Casual Friday

How to get me NOT to cum

Actually, I don't know how to answer that question.

So I'll answer a different question.

How to get me to cum.

Shortest blogpost evah!

The end.

Well, okay, here we go (and cum, and go, and ... *sigh*).

Okay, one way to get me to cum, is ... to tell me not to cum.

I'm dead serious.

I would call myself a slut, but that's totally inaccurate, because, I would imagine, a slut is a girl who constantly engages in sexual. erhm: activities, and after a while, the senses dull, and the experience becomes dull for her. Just like the job for most people: they do it from 9-to-5 because no other option ever enters their heads.

No, I'm the opposite of a slut: I'm wanton. I mean: just look at me, and I'm like: ready! and begging for it, and you can't get me undressed fast enough, or in fast enough, and when it's in, you can't pound into me hard enough.

And I can't come fast enough, or any faster than I'm cumming. Or hard enough, because I can't cum any harder than I'm cumming.

I have the same effect on my lovers. I mean, I've been with girls who have guaranteed me they will not cum. Gold-plated, and you can bet your farm on it, and there's no way, and no amount of time, nor anything I can do that will make them cum.

Guaranteed.

I really ought to open up a casino to start taking these sucker bets.

Because I always win.

Always.

Miss Frigid over there, who was willing for me to bet my farm or hers or both.

She just lost the farm when she lost her marbles when I blew her mind.

The Big-O, ladies (and any gentlemen who care to read) ... for women, that is?

It's a lot mental.

I mean, physically, it's rather monotonous: rub there.

That's it: rub there. Boring!

But the images to get from plain-old boring 'rub there' to 'omyfuckinggodimcuvuvuvuvuvmmmi1i1i1ngg!11!1!1!' ...

Well, that's auto-stimulation, but for her, in my arms, to cum?

It's trust.

We women? You know why we don't cum?

Yes, you do, if you think about it, and boy, do you think about a lot of things, don't you, and that blocks it all up, doesn't it?

No, actually, thinking about 'stuff' is not the real blocker.

The real blocker is trust.

Girls don't cum because girls don't trust.

And what's to trust? They've been let down in so many relationships, starting when they were four and their daddy scolded them for being a girl and not a boy, like he wanted, and continuing on to lovers who wam-bam-thank-you-ma'amed them, taking their pleasure from her and leaving her with the leavings and the emotional turmoil of, well, he stuck his dick in me, so that must means he loves me, but why is he now with his friends, pointing at me and laughing, and they're laughing, too, and all their girlfriends, my old, now ex-friends, calling me a slut?

And so she tries a lesbian relationship in college because she'd like to think she's bi-curious, and girls won't treat her like that, right?

But then the girl who fucked her Friday night when she was stoned out of her mind and so drunk? Why do I see her with that other girl today, and they are hanging on each other like they've just been each other's boy-shorts, or why are they holding hands and looking sweetly at each other, giving each other gag-gag eyes like they, no... it couldn't be they're in love, because she told me she'd ...

And you try not to cry, and you build those walls, so you won't get hurt again. Those walls of distrust, and you become desensitized ... 'frigid' to the guy who calls you the ice queen because you're not coming when he is as soon as he's done with foreplay taking off his pants and sticking his dick right in you after having grabbed your boobs.

And that's what I have to deal with: not you, but the walls of mistrust and distrust you put up, because I'm just like all those other people who hurt you before, during and after lovemaking, so you're so sure you're not going to cum in my arms, because you simply 'can't'.

And then, in my arms, after your mind's been blown, you pretend you have no idea what just happened and why.

Well, I'll tell you the secret that you know, but won't tell yourself:

I won't hurt you.

That's a pretty big one, but here's the corker.

I love you.

You see 'I love you' is said in so many ways for so many reasons, none of them being 'I love you,' that you hearing those words, are like, 'yeah, right whatever, lemme give you a blowjob so you can fall asleep and I can have some quiet time with my regrets.'

But when you're in my arms, I don't even say, 'I love you,' because then we have to deal with all that baggage, all that hurt those words cause.

No, I don't say 'I love you' ... well, I do, sometimes, ... I be 'I love you.'

When you are in my arms, and I am looking at you, you are the reason for my existence, right now.

When you see that, you get that, at a level deeper than what any shit has ever hit you before, and then the lights go out because all you see are stars and fireworks. You ever be with a person who truly looks at you, who hears what your soul says and doesn't let your shit slide, but who cuts right through it, rapier-sharp, and pierces your heart of hearts?

That's me, bitches. Watch the fuck out, because when you're in my arms, you lose your very self.

Because why? Because you do trust me to hold onto you and trust as in: I'm not going to hurt you.

Girls don't have that trust. Period. That's why I'm not a girl. Really. Seriously. Because I do have that trust. I have that trust with me, and I have that trust in you.

Yes, I've been hurt. A lot. GOD! A whole fucking lot.

And I still have that trust, that lets me hold you and lets me be held by you, and lets me give myself, completely to you, and you can hurt me, because I trust you, I've entrusted myself fully, and completely, to your care.

Please, please take care of me. Please, please don't hurt me when I give myself to you.

I beg that now, because I'm myself now, but when I give myself to you, I'm not me anymore, I am nothing to me and everything for you, and I give myself fully and completely, and I will fuck you so long, and so hard, and so sweetly and gently, that I will break through every wall of mistrust, distrust, and hurt, even the very last one, and you will cum sweetheart, you will cum so hard it will scare you how hard you're cumming and you'll be afraid you might actually lose yourself in it.

Not knowing, or knowing, actually, that you are lost in it, completely, in my arms.

I give myself to you completely. Even if 'you' is 'me.'

Today was 'Casual Friday,' so I got to wear jeans.

How to make me cum?

Tell me not to cum.

"`phfina, I want you to go to the bathroom and dip in and check if you're wet, but don't cum in there."

So, this morning, I went to the bathroom, not to cum, but to check.

I was in trouble.

Pulling down my (very practical) white cotton panties?

There were spots of ... dew, already. Just fucking going to the bathroom to check.

And, hm: I can neither confirm nor deny that I did this, but I have this ... 'friend' ... hypothetically speaking, who went into the bathroom at work today and took the handicap stall, because she may or may not have needed some ... room, you know to ... you know.

And, well, going to the bathroom after freshly squeezed orange juice and an oatmeal breakfast ... well, ... oatmeal keeps you 'regular.' ...

So I pooped.

I pooped, and I'll spare you the details, because you know what bran does to a girl, but so, I cleaned up and flushed, got dressed, exited the stall, washed up, took some lotion in my hands ...

... and went right back into that stall.

She did, that is, my 'friend.'

And trou came down, and but this time, kitty and I (or 'she') had some private time together, and I got friendly with her, patting her and rubbing her gently.

Do you know that causes mind-blowing orgasms?

It's not the physical contact. It can't be.

It's the anticipation.

I was ... 'she' was ... so sensitive there, puffy, and what really gets me going is the gentle, light exploration outside the lips.

Soft, light, gentle strokes with one V-ed hand while the other hand is very gently ... caressing kitty's ... 'head.'

Girls, about this time, I was losing my mind. In a very public restroom doing something very, very private.

And that's when I heard heels, and a door open, and then the stall, and two stalls down, somebody else went number two, for a short while, ...

And the whole time, I was ... stroking kitty, her 'belly' very gently, sweetly. Mentally cooing to her as she purred contentedly at the attention.

Sometime later I was alone again with kitty and sometime later somebody else came in and I heard the psssst of somebody peeing, again two stalls away, and soon enough again I was alone.

And then I kicked it into high gear. And I imaged me forcefully taking her, that girl, ... you, not strapping on, but scissoring our hips together so that my kitty was kissing and stroking and then mashed up against and thrusting against your pussy.

Hard.

And that brought me to a level.

But then, it changed, the fantasy, and suddenly you did something, from beneath me, that I don't allow, you sat up and twisted us around so that I was forced down onto the bed on my back, and you began to take me.

And I whined, and I strained, and I struggled for control, but you had me in your embrace, your hips locked to mine, your legs entangling me and holding me so firmly I had no way to twist nor turn, but only more into you and your firm, powerful, demanding thrusts.

Then you leaned into the fuck, the fuck of fucking me, and your long hair brushed against my titties as our thrusting swayed your body.

And the way you looked into my eyes with your smoldering passion, and the way your hair tickled and brushed into the pores of my breasts and nipples, and the way your cunt was slick and rough, pressing and sliding against my little slit...

I came. I came hard, and, being in a (very) public bathroom, that, thank God, was unoccupied, but at any second could have any of the three coworkers I passed on my way into this very place and point come in while I was cumming, I came silently. Not even a hitched breath, but, girls (and boyz), I came. I gave myself complete to this moment of you fucking me, taking me so forcefully in this sterile, industrial bathroom, that I came and came and came.

... Or ... my 'friend' did. But there's no proof of any of the above ever happening because there're no witnesses (except from the films recorded from the hidden cams installed by pervy architects) and no evidence because she made sure to flush it all down and check the water afterward, and wash her hands and the sink so that they were squeaky clean.

And then, she didn't wobble back to her desk, even though she couldn't feel her arms and her legs were two well-cooked spaghetti noodles (well lotioned inner thighs: the canvas from blue jeans can be rather ... chafing), and she didn't put her head down on her desk right next to her computer and start snoring, because, well, she had to pass by coworkers and had to get in payroll reports by noon, see?

How not to make me cum?

That, right there, is a very tough question.

You see, I'm weird: I'm a trusting soul. A child, just innocence. You can hurt me and I still walk around with big trusting eyes, filled with wonder at, oh, is that a flower blossoming on that tree, right there?

You know what those kinds of people are? I'll be so blinded by the beauty, when I walk into the lion's den, I won't even know I'm being mauled and eaten, because those golden eyes and that soft, thick fur?


Lions are so beautiful, aren't they?

---

So, why is a slut a slut? I mean, I'm hard on sluts this post, but I've already answered that question in another post. So if you don't remember, you can read it. Capsule summary: a slut is a slut because she wants love any way she can get it.

We all, — we all — need love any way we can get it, and this world is so hard, and so cruel, and businesslike, and sterile, and cold, that it sucks the life, sucks the love out of ... well, sadly, everybody, and so we, some of us, are turned into sluts, because that's the only way, we think, that we can get him, or her, to wrap their arms around us, so we won't fall asleep alone, again, crying into the pillow after tasting the bitterness of our post-coital regrets, not bliss, of our lonely masturbation.

We all so need love, and the world (the 'world' meaning 'we all') is so cold and cruel.

Homework: see somebody, today, suffering (meaning: anybody), and love them. Love them so totally, so completely, so sweetly, that they have this one moment in time, with you, and know that the weren't alone. Love them so that to their dying day, they remember that moment in time, and treasure it, and that moment carries them through this rough patch, and even gives them reason, no, not reason: hope to live.

You. You are the only hope in the world, today, to a person who is despairing. And you can look down your nose at her, calling her a slut, or turn your back on her, and tell yourself, 'well, it's not my problem she spilled her tea on her blouse, she should grow up, the cry-baby,' or you can listen to her inane bullshit (trans: cry from a well of loneliness for help) with your 'I'm not here' bored eyes that glance, every three seconds, at your watch or the wall clock.

Or, you can reach out, from the well of yourself, to the well that is her, or, hey, him, and pull her up out of it, and save her.

You might just save yourself, too, but don't worry about that, because that's something you worry about much too much. Save her. She may or may not save you. You may or may not save you. But save her.

You save one soul, even if it isn't yours, ... and you do an absolute good.

Diamonds, rubies, gold, frankincense, myrrh. None of these will you remember 10 years later.

That one person, those several people ... maybe, you're Gandhi or Mother Teresa, idk ... and you save that nation of people.

That's what you'll remember. That's what that person will remember you for.

Forever.

Remembrance

Remember that girl who said she was hot in her last post.

Well, it's true. I'm hot.

Hot pink now.

Oh, goodness, am I going to pay for today.

Okay, I ask you: how is it legal that the sun gets to turn me into pink lemonade served at red lobster when I had gobs of sunblock on AND I wore not spaghetti-straps, not a halter top but a pretty little flowery number that covers shoulders and arms (well, upper arms ... well, the top half of upper arms). I even wore a large-brimmed white sun hat, getting into the spirit of the thing, but did it preserve me from getting these red-raccoon eyes and ... oh, God, I'm a stereotype: red neck?

Noooooooo!

And, yes, if you've noticed the trend in the dresses I wear: I like flowers. Like Alice, who likes arranging them (although arrangements're not my specialty) and seeing them and holding them very delicately and breathing them into my being when I pass by them. Problems? Talk to the elbow, 'cause the hand's tired of listening and is now out to lunch!

Hm. I don't think I can defend me being a lipstick lesbian. Oh, well; there goes that career path!

But look at me: talking about myself, when I sat in the bleachers, along with eleven thousand other spectators melting in the sun, even as we wore a black tee that said "New American; Old Irish: One and Inseparable" with short-short jean shorts.

[God, did I want to scream, "THANK YOU!" to that girl, SUCH a cutie! Then I would've kissed her hard, and threw her right on to the ground and fucked her brains out, regardless of what her husband/boyfriend/brother would have had thought about the situation. It was hot outside ... she was hotter! ... and Irish-American!]

But here everybody was, in various states of undress, watching all those manly men and boys march right into battle carrying not just their canteens and muskets and pill-box hats (stuffed with ice cubes! Smart!). But they were also wearing worsted-wool OVERCOATS?!?! ... and BOOTS?!? and layers and layers and layers of clothes, to march right out to face the better armed and overwhelming Union troops, less than 100 yards away so they could stand face to face and get the Hell blasted out of each other?

And the shocking thing, besides the carnage (boys were falling to the ground like flies), was that they would amiably turn to us, ask after our day, hope that we were enjoying ourselves, and be concerned about how we were taking the heat and 'make sure you drink plenty of water!'

I mean, like, they cared more for us than they cared for themselves.

Luckily for me, I didn't get lucky. I mean, how could I? They were all packed together like sardines in these sweltering little pup tents when they were amongst themselves, and when they weren't they were swarmed by hordes of fans, taking pictures, asking questions, and being told how hot it was today.

And in the heat, I was concentrating more on staying hydrated than anything else, and putting one foot in front of the other. We had to walk miles! to get to the battleground, in the sweltering sun (obscured by cooling clouds, thank God!), and ...

And that's exactly what they did, 150 years ago. They marched for miles, and then at 6 am, a little fight broke out between the opposing sides, and then, at the end of that weekend there were hundreds dead. Hundreds.

I watched a corpsman run out to aid a wounded soldier, screaming in pain, and then I watched that corpsman running, and then suddenly drop, hard, onto the ground, ... and not move anymore, and not get up.

... and that happened 150 years ago: angry Americans, again, too fiery tempered to talk over things and settle things amicably, like how Canada mutually declared independence from British Rule, no, we had to piss on their representatives, literally, who happened to be our neighbors, literally, and then rattle swords and watch our boys and their boys kill each other.

And then we had to do it to ourselves.

And now we remember that. Our dead.

Ours are not the only dead.

In today's paper, there's Norway.

And one 'Christian extremist' bombed the capital and then when on a shooting rampage that left more than 80 dead on a labor party retreat ... most of the dead were school children in their teens.

And I glanced at that headline as I was getting my espresso, and read the article, and I thought: Saga could have been there.

And she was.

Somewhere in that multitude of people who will never surface from the water they dived into to escape a 'Christian Fundamentalist' who apparently opposed 'multiculturalism' was a girl or a boy that loved and was loved. Leaving a bereaved family behind.

And the take-away from this?

I'm scared.

I'm scared that people will start thinking about Christianity, in general, like people over here started thinking about Islam after 9/11, and they'll start enacting laws, and you ...

You'll think, 'Oh, Christianity breeds that sort of person.' Like him.

Like me.

`phfina, the little extremist Christian fundamentalist.

Put an AK-47 in my hands, and I'll tear through my high school, all whacked out on drugs and my idealism, and I pull the trigger but trip over my own feet and shoot myself up, fully automatic, so there'd be more lead than little fundamentalist, and everybody would laugh at me as my lungs filled with liquid and my vision grayed out to nothing, and their laughter would be the last thing I heard before oblivion overtook me.

But the thing of it is ...

I am a little Christian Fundamentalist.

Because, beside Columbine, there was a man who went on a shooting rampage right here in Virginia.

In an Amish school.

And you know what happened?

One girl broke line, and approached the man, holding them all hostage, and said 'Shoot me first.'

And you know what happened?

He shot, and killed, her first.

And you know what else happened?

Her sister, her only sibling, went up to him next and said, 'Shoot me next.'

And he shot her next. And she died.

They gave their lives so that he would use his bullets on them, so that the other girls in the classroom would have a shot at living.

And you know what? If he came to my high school, you know what I would do?

I would march right up to him, barely able to speak, because I'd be so terrified, and I'd say...

I'd say, "Shoot me first."

Why?

Because, one time, God offered me a shot. He showed me something, and I ran.

And if I was confronted with this? Or if I were on a plane, and a guy pulled a gun and screamed, 'You're all gonna die, you corrupt generation' of whatever twisted belief he holds, be it Christian or Muslim or something else that he believes is telling him to go out in a blaze of glory and to take as many sinners/infidels with him ...

I would say, scared out of my mind, 'thank you, God! Thank you, God, for giving me this chance to accept martyrdom this time, to stay and to stand, and to spare anybody, everybody else from this lunatic,' and I'm not talking about the lunatic holding the gun.

I'm talking about the lunatic facing the gunman.

Selfish, isn't it?

I mean: besides insane, of course.

But who am I thinking of the whole time? Me. Me, and how I can make reparation with God for my earlier cop-out, like I could possibly redeem me, and my wretched life with my glorious blaze-out.

And what was I thinking about on the battleground? Me and how I'm just wilting under the sun, and how the bed sheets are going to feel like razor blades on my skin tonight, and how this walk is just murderous to whom? To me.

And in my last post I put up my petty little concerns that affect nobody but me, and today more than 80 people died, and what are my whinings to that? A daughter/lover/friend is dead today, and she'll never get the chance to say one last, 'Mum, I'm sorry. Mum, I love you.' All she got to do was dive into that stormy cold water, feel the lead hammer into her back and breathe in salt and die, scared, screaming, helpless, and I worry about what?

But what can I do?

Really, what can I do?

I'm not asking this as 'oh, one person makes no difference,' no, I'm saying: this happened. This didn't happen to me.

God is giving me a gift of being alive, right now, today.

What am I going to do with this gift?

Because this gift? It was earned. Not by me. It was earned by two little Amish girls and their parents, now childless, who went to the guy and forgave him! It was earned by those brave, idealistic, stupid boys marching off for Country or Freedom or both and gave me this country today. It was earned by those boys and girls in Norway, who each gave their lives for me, who each died for me, and are telling me, right now, that now is all I have, so am I just going to sit here at my keyboard and cry for them, and is that a way to honor them?

Or will I honor them by being? Or by writing that next chapter? And saving one more life, letting one more person know that she (or he) is not alone, that there is this crazy little nut-case that feels exactly as she does, and has this magical ability to express these thoughts and feelings in words as she could not, and that there is beauty and hope in this world.

Even in this world of cruelty, randomness and despair.

And it starts, this hope, with me, and how I carry on, and how I ...

Shit. Life, living is so, so hard. It's just so hard sometimes to go on being into tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow as it creeps out its petty pace. And going out in a blaze of glory in front of a suicider's gun is just so terrifying, ...

and so tempting: "Boom!" goes the gun, and "HAHA! I WIN!" crows the `phfina, for the game is over.

Like I said, a cop-out. Because little me? There's another game, and it's called winning this next minute. NOT taking a drink from the bottle. Instead, picking up the figurative pen, looking hard and long into the mirror, into my soul, and writing something for someone who needs these words right now. And hearing her say to me, again, 'I'm alive now because your words gave me hope.'

And the swelling in my throat as I read what you do with your life because of something I wrote inspired you?

God, that hurts. It hurts so much, and that hurt is so good. I did nothing. I wrote something, and then you took on something and did something with your life.

And I remember that. I remember you, and honor you.