often get one-on-one. A lot of that is due to presentation, I can be an attractive girl, but most of the time I feel like a mouse and what you feel like has a powerful effect on how others see you (except for gas station attendants 20 years my senior… who have regularly been hitting on me since I was 17.)

The times, therefore, when I do feel like a gypsy princess or just a saucy New York girl striding the streets in my tall boots and short skirts, I am torn between feeling beautiful and feeling like the ugly duckling playing dress-up in the swan’s white feather boa. What, I think, would someone think if they met me today, but saw me tomorrow? Stripped of glamour, standing in my skin, I need my brain and tongue to be enough. Cleverness is my version of cute, which is why sometimes I try too hard to show it off. I think, sometimes, it must be far more simple to be a swan, they seem to thrive without a thought of anything but preening in their heads. Simpler, though, has never been what I’ve sought. While it would be nice to be the beautiful girl who draws every eye when she walks through the door, I value my mind far more.

Still, if you catch a glimpse of a girl through open shades. Naked, or dressed in the briefest lingerie. Head turned as though to deny the presence of the world, but with back straight and hair tossed back, you should wonder, “Is this a show for me?” Because, if it’s my window, it very well might be. Just for once, look but don’t listen. I want to be desired for what you see. Not for the essence of what is me.