They THRIVE on NEGLECT

No no, not me-- Birds of Paradise. You know, those chunky blue-accented orange flowers that look like exotic bird heads? Well, that's what one of my substitute teachers in middle school said, sort of inscrutably and menacingly-- that "they thrive on neglect". But not me. And not my blog neither. This ol' stone tablet is withering like a Bird of Paradise after getting snuggled closely by a hummingbird from its lack of exercise.

Things have certainly been happening. Apparently, there's some kind of presidential race going on. Apparently, there's some kind of unfriendly altercation going on in Syria. I know this because I watched 25 minutes of the news today, whilst running on the treadmill in LA Fitness.

I'm so horny right now; I totally want to jerk my clit right now. But I feel I have a moral obligation to this blog of immorality: so I gotta direct all my tuckered out synapses to this little missive. For you. For you don't thrive on neglect. No, you love stimulation, excitation, variety, profundity, dinner specials for two (special dinners for you).

Ja, das ist wahr.

Alright, I'm pittering out, like milk from a congested spigot (ur mom).      

Weds//

Watched presidential debates with my 21 year old boy thang. I had noticed an interesting pattern developing: the young little thang hated to be 'on top' in the boudoir. For everybody else, that would probably connotate a preference. For me, it sufficed as a sign. I turned to him, my hand tucked under my chin, completely unnaturally,

"Do you think you may just have like 1-4% kink in you?"

"Well, sometimes I think about being used... and using..."

???????!!!!!!!!????????!!!!!!!!!????????!!!!!!!?????????!!!!!!!!!???????!!!!!!!!!???????!!!!!!!!!?????????!!

So much for being 100% vanilla, my sweet tea cake!

I took off my tights, straddled the young one while he sat upright on the couch, and used my removed tights to tie his hands above his head-- I should teach an 'improvised kink' class, right? Then I bunched up my shirt and used it as a makeshift blindfold. Then I fucked him. My young one doesn't buck or bray, he just concentrates and comes. And that was it-- so simple. A simple, I hope, beginning. Today I bought a feather tickler at the Pleasure Chest for phase II-- a miniature one at that, to ensure micro baby steps in the kink direction.

I wish I could say that everything in my life was progressing, but it's really not. It's hovering. Everybody oscillates gently, in abeyance, at a fixed point in my orbit, and I watch and chart. Like a young and buxom Galileo.

I talked everything over with Officer Cowboy, over tea and crops.

"Well, it sounds like you have everything under control. You just need a German to pee on you. Do you think you could tell the young one that?"

Ende //

An evening of German kink/ eine Nacht der deutschen Kink

I bike over to my German's haus;

Natürlich: modern art on the walls, bier on the table.

We watch the German news and drink Stellas.

I slyly angle my feet under his thighs.


He quizzes me on German phrases in the textbook I checked out from my local library:

Sehr gut! Ausgezeichnet! Furchtbar! Nein!

When my garbled approximations don't match the typed words--

Ach! He twists my nipple until I scream, "bitte!" or "danke!"--

Sufficient enthusiasm is the key.

When I recite in proper Hochdeutsch, I am rewarded with a little spit.

There are many words contained in the viscous string that I don't understand:

A fluid continuum of English and Deutsch,

They churn frothy in my mouth.

 It ends in me.


After, we talk about my day-- always about me & ending in me.

My, i, ich, sick, ugh, ach, me.

Like, today I beat my submissive's ass until it burned blue (true story).

All the while, we sit feet to feet on the couch and I lick his sole between words.

Heel to toe; toe to toe; toe crest to toe trough.

He rated my performance a 2 out of 10.


[[German kink is embedded in the language. It is essential:

Never capitalize I (ich), always capitalize you (Sie).]]


I have to go-- I have 13 more miles to ride until I'm home.

If I make it that far.

"You are lucky today", he says. "I have to pee and you will get a little bit."

I think,  "I can't", but I know I will.

Prostrate on white tile, I attempt to elicit pity, "ein bisschen...bitte"

I drink some until I can't. Then I drink a little more.

Until my head bows to the open white plain.

"Dankeshön".

He makes fun of my heavy, neon pink back pack,

"Du bist siebsehn."

He walks me to my bike, and makes fun of my viel heavy steel frame.

He makes fun of me for riding a bike at all.

He kisses me goodbye, and I start on my 18th mile.


The day after, I sit at a cafe reading a novel, underlining words in black ink:

It's not my pen; it's his.

The top is chewed and I chew on top of the chew.

A warm feeling spreads across my groin.

I return to reading, chewing, lining.

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