Who wants a mind f**k?

Advertising: Is anyone interested in having a wild time, provided you let me write about it here?

Presumptions, I tell you, they seem to be getting the better of me these days. Not mine, mind you, but fucking presumptions that have people have about you (as in me) JUST because they "have read your blog." There are people - and many of them - who think that "just because" I write on and in and around sex, I think sex all the time. Well, I do, but hey, I am a woman, I can think it all the time and yet think seven other things, or as many needed. It's not as if I am feeling myself up 24/7, my hand under my skirt of in my trousers as the case might be.

Yes, the monicker is Clit Chatting, but dudes, a chatting clit can be heard, you dont have to look under the skirt to SEE it talking! Funnier still is how everyone thinks you will write about them in "one of your sleazy pieces" and yet go on to tell you all gross details of their sexual lives (or dreams of it in a number of cases). And men do it more than women. Dudes... the first rule of conversing with a smart woman: actions speak louder than words. Most smart women follow a general rule: If the dude talks too much, unasked, he's either got a small dick, or herpes or erectile dysfunction or will turn out to be a woman-beating, womanising, closet misogynist. There are NO exceptions.

Unless I expressedly asked for it, why tell me how you'd like to doggy style that waitress right in the coffee shop? Or the Russian you did last night? THAT was one of the weirdest conversations... why do men think a woman would be amused by stories of his having treated another woman shabbily?
"S0-and-so? I used to pick her up at 4am to bring her home and fuck her." Talking about the woman who's been recently dumped.
"That Russian chick? I was so drunk I unhooked her bra in public and even slid my hands inside her pants..." Talking about a Russian whore his friends 'bought' him because he fucking cannot get a lay on his own merit, or even on the merit of his money.
"I can fuck a fat woman if she is cute; they are really grateful I tell you." Explaining how it's not called fucking-anything-that-moves, but has humanitarian reasons involved.
"I didn't beat her out of anger; my violence was my love for her." Talking about punching his girlfriend's face, throwing her on the ground and then pummeling her with fists and kicks.
"I am not a womaniser, I just don't want to commit to the wrong person." Talking about why he gets into long-term relationships knowingly, all of which result in the woman being dumped, heartbroken...and the breakup is always nasty.

Oh and most of the above statements are followed by: "But I am not going to be like that with you. You are different. This is different."
YAWN. And then followed by, "You don't mind my talking to you so freely, do you? After all you write on sex..." I raise an eyebrow, they hastily add, "And of course there is this certain comfort in talking to you, as if I have known you before..." At this point they ALWAYS look at the boobs and then your lips and try looking into your eyes deeply.

Presumptions: just because you are writing about shagging, you're up for anything or any prick. Presumptions: just because you are sad, you'd believe in any horseshit from every arsewipe.
Correction: when I write about wanting the Perfect Shag, I mean perfect, and I decide that.
Correction: the shag means a delectable man, not a delinquent.

The Princess, The Bride

Living in sanity or living insanity - who can tell?

The Princess strolled around the castle, without giving much thought to where she was going or why. Her anklets resounded against the marble walls, eerie and hollow. The toneless anklets of a dancer who had long forgotten how to move.

She wore a sheer robe of emerald green that fell from her shoulders to her ankles, draping her languidly. She wore no other adornment except the anklets...and some kohl in her eyes. And the pain that gnawed her from within. She couldn't understand it; it didn't hurt when touched; but it beat with a life of its own... that strange hollowness in her that was once her heart.

She sat inside the walls, entombed, hearing the World go on outside. Waiting, wondering if she would hear the one voice she waited for. The one voice she dreaded. Death with his gloriously cruel laughter. Death who had ensured it would never be the same again. The Princess looked at the dead roses on the floor. A gift from another... the promise of a beautiful possibility that lay withered, not able to withstand the Death-rot.

She loathed herself and the weakness of her void heart. She felt each embrace, each kiss sear upon her soul as an acid-etch that would never go. She had not wanted to share... she couldn't bear the thought of another touching her, her hair, her face, her neck...she couldn't breathe; and yet... she had. Death had laughed at her foolishness, at the stupidity of her thoughts, at the ambitions in her dreams. And yet he laughed at more. He knew... once you loved Death, you couldnt love another. And now Death wanted a new bride.

And the Princess loved and loathed...

Post Scrap: Living in sanity or living insanity - who can tell?