November 2016

Perfection isn’t hot, it turns out.

She smells fresh. Exciting.

What you send me is, I imagine, for me alone, that, when you come for me, you come for ME, and not for an army of perverts. I want to be your only pervert.

It may sound polite, respectful, considerate. But when I say, “Please suck my cock,” I fully expect you to do as I ask. So. Please. Suck my cock.

I want to lick your pussy, to taste you, to feel you. To use you, to use your pleasure to bring me pleasure. I want your cunt to feed my hunger. Please.

We all have things that make us feel alive, that remind us of our vitality, of our connection to the universe. Here are some of those things of mine.

Happy Thanksgiving! I have so much to be grateful for.

When you reject me, am I rejected? What lessons do I draw from my rejection? What is the meaning of my rejection? And is the rejection mine? Or yours?

Am I all good? All bad? Or is it possible that, like everyone, I’m a little of each? That I’m complicated, that I am capable of both good and bad?

I’m thinking about the strategies I have for making myself feel alive, when I’m struggling with a feeling of deadness. And I’m revisiting my past.