sextherightway

the end

2008-09-07T20:36:00.000-07:00

I must close this blog as a chapter in my life is closing. Thank you to all those who had the patience to read it and see you in cyberspace.
Love, Sylvia

sunday fantasy

2008-04-07T21:56:00.000-07:00

She sat on his face. She removed her knickers off her pussy, to the side. His tongue juiced up her lips. Labia lips.
He always wondered how many women would he be able to fuck at once.
He never seemed to agree with himself on the number. two, three? maybe five?
She grabbed the sides of his head. She moved the head back and forth as if it were a salt shaker. She groaned.
He took a big breath and her pussy lips covered his nostrils for a second. He could smell her flesh. He could smell the strength of her wish to be fucked. Through the transparent skin on her pussy.
She put her head back. She closed her eyes and she wished the death of her pleasure. Possibly an orgasm.
He stopped. He pushed her on her back. He opened her legs wider with one hand. He bolstered his cock against her clit. Ten. Maybe twelve. What would it be like to fuck one hundred pussies all at the same time?
She twisted her nipple to red. She blushed but his cock filled her up to the rim. She resisted his thrust. She pretended she's not interested but the hammering accelerated. She begged for forgiveness... Or orgasm.
One hundred fresh pussies to lick, to love and fuck. Red pussies, black pussies, shaved pussies, tight pussies, generous pussies...Fuck...Fuck...He comes.
Her cunt tightened. It convulsively sucked the life out of his cock. She gave in to pleasure. She gave in to him.
It was a sunny day. She closed her book. She couldn't focus on studying anyway. She stood up from the love seat. She picked the underwear out of her ass. She walked to the window. If only someone would call. Maybe she'll settle for a nap. She'll go out tonight anyway.

Victor Oh dear

2008-03-19T11:05:00.000-07:00

Santa Monica is quiet a happenin' place. My best friend's birthday was yesterday and we went out for dinner and drinks. She developed an extreme case of drunken logorrhea which is like a diarrhea, but with words.
She talked some dude's head off while he was fueling her rampage with $ 6 drinks. However, she had an eye on this very handsome guy who was talking to his friends in a corner. She was off to play some pool not before giving me instructions on letting the guy know it was her birthday.
He was wearing a motorcycle jacket. White. Ducati. Handsome as a Greek God. He walked to the bathroom. I tripped him on his way back. He turned towards me. His name was Victor. Oh, dear. I told him my friend really liked him and he told me he recently broke up with his girlfriend of two years. "Sorry for your loss" I heard myself reply. What I really meant was: "my friend is looking for a one night stand, not a marriage license". He said hello to Jenn, my girl, but kept it simple.
Later on that night, as I was brushing off some seriously drunk sticky guy, Victor and his friends were waiting in the parking lot. Jenn attacked them all at the same time. Victor oh dear must have been flattered. So young and playing such a tough game.
We went to Swingers for breakfast. Jenn never stopped talking, not even for a quick breath. Victor oh dear sat in his corner staring into Jenn's monologue. I started an interesting conversation about motor bykes and antique cars with the man opposite to me. I learned a few things about shifting gears on a race car.
I gazed in Victor's direction. Such strong features. Sculpted and dark lips. Prying brown eyes. Shy medium sized hands. His strategy of conquest is exceptional for such a young man. He is obviously used to girls coming on to him. Once you'd notice him, you are on his territory, playing his game. He holds your attention against your will, with hypnotic moves and quiet demeanor. He waits for the pray to feel safe and cozy in a friendly, gentleman guarded environment. that way, if he attacks, the pray has no defense. But the key of his strategy is listening. He listened, he learned things about the oblivious girl, who was sweating a joke. The more she would try to entertain, the more she would drown into his silence and the more power he had over her.
Victor oh dear kept it interesting. he opened the door for Jenn, walked to the car and told her he would email her and he would want two things from her: a pic of her fav art piece and a childhood pic. he's good. he'll never email her, but he kept the illusion for as long as he could. for his own vanity. he even made it specific.
Jenn crashed on my couch and we woke up to coffee and croissants.

love left overs

2008-02-28T18:26:00.000-08:00

Good Bye, my love! Such an apocryphal story we lived. My butch defense met your see through wall. We bumped hardies and both picked up pieces of our failed game. And baby, what a game!
3 years ago I played my field with a strippologist approach. I was Sylvia, the stripper who loved more than one man at a time. I had L and M and occasionally V, a millionaire from Australia who also helped pay bills and gave me rides in his chauffeur driven Bentley. They all knew I wasn't marriage material and yet they all put their hearts on the altar of love for Sylvia. Unconditionally. Indefinitely. Absolutely. Sylvia forgot how to love, in the process.
Then you came along. Emotionally unavailable, or as you say, you built up a wall of insensitivity to me. You told me I scared you. Fear. Such a beautiful concept in the context of my life before love. I was a tyrant. I knew the power of fear. I didn't know how to make it go away. I wasn't even aware of it, until you told me I scared you.
3 years ago you played your field with a bull in heat approach, fucking everything that moved. That's how you met K, whom you now despise and don't want to forgive while you ask me to forgive you. You loved K once, remember?
Well, my love, a funny thing happened: our love became a thief. Secretive and on the run.
I broke my butch defense and you broke your glass wall. Stop trying to bring it back up. There's no more fear for you to feel. I don't want to harm you. Sylvia is tired. Sylvia will say good bye to you. Go and live your life and be happy.
Good Bye!

Story of a Greek

2008-02-21T14:41:00.000-08:00

The Place: West Hollywood. The Time: Ride the Party. The Characters: Me and the Greek in a mass of unknown party goers.
The Greek is confident and his demeanor: stone. He's so young. He never loses track of me. His eyes are glued to my snaking in between other jungle animals. He told me: "you're gonna be the death of me". This made the top three hottest catch phrases a guy could try me with. What did he know about death anyway?
We danced. Trance music, sweaty gay boys showing off chiseled bodies, laughter and the pain of those eyes. The Greek had eyes that knew too much. He was carrying the burden of his thoughts. Every time he spoke he sounded like a prophet. A twenty and change years old prophet.
The first time we made love we never said a word to each other. Pure animal desire guided us. The Greek had confident hands to match his demeanor. His eyes told me stories that I never heard before in a brief REM sequence that I could only read as my own dream.
The West Hollywood party deafened us. We walked to the parking lot. He told me: "you contrast yourself with other people. are you trying to seduce me?"
"is it working?"
"well, Mrs Robinson, no need to try."
We had sex in the car, under a street lamp. I sat on top of him, in the passenger seat. The windows fogged up, the car was rocking and a security guard knocked on our window with a lit torch. We didn't stop until we came.

and you called

2008-01-09T08:46:00.000-08:00

and you called after one million years. life is brittle death in between your calls. I actually am in a functional relationship. a man finally loves me for what I am. and you called.
nothing happened since last time we spoke. the Earth stopped spinning, the wind stopped blowing, same old, same old.
Is it funny that I'm sitting in my underwear in front of the computer at six am, listening to amy whinehouse? Is it funny that I am writing about you and how water tastes like sand after you and I stopped loving each other?
We decided to be friends. last night was a good buddies night out. watched the game, talked movies, bitched about the writer's strike, environment and elections, just like we always do. we even had a heated argument about artistic integrity in hollywood. all fine with this picture except: why do I smell you on my clothes? why did you touch the back of my arm at 11:47 pm? why did you hug me and told me you loved me? why did you not make love to me?
my man came home from work late. very late. my body was still emanating heat from your embrace. my man and I went to bed and spoke about our days. I failed to tell him that I went out with you. which is to say, I wanted to tell him but stubborn words wouldn't come out of my mouth. we made love. my man and I. which is to say he made love to me. while I was fighting his kiss. his breath fell on my neck. my breath was suspended on your smell on my clothes. his hands kept my face still and he searched for my eyes. closed. cause I was thinking of you.
he enjoyed those minutes of desperation while my mind was back to when you and I were making love like Gods in Olympus. cause when you and I made love, Gods watched and envied.
If only you'd never call again. I could maybe learn to breathe again.

In loving support of S

2008-01-05T16:42:00.000-08:00

S is 21 years of age, full hair combed to the left and a plus size personality. People love and admire him for his ability to throw a party, his taste in clothing and his fully functional gaydar.
"Welcome, darling! Fix yourself a cocktail while I announce you" he says when he opens the door. The party has nothing short of a Holly Golightly gathering. S smokes through a cigarette holder twice his own height.
Soubrette Girl is S's personal assistant/scape goat. She informs me that tonight's party celebrates a very specific event. I dress up as a cop. Get my best set of handcuffs out (I bought them on a trip to Paris, ohh the good old days!!). S prepared the living room for my arrival. He installed a stripper pole right in the middle of it. Blue/red/black lights confuse the atmosphere and throw shadows over life size pictures of Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan. He makes a speech and concludes it with "Bring it home, Sylvia". So I strap on my rubber cock...don't get ahead of me, people...I handcuffed him to a chair, I spank him with a leather paddle (softer than most whips) and had him suck my rubber cock.
S is celebrating his going to jail. His second DUI (the first one he got at 18 years old) will put him in jail for thirty days. He called a stripper (me) to enact the events that led to his arrest and the eventual events following the arrest, which in his dramatic imagination all ended into sucking cocks. Talking about seeing the full half of the glass; the boy could put to shame Walt Disney.
I salute you, oh S, for you only can carry on the gift of positive thinking and bring over a stripper to reenact your arrest!

Good Morning

2007-12-05T12:11:00.000-08:00

"Don't play with morning wood!"
I'm not playing. It's just that I was sound asleep and the alarm went off. I reached for the remote control. for no reason.
Fell asleep for 10 more minutes. even had time to dream a little bit. then the alarm goes off again.
He jumps out of bed, fresh like a rose, gets the alarm on my side of the bed and turns it off. He gets naked. His cock pointed towards me. I can see it through my half open eyes. He checks his messages on his cell, but his cock stares at me in that raging morning fashion. I turn on the other side, trying to fall asleep again. He reaches for his watch, on his side of the bed, over the poor asleep me. His cock on my forehead. I don't want to jump to conclusions, but it looks like no matter where I stand, his cock is in my face.
"I'll jump in the shower." he says and gives me a kiss. My legs instinctively wraped around him. He continued kissing me until his cock found its way inside me and we stayed there for a while and thrusted against each other and sparks were coming out of our naked bodies and we both warmed our souls up to this morning light coming through the glass wall facing the bed.
We took turns to exploding in small rainbows. I got mine first and he worked some more for his. He announced his orgasm like it was the show of the season.
we stayed there and kissed and laughed and whispered even though he was late for work. He jumped in the shower and I went back to sleep dreaming of him saying that I shouldn't play with morning wood.

The Business of Love

2007-10-16T12:06:00.000-07:00

Lovely mandolin music and lowered lights encourage us to sit down on the patio of Antica Pizzeria, in Marina del Rey.
M and P bursted into a conversation on stocks and personal financial growth before the waiter could hand us the menus.
I listened for as long as I could to what they were saying. and my personal record on such conversations listening is of about 3 secs. We ordered food and wine. Then we talked about P's girlfriend, who is not the best looking girl he ever had, but is the one who worships him the most. No judgement here.
M, on the other hand, said he's lonely and looking to settle down, therefore he approaches the dating market as he'd approach any other market: research. It's a business afterall and size doesn't matter. should I add the dreaded "lol" here?
The business of love, what an interesting concept! A British Study once revealed that the behavior of a person in love is quiet similar to the behavior of a psychotic person. Does psychosis come with a side of stocks and investment plans? How much would my total commitment be worth on such a market? How much no commitment, but exciting sex life is worth?
There's a virtual community lifestyle which allows the "Love Economy" to flourish, by pairing people up according to 29 characteristics they may have, or needs, or sexual behaviors. When did we become so easily labeled? What happened to the good old confusion and self doubt that kept us into growth mode? Does being an individual count any more?
What should a person like me enter under the 29 characteristics?
1. Blonde stripper and counting
2. Blue eyes
3. Size does matter
4. Pro blow job giver (Won a medal for this one)
5. demands commitment
6. so she can cheat
7. likes to sleep in
8. half Italian
9. half Promiscuous
10. married
11. never late
12. always on time
13. are you submissive?
14. if not, stop reading this
15. it's not for you
16. are you still reading?
17. shame on you
18. fine! pull your pants down
19. can you speak with your mouth full?
20. say "RRRRRRR"
21. harder
22. harder
23. !
24. thank you
25. we'll let you know
26. next
27. Blonde stripper and counting
28. Blue eyes
29. etcaetera, ecc
However, the Pizza was good.

playing footsie

2007-10-04T18:44:00.000-07:00

Party of forty at 8pm! Forty guys gathered around a couple of poker tables needed entertainment in a dive bar somewhere in the Valley. Good money, boring night, I figured. However, I talked to some of them, flirted with some others, getting tip after tip and smiling my way around.
M walks in with shades, cigar and beer. M grunts at his friends who push him to get a lap dance. My partner slides all over him, she seduces him with her ice cold looks. M doesn't respond. He's somewhat empty and away. Maybe it's because of the glasses and the harsh neon lights.
Cards are dealt, money spin, cards are unreaveled, poker chips are thrown over the green tables. I sit on M's lap. he won. He gives me chips and a tip but avoids my eyes and my touch. I place my crying call and walk to the bathroom. M walks after me. He smiles. I walk inside the bathroom. When I come out M is waiting at the door.
"I wanna ask you something" he says.
Time for a fast play, I'm thinking.
"How about a private lap dance?"
"How private?"
"A thousand bucks private"
Jackpot, I'm thinking.
We walk into a badly lit backroom. He sits down. Pulls out of his pocket a roll of hundreds.
"Tell me to give you this money" he whispers.
Ahh, there you were, my dear M. Playing coy, are you? I walked closer to him. I grabbed the money out of his hands.
"Get on your knees"
He quietly obliged.
"My feet are hurting. Massage."
He massaged my feet with unexpectedly soft hands. He kissed and he licked and his tongue felt like warm mud between my toes. He adored and he worshipped and I was watching and learning. He unbottoned his pants.
"Did I say you could unbotton?"
"Sorry"
"...Sorry, Mistress Sylvia"
"Sorry Mistress Sylvia"
The night just got interesting, so interesting, in fact, that I left at 4am. not before I promissed my new found friend that he'll get the chance to give me a pedicure. Soon.

trigger happy

2007-08-14T00:22:00.000-07:00

R called. He lives in Italy.
R was never a go getter. He was well born and chronically unhappy. The mere thought of dating another eligible young lady with marriage prospects made him sick to his stomach. Literally. Indigestion was his biggest excuse for ditching these beautiful young pretenders. 9-10 years ago he stumbled upon me.
R had a larger than normal sensibility. He gambled with feelings the same way people gamble with money. And he was a feeling junkie to the extent of saying things like: "Hurt me" followed by: "Thank you for existing"
We never had sex in the three years we were seeing each other. We had near sex experiences, but we never had sex.
The freeway was extending narrow and dark in front of us. Curves and rocky mountains guarding the road were painting a very eerie atmosphere. R was driving at safety speed: 60 km/h.
"Step on it" I said.
He glanced at me with teary blue eyes hidden by thick rimless glasses. He accelerated to 75 km/h.
"Faster" I said. "I'm in a hurry".
He looked straight ahead this time and the speed was 90 km/h.
"you can't drive, stop the car, I'll drive."
"you don't have a license"
The speed was 110 km/h now.
"you slow fuck.move it."
"I can't see the road"
I pressed his right foot on the gas pedal with my hand. The speed was 150 km/h. The freeway became small and even tighter. Tunnel with blinding lights. Complete darkness on a two lane road.
"I can't" he was sweating, almost crying.
I opened the glove compartment, pulled out the Smith & Wesson 629 and pointed it to his head.
"Drive" The speedometer read 220km/h. R was sweating white in the face and blind in the eyes. I cocked the gun I was holding to his head. The sound of the bullet stopping at the shooting position bounced off our silence.
"Ahhh" he whispered.
We reached our destination and he opened the door and threw up the tension that accumulated inside him for the past 10 minutes. We walked into the restaurant, sat at a table, ordered Brunello di Montalcino wine. The waiter brought our antipasti than the pastas we selected.
"I think it's gonna rain tomorrow" he said.
I agreed.

toilet sex

2007-08-10T01:10:00.000-07:00

Dance with me. Dance me to the end of love. Dance like that time you asked me to feel you. You told me you were embarrassed by your hard on. You asked me not to notice it while you were dancing with me and rubbing it against my inner thigh. We were telling each other sex stories and laughing at our own short comings. we didn't know that laughter, that comfort was going to get us in trouble. or maybe we were both looking for trouble.
Remember how we were fighting? Remember all that tension that you always dissolved with a kiss?
Every time you kissed me I had to succumb to you. Which is exactly why I didn't kiss you when we broke up. You kiss with poison. You kiss smoothly. Tease. You kiss like a soft animal's fur on naked skin. I wish I could forget your kiss.
The rhythm builds up and we want to find a definition of what we do. Fuck me. My breath fogs up the glass wall. I see myself in it. I see you whispering. I cover your mouth. People walk in and out of the restroom. I'm sure they heard us. I'm sure someone will see your shoes and pants down to your ankles that show under the toilet's three quarter cut door. Fuck me harder. I can feel your cock enlarging my Ego, my soul, my desire for you. My fingers try to cover your lips, but you bite them and suck them to make me feel even more.
I walked back into the club with sperm drying on the back of my leg. My mind was still on your lips that were tightened around sobs and shakes you were trying to strangle for fear of being heard. Our friends didn't even notice we were gone. I missed you.

four reasons

2007-08-03T19:48:00.000-07:00

to love you or not to love you, that is the question, my dear!
ofcourse "to love" has a good argument behind it in our feeling driven society. That's why I made a list: reasons to love you and reasons not to love you.
under reasons to love you: 1. you're Jewish, a girl can always use Jewish witt in her life; 2. you tell me I'm beautiful and interesting 3. we laugh 4. I love you
under reasons not to love you: 1. you didn't call me this week 2. you live with your best friend who has a crush on you (and between you and I, she's slightly over weight)
3. you snore 4. I love you.
should I break up with you? should I come back to reality and pretend it didn't happen once more? Should I give up on love all together?
Of course I can't ask to be the most important thing in your life, the outmost priority, the air you breathe. That would be selfish.
I don't know how to play second fiddle, I don't know how to love without passion and consuming need. Love is no fun without need. Will you let me need you?
What a fool I am. You've got a career to care about. No time for love there. Hollywood is such a cruel place. It promises love, glory and eternity. However, it redefines our concepts of love, glory and eternity by isolating us and sucking out the passion from every minute we love, every minute we feel, every minute we care.
I will break up with you. I love you.

miami fever

2007-07-30T16:39:00.000-07:00

spent my birthday week in miami. beach time, sauna like humidity, turquoise ocean brought all my good thoughts into one happy place. Oh, miami! Oh Delano Hotel! so many people to bitch about, so little time.
I am tanned. not worth the pain though. Bought one of them floaties. covered myself with SPF 30 lotion. laid in the water, at the tidal waves' mercy, looking at people, seagulls, talking to my friends, avoiding a bathing suit with no owner here, a hygienic towel there. When i got back to the room, I looked like a seared steak. Needless to say I spent the night hugging the aloe/lidocane ointment bottle.
back in LA, looking forward to prove myself: after all I'm one year older. A cold sore on my bottom lip keeps me grounded. Bought some Abreva medication. $17 fot the tiniest tube, only to discover that it has no ingredients that fight cold sores whatsoever. The only active ingredient is alcohol! Nice. $17 for an alcohol swab!
Since I'm a stripper and all, cold sores are never welcome. Not that they would be if I wasn't a stripper. I'll just have to pretend I had a collagen shot and play the plastic surgery card. which I hate. I'm known in the industry for my natural assets.
Now, in addition to the cold sore, my nose is pealing and I look flaky. I can't find a better word for it: it's just flaky.
Happy Birthday to me!

tongue piercing

2007-07-07T19:04:00.000-07:00

D is a perfect coffee company. He always has an entertaining story to tell. He's somewhat insecure. Although a good looking man, he's always afraid he'll be judged or put to the test. He avoids any type of commitment and is scared that the Universe holds a huge conspiracy that'll eventually get him trapped.
We had coffee the other day. the argument of tongue piercing came up: is it sexy or not? then he told me stories of his newly acquired wife. He married her because she invested money in a new restaurant he'll open in Long Beach in December. He doesn't like the way she dresses, he doesn't like the way she thinks. They don't fuck. They live together in Hollywood in a perfect Hollywood marriage.
The wife went on a business trip for about a week. D invited his Thai girlfriend over for sex and cookies. Now the Thai girlfriend is presumably the best sex D has ever had. this woman can do things with her body that no regular human being can do: like morph into a suction pump and suck the living life out of D. When I asked D why he didn't marry her, he genuinely replied: "She's ugly, I can't marry an ugly woman."
When she came over to D's palce, she started her game with D. They got naked, all up and running and she went down on him. She vigurously liked and sucked every inch of his cock, went on to the balls and under the balls and her tongue piercing got trapped in some hair. They were stuck like this for about 10 minutes. She had tears coming down her face. They finally cut the hairs off with some scissors and liberated the tongue. I couldn't help thinking: did he walk to the place where he kept the scissors with her attached to his balls? Did she follow his steps while hanging off his balls by her tongue?
I don't know. The thing is: tongue piercing=not sexy!

nipple night out

2007-06-15T00:38:00.000-07:00

My Italian boys took me out to a Pasadena Club: Red, white and Bluezz. Great food, wonderfully executed jazz. Live, ofcourse.
Ahh, the lively conversations, ahh, the stories they can tell, Ahh the way they harass every woman who walks by. No pair of boobs is safe around my Italian boys. they can spot tits and the quality they come in on a very wide radius. It's impressive. It's like a talent they've developed: they know boobs and have categories of boobs I never even thought of. I didn't know there were so many types of boobs out there before I met my boys. They must have been giving this matter a lot of thought. Did you know, for example, that there are puffy nipples of at least 25 varieties? puffy areolas with button like nipple, puffy areola with long nipple, puffy nipple with small areola, just to name a few. And, check this out, there are websites dedicated to puffy nipples. There are webmasters out there who make a living off of looking at puffy nipples all day long. There's gotta be a guy who wakes up in the morninng, drinks his coffee, kisses his wife and goes to work in a place where they take pictures of puffy nipples and nothing else. he chooses the best puffy nipples he can put on the home page of his website: this nipple is too short, this nipple is too long, this nipple goes to the market...And then, the guys who sit at home and look through this stuff: who has time to categorize nipples or jerk off at a specific type of nipple? Who pays to support these websites? It's an amazing world. Let's call it a nipple world.

birthday boy part II

2007-06-05T19:44:00.000-07:00

the text message read: "wanna hang out tonight?". C wanted company. He wanted me to tell him how beautiful he was.
I wondered if I could be coherent enough to impress him again with my game. what did I tell him last time we've seen each other? what kind of mood was I in? what did I wear?
I put some clothes on. dramatic make-up. I met him in the lobby of a hotel. He was impatient and wanted to pretend he didn't care. He was wearing a suit and a tie. He's only 19. Fallen angel. takes my fucking breath away with those full and arrogant lips, with those darker than darkness eyes.
"wanna go upstairs?". I followed him. bossanova music in the elevator. He walked onto the floor, searched for the room. We walked into a suite. He crossed to the window and looked outside. I just stood there. He turned around, took off his tie, jacket and shirt. Angry face. He walked so close to me that his breath was filling my lungs. he smelled my hair. he didn't touch me.
"want something to drink?" he set down on the couch and stared at me.
"you're not that pretty, you know?" He lit a cigarette. "I had better looking girls. Models". "how much will you charge me for the night?"
"how much have you got?"
"five thousand. not a penny more."
"I want it all."
"Only if you tell me you love me."
"Let me see the money first." He reaches his pocket. Pulls out a bunch of hundreds. He counts them. there's five thousand dollars. I reach for them. He grabbed my hand.
"you said you wanted to see the money. where's my goods?"
I get naked in front of him. he stands up. He examines every pore of my skin.
"You are such a whore" He gets down on his knees. he takes his penis out of his pants. He jerks off. The air around us is tight. I want to move, but I can't. His eyes are strangling me. I want to breathe, but his desire is wrapped up so tight around every fiber of every muscle in my body, that If air would reach my blood stream, I'd explode.
"I love you"
He comes.
We get dresssed, walk downstairs to the casino. We walk through the Black Jack tables. we reach a roulette table. I place five thousand dollars on Black. The Roulette spins my fortune together with my love and my desire of him. C is smoking. Relaxed and almost smiling.
The little ball stops on 16. It's red. The croupier gathers everything off the roulette table. I must be lucky in love.

birthday boy

2007-05-31T16:30:00.000-07:00

C turned off the light and put on some music. classic rock on the radio. the street light was strong enough for me to see the contour of his body, face, lips, wonderfully full lips and the shadow of his eyes. He was a faun.
His nineteenth birthday party has ended with us in a beautiful bedroom where he told me he hated his father. the same father who paid $20000 for this lavish birthday party. New York kid, C thought he owned the world. I liked his cocky manners, his lies about how strong and interesting he was and his ideals. I touched his hairless skin. We kissed. We snaked around in that huge bed. I got naked and he wanted to show me how rough he liked it, but he didn't quiet know where to start.
I told him he was beautiful. He said I was the only one complimenting him on his birthday. He said he plays with girls and teases them. He said he doesn't care. He was testing my muscles, my strength in a fight that had very little to do with violence and a lot to do with love. He wanted to pin me down and win the game. He wanted to do a line of coke in front of me just to see my reaction. I said I was a good girl.
He said he didn't like to please a woman. He thought I was there to please him. C is the same boy who shared my interests in exotic places and books that no one reads. He said he was a business man and that I should be his whore. We dressed up and played Pretty Woman for a little while. When we couldn't hold a straight face anymore, we exploded into laughter, kissed and told each other I love you, like in a perfect romance story.
he told me to stay the night: "You don't have shit to do tomorrow. Stay" I said I was tired and didn't want to sleep with him because it was hot and sticky and because I don't like to be held while I'm asleep. He called me a monster. I put my clothes on and walked to the door. He blocked me and took my skirt off, got on his knees and with his tongue and lips sucked and kissed and teased my pussy. I let him do. He put one finger inside me and started to move it up and down. i told him that if he wouldn't stop, I'd come. he made his big eyes and continued. I came. Standing up against the door, my skirt to my ankles, lit by the street light and through the notes of a mars volta song.
he stood up, wiped his mouth, went to the coke tray and did one more line. "there's nothing to do in this shitty town, the night's still young", he said. I pulled my skirt up and walked out of the apartment.
he sent me a text message: " Never leave me alone on my birthday. Bitch!"

touch me

2007-05-16T12:46:00.000-07:00

J came over to watch Sin City. When it was over, we got out of the house and met a friend of his at the movie theater. we watched Grindhouse, the double feature Rodriguez/Tarantino...nice horror spoof. Rodriguez had the winning hand.
We came back home late. I'm nervous around him. I can never be myself, sometimes I can't breathe. However, this time I thought we had a good time. we managed to avoid talking about our past relationship. But little did I know...
J and I ended up together when neither of us wanted to be together with anyone. that was about 3 years ago. since then, many things have happened: he loved and hated another woman, I loved and hated him.
last night he held me tight to him. familiar picture, familiar thoughts. he said there's sexual tension between us. I was suffocating and went to open the window. He continues to apologize for those times he hurt me. He says he cares and yet I don't feel the truth in his words. His arms are thick. His hands are large over my hands and body. I love large hands. They give me a sense of safety. he sleeps. why am I still laying next to him, on the couch?
I move to my bed. take all my clothes off and lay there naked for a while. I can't sleep because of the adrenaline rush. wrote a couple of notes on my diary, although many times before I had promissed I would never write about J again.
fell asleep among dreams of pirates and burning houses where a phantom lord grins at me in pain. woke up and J was next to me. Holding me. I was naked. he was dressed. nothing wrong with this picture, you may say. A pain in my stomach brought back memories of my desire for him. I hated him. I hated his arrogant ways. I was digging through this hate when it hit me: I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to touch me like the first time we made love. I felt his hard on rubbing against me. I stretched, felt every muscle in my body while I was still in his arms. I could feel him, I could smell him and my senses became painfully aware of his presence around me. I wanted no responsibility of that sexual desire. I wanted to accuse him of taking advantage of my vulnerability, when I knew I wasn't vulnerable.
Touch me! Feel me! Don't fuck me! Tie me up in knots! cover my eyes, so that I can't see. make me want you. cover my mouth and tell me to speak up my desire. I don't want to make love to you. in fact, I still resent you. I still hate you for breaking my heart. I'm ready to hurt you, so hurt me and stop me from my destructive path. Make me bleed. make me love you again. don't give up on me. Touch me again and let the hurt set in. trust me, J. trust me this once!

Thursday night out

2007-04-20T10:53:00.000-07:00

"I can't let you go now that I've met you. Look me in the eyes. Go on. Look me in the eyes. What do you see?
It's me, little girl. I know this game way too well. You can't escape me now."
And so it was. cause girls like me promise to themselves they'll behave and they'll never fall in love again. Girls like me swear they don't believe in romance. Girls like me proudly show off their scars and walk over the edge as if fear didn't exist.
The Boys took me out to Little Tokyo and offered me dinner and drinks. I like my male friends' company. they're funny, crude and honest. We had sushi and cocktails together with good conversation and lots of laughs. We then walked into a bar Downtown. They were having a Pink Floyd tribute night. A bunch of bands were playing Pink Floyd tunes and everybody in the room looked like they knew every word in the lyrics. So I had a couple of drinks. the boys got lost in matters of seconds after some Asian girls. So I had a couple more drinks. Life looked fuzzy. a man crystalizes next to me out of the haze. he was Italian (what are the odds?). We talked. My boys got back in a guilty search of lost little me. The Italian man knew my boys (again, what are the odds?) We had some more drinks and I felt brave and I danced on the bar top and two more drinks later the Italian man was looking into my eyes whispering sweet nothings that I couldn't even understand. By this time Satan himself was mixing the drinks and I figured sleep is for tweekers and I don't really care about the 8am meeting I had next morning. Life was good.
The Italian man and I set down on a sofa. He was caressing my legs up to my miniskirt. I got close enough to him to kiss him, but never touched his lips. he said I was playing games. I thought I was too drunk to focus on any game or keep my eyes from crossing. Apparently he thought that was sexy.
I didn't kiss him good night when I left. I never gave him my number. This morning, before my 8am meeting, I got a text message from him. I was too hungover to be excited, but as soon as I come back into my senses, I swear I'll fall in love with him.

coffee

2007-04-16T21:29:00.000-07:00

I sit at my desk. Check my emails. Nobody loves me today. Started the "to do" list in front of me. Get a phone call from my favorite stalker. We talk about my day, about love and how perfect he is for me. I'm ready to quit my job and run away with an artist. I don't know who he is yet, but I'm sure he's an artist. Cause he can sing and speak in metaphores.
I pretend I do my job for a while, I even look focused. I go to lunch. Come back to the office. Check my emails again. And there it is: a sign of life. We were lovers. We had a legitimate affair while we were in film school. He's writing to let me know he'll be out of the country for the summer. He's shooting on location. He wants to know how I'm doing. "fine" I wrote. "I'm doing great. Working. Being productive. No plans for the summer yet, but hoping for a gig a friend of mine offered." He asked me for my phone number cause he lost his phone. He'd like to call me sometimes.
I'd like him to call me. Yes, that'd be good. In fact I'd like him to call me right now. I'd like him to tell me "I've known you long enough to love you". I'd like him to sit down on his couch like he did the first time we met. He was looking at me while I was standing up in front of him. He reached under my skirt. I was wearing no underwear that day. He never said a word. He just looked me in the eyes while his fingers were coming in and out of my pussy. He stopped what he was doing only to carry me to his bed. Lay me there. take my skirt and shirt off. Take his pants off. We had sex and then he said: "Hi. How are you?". I was out of breath, but I whispered: "fine". We took a shower and we fell in love.
I'd like to tell him: Come to me. Fuck me like there's no tomorrow. Tell me "you'll be the death of me" just like that time at the Abbey. Fuck me while you're pinning me against the wall and covering my mouth with your hand so the neighbors won't hear and I wouldn't scream of pleasure. I smell me on your hand. I'm biting it but you're not stopping. You only let go when you come. and then you kiss me and tell me you'd like some coffee.
So I write back: "Call me. It'd be nice to catch up. Maybe we can have a coffee sometimes..."

Brake point

2007-04-09T13:52:00.000-07:00

"why didn't you tell me?" he asked.
"because I didn't know" I replied.
I didn't know that I loved him but wasn't in love with him. I didn't know that being familiar and bonding was part of a relationship we've already lived once.
He stared at me for a while. He's got piercing, accusatory eyes. Never blinks. Thin lips gathered into disapproval.
I know, I've got to be the bad guy this time. Mea Culpa.
our words turn into sand and I lay in the sun roasting my skin away while he's wearing SPF 60 tanning lotion under an umbrella.
Retracing a past, love, feelings and such is never fun. However, time loops on itself and it feels like you live the same experience again, wether you want to or not. that's when you start questioning all that you know about life, that's when you build up all of those safe insecurities that'll undermine any future relationship you'll eventually get into.
"I'm not in love with you" I said
"I knew that" he replied.
where's the relief? Friendship? should we continue talking? Should we just run away and pretend we never met?
relationships have an easy start. It's all a game for about a year or so...illusions. Sex helps you forget there's work involved. It all starts as if there's nothing to worry about in the world. Then, if you want to protect the emotional investment, you've got to talk and talk some more and find an agreement and understand and making an effort to understand and making an effort to make an effort. Then, all of a sudden, it's all complicated and you wonder: "How did we get here?"
Every person you ever meet, romantically or not, leaves and imprint into your life and you live an imprint into their life. If you bond in any way, you'll both have the responsibility of your actions/ feelings/ emotions.
"I'll stop by on Wednesday?' he said
"We'll go to dinner, there's a new sushi place in K-town" I replied.

work ethics part II

2007-01-22T11:27:00.000-08:00

Pretty Boy from my day job finally snapped. UGHH! I was waiting for this one to happen. Didn't do a thing to encourage it either. It just happened on its own, which triples the satisfaction of the event: no effort, maximum gain, just like the fat burning pill.
Pretty Boy has a girlfriend in a different department, same company. She's gorgeous, cutest face and sweetest personality. I actually made friends with her, which kept me from tempting Pretty Boy all this time.
He did his no-eye-contact routine and professional talk for as long as I've known him. I almost felt guilty for the dirty thoughts addressed to him that were buzzing through my mind.
However, one day someone spilled a coffee on the 4th floor. He walked through it and slipped. The papers he was carrying all got messed up in the coffee pond. Those specific papers were the logs for a show we're working on that I made the previous week. He walked into my office with his shirt and pants coffee stained. He asked me to re print the logs. I asked him what happened and he told me the story. While I was printing away, he tried to remove the coffee stains with some bottled water and a napkin. While I was focusing on Don't laugh! at the entire picture, he asked me if I could get the back of his pants and shirt.
Interesting. You got my attention, Pretty Boy!
He said: "must have been a latte. it's all sticky!"
I was thinking foam at this point.
He continued talking about coffee and the office and I realized this was the first time he was making conversation with me. Coffee stains are not meant to come off with bottled water. Pretty Boy didn't care apparently, cause he didn't stop me while I was rubbing the side of his shirt. I stopped to admire the result.
"I look like an idiot, don't I?" he said, laughing.
"You could use a new shirt".
"Where can I get one?"
"There's this little shop, right next to Starbucks"
We walked to the little shop next to Starbucks and he chose a shirt. He tried it on and asked me how it looked.
"Better than the coffee stained one" I answered.
We stopped at Starbucks on the way back to the office. had coffee. for one and a half hours. He's actually quiet funny.
We walked back, got into the elevator and he pressed the button for the last floor. I work on the third one. He touched my hand on the rail. I didn't move. He pulled me to him. I didn't fight it. We kissed. It was that kind of I-know-you've-got-a-girlfriend-but you-taste-so-good kiss. He was very busy with his hands. It was messy, coffee tasting, hot kiss and I had to stop it.
"Ok, I get it. We're obviously attracted to each other. But this is just not right" I said.
"I know, I've got a girlfriend. She says good things about you." he answered.
" Yeah, that."
"I'm not a cheater...it's just"
"It's OK. I'm not here to judge."
"I know"
"But we can make a deal"
"Never speak of it again?"
"On the contrary. Let's speak of it. To your girl. The three of us could have some fun..."
I've never been kissed with the passion he used to suffocate the rest of my words. Work ethics...Yeah...Work ethics is a good thing.

the producer

2006-12-21T09:52:00.000-08:00

Hollywood is a jungle full of underdeveloped species and not yet named flora that can kill. The tonic breeze of this town just gets better everyday. One wakes up in the morning, drinks her coffee and prepares for war. One walks outside her house and the battle to survive begins.
I met this 5ft tall man through a struggling actress friend of mine. He called himself a producer of a current Hollywood movie. As I happen to know a thing or two about moviemaking (yes, when I don't strip, I work in the "Business", movie making that is) this man joyfully started a conversation with me. The conversation turned into invitation to dinner, sign-a-confidentiality-contract-I-want-to-hire-you kind of thing. Check this out: He wanted me to do the budget and shooting schedule of this movie, without paying me and at my house. In other words he invited himself at my place over the weekend, "to work on the schedule".
The man didn't know that there is an actual job like a Production Manager or Assistant Director or Line Producer who actually perform these duties on a big shoot. I googled his name and found out that this was his very first movie. He never had any experience on the set. I searched his name on myspace and here's what I found: a profile where he says he's 39 (he's actually 50), has a picture of himself from the '80s, when he had hair and all of his friends are big breasted girls under 25 years old. Now, I said I'd give him a hint on how to start, but I didn't want him in my house so I wrote him an e-mail to excuse myself from his plans. This is his actual answer to my e-mail:
"I can't believe your email.
You had commited this Sunday with me several weeks ago, and now you have some you cannot miss, and on top you tell me this at the very last minute? I had set my whole weekend off to work with you, both Saturday and Sunday. I planned on staying with a friend on Saturday night, so I could be there on Sunday too. You screwed my plans. Your attitude has much to be desired and I do not appreciate it a bit. I opened a big door and opportunity for you, but you don't seem to have appreciated it. I do NOT need you nor I need anyone that does not show seriousness on what I'm doing and want to be on my team. So, from now on do not contact me any longer as your email address has been flagged to go direcly to the trash can. Your phone
calls will not answered any longer as well.
Shame on you"
Now, what should I do? Call him and tell him that I can't do the job unless I get hired to do so? or let him think he won this one? Or maybe let him do this to some other poor unsuspecting girl who may be sacrificed on the altar of Hollywood art? But why should anyone be a victim to his stupid grin that shows too much gum and to his terrifying body odor that he tries to cover with bad cologne? Or why should anyone be subjected to his extremely rude and pushy persona topped by a hair cut like the one Moe from the Three Stooges sports? Hollywood is full of opportunity. Hollywood is a place where one can fall upward. No one should allow creatures like this one to polute their business environment. Just say NO! ladies. Don't allow this kind of bully to intimidate you and therefore exist.

bachelor/bachelorette

2006-11-06T09:41:00.000-08:00

Saturday night is my release-the-beast-night. I never liked people who party on weekends. They usually have a day job that ends in "ing" and the outmost risk they'll take is drink out of carton milk. Interesting people, on the other hand, party any time there's a good reason to party: like 10am on Monday in a grocery store's parking lot, because they just got a kiss from the woman they love.
So, I usually work on Saturday night...at least make some money off of those parties I wouldn't be caught dead at if I was just a guest.
This past Saturday I did a bachelor/ bachelorette party. The woman who was hosting was a lady...of the worst kind: white pearl necklace (no pun intended), black outfit that underlined her delicate figure, a demeanor that reminded me of Bree Van de Kamp (for those who watch Desperate Housewives). She had a set of rules for me: no nudity, no touching the groom, focus on the bride. She paid me my fee, I got into my cop outfit and walked out into the party. everybody was sitting down in a circle, hands in sight.
The bachelorette was wearing a Catholic school girl outfit, boobs in sight. The groom looked like a handy man.
I reached for the bachelorette's boobs. she started giggling.
I got the groom down on his hands and knees and read him his rights together with the eulogy to his penis.
I spanked his ass raw, wrote on it with a black sharpie (for souvenir purposes) and laid him on his back. the bachelorette and I then simulated a lesbian act on top of him.
Nakedness followed (mine and bachelorette's). The first lap dance the bachelorette got, ended with her orgasming in my hand. in front of all of her friends and co workers. in front of the perfect lady with the pearl necklace.
Next lap dance was for the groom. even Phil from Accounting got a lap dance. and a hard on.
By the end on the party, the perfect hostess had a crisp smile on her face and everybody else was making out with everybody else. This one big girl with gigantic boobs kind of got me in a corner and threw some tongue action at me. Good times.
I love Saturday night's parties.