Sex and Depression

what is it about getting an out-of-the-blue email from a verrrrry well-known blogger whom you've never interacted with that is so exciting?

it's like blogs are a separate universe with its own stars, and where you can actually interact with those stars one on one. perhaps it's because there's more control involved...in real life sean penn is hounded by paparazzi so he avoids the public, but if he had a blog, he could control his interactions. easier to control a gushing email than an awkward face-to-face gushing fan.

why is it that the one thing that attracts me most to a person also always ends up being the one thing the repulses me most about them?

HOMAGE

what a gapingvoid cartoon would look like if drawn by me:



(if the image isn't showing up, go here .)

those are girl-curlicues rather than squigglys. yes i have no drawing skills. and bad handwriting. find the real thing here.

a discussion on anonymity that scares me a little.

from the files of overly dramatic poetry that perfectly captures my current mood:

All fled, all done, so lift me on the pyre;
The feast is over and the lamps expire.
--robert e. howard

in the movie sylvia there is the scene of the first meeting of the two poets, she seeking him out at a party after reading his poems. it all happens in public, at a party, all words, but i found it to be highly erotic. she walks in all aglow and demands "where is he?" and then marches up to him and tells him she read his poems, that they were "the real thing, not blubbery baby stuff like the others..." and he watches her as she talks rapturously, he devouring every word, then they start to dance and she continues her monologue, which i can only describe as as dirty talk: "huge, crashing poems," she murmurs in ecstasy. "colossal... magnificent..."

then she bites his cheek and runs off, and goes home and writes a poem about her "black marauder... i'll have my death of him."

a sapiosexual sex scene, complete. it's not a great movie, and not even a great scene, really, but it has its moments. when her husband has left her and she's begun feverishly writing poems, there's an amazing scene that so perfectly captures depression...she's in the back seat of a car, at night, speaking through the window to a colleague, who's attempting to offer some consolation, but she brushes it off, saying "i've never felt happier...i'm writing so much...i really feel that god is speaking through me...." and she sinks back into the darkness of the (black) car.

i'd love to talk to you, baby, but i'm afraid you'd break my heart.

i've discovered the sugar high--who needs caffeine. i'm not much of a sugar-eater but was trapped somewhere today with only a box of cookies for fuel, and i was bouncing off the fucking walls. have never been so productive. and aroused. i walked home. now i'm waiting for the crash...

"well known fact that the crazier the girl the better the sex"

(google referral to my site)

welcome!

"there is this extreme physical need, every day immediately upon waking and lasting until I finally get to sleep, to sink my aroused phallus up inside some female flesh..." --someone else's blog, via sam.

after a certain age (28, i'd say, but it is a slow build from 25 and i hear it goes well through the late 30s) women have that same physical need, to be that piece of flesh that sucks an aroused phalllus up inside. it's just as strong and just as omnipresent and just as distracting. (assuming you don't have screaming kids pulling at you all day--passion-killer, i know.) which means yes, right now, and at any time you might be reading this, i am wanting nothing more than a stiff cock sunk up inside me.

but as strong as this desire gets, we girls (or perhaps i should just say this girl) don't get any less discriminating. perhaps more, actually. at least for me, the sex drive grows in concert with the relationship drive, so all it does is make things more difficult all-around.

i was standing in a circle of four. i had been watching him all night. but now i was close. across from me he was looking down as someone spoke. he lifted his eyes slowly, with the look of someone who thought he would be looking unnoticed. he found me looking directly at him. his eyes flicked away and he turned to the left and caught his breath, pausing, then re-starting a dead conversation in that direction. and i grinned, knowing.

fortune cookie: "discontent is the first step in the progress of a man or a nation."

god bless evan daze. where does he find this stuff? and this stuff?

ms. fine wants me to post my poem--that one's going out under my real name, but i'll post a different one:

awakened, softly, his hand on my breast.
slow smile spreads, sleepy.
i curl in closer, still waking.
beckoned from dreaming,
floating between.

on my neck the scratch
of his morning whiskers,
his lips find my ear.
hot, moist, rousing from dreams.
dreams of…what…what need for dreams.
phantom orchids, a fake embrace.
memory’s movies, silver-edged ghosts,
conjured and formless,
fleeting.

but this, this,
better than any dream, this …
the smell of his flesh, the heat of his breath,
his hand on my breast.

tony thinks i'm a rapscallion.
*giggle*

the sun and spring air actually cheered me today! (exclamation points are a lie. they are so garish, they need to create a piece of punctuation that lies somewhere between ! and . )

off to work today...i don't wanna go but i'm glad to have to. i'm entirely too satisifed to stay alone in my house for days at a stretch.

did indeed birth a poem. must sit on it though. my tendency is to send it off immediately and then a day later think of a perfect word that would fit in the perfect slot but it's too late, it's gone, immature and unready to withstand outside eyes. and yes i realize 'unready' is not really a word.

i'm sorry, i forgot about my rule against linking to evil people.

sometimes i wonder, did his cruelty help me by pushing me over the edge and sending me so low that i was forced to seek help? or did it destroy me (for selfsame reason)?