Apologies!

Enormous apologies for my terrible habit of changing the tense of my writing halfway through. For someone who is a complete bitch about writing and grammar etc etc, it is really unforgivable. All I can say is that the sex scenes tend to pull me into present tense as I am reliving them. It's slightly more exciting! Would you prefer the whole thing to be present tense or past tense or to have a disctinct separation of the two? I can't go on writing this badly!

Candy Trail

The Boy has been ill. I received a message asking me to come over and cook for him and I obeyed.... He brings out many things in me, the man, the mother, the playmate, the mistress, the artist and evidentally, the slave. The things I will do for a beautiful person!
I bought his favourite things to eat, I went to his flat to find him naked in a sleeping bag on the settee. Ill Boy. I tidied, I fussed, I kissed, I cooked. I stroked his hair. Little Boy. We ate, he played all helpless and grateful. A dangerous game with me as you know how I like to take advantage.
He told me he had seen an article describing the 15 things that made the perfect girlfriend and that he thought, Elizabeth is all of those. (Indeed. As he said once, if he couldn't be straight with me, he couldn't be straight with anyone. And he isn't, but who am I to prevent him playing straight with me from time to time?)
I kissed him just below his navel, where the line of hair leading downwards is trimmed short, is clean and sexy. He made a move to show me more,
'No, you can't just take it out!' I said, 'It was just a kiss!' Will he ever learn to slow down?
We watched a new vampire series, True Blood, lying parallel on the settee together. Quite realistic sex in this series...I think I will become a fan. We watched one scene where a naughty, horny country boy fucks the town slut as she dangles naked from handcuffs. The scene made an impression on us both and I felt him get hard against my ass. I ignored it. The transition from mother role to slut takes time, takes work.
He turned me over so that I was lying almost underneath him.
'Did you know that a newborn's line of focus is ten inches? Exactly the distance between the breast and the mother's face!' he said, 'So that's another argument in favour of breastfeeding.'
This may seem a strange thing to say in a moment of sexual tension, but to explain, we have a long running argument where I am disgusted by breastfeeding, I cannot visualise the breast as a non-sexual thing and he argues how natural and beautiful it is. Still...it IS still a strange thing to say, admittedly.
He pulled up my top and sucked on my breast. See? A sexual thing. Yet hardly helpful in leaving the mother role behind...a confusion of the matter in fact. I want to clarify.
'Speak Dutch to me,' I say, as it always gets me hot, it's such a snarly, masculine language. He tells me, in Dutch, that he doesn't want to speak Dutch....it is enough.
We kiss and kiss and kiss and the foreplay is quite lovely. His stubbled chin on the back of my neck sends me crazy. We discover a new position; me kneeling, facing his feet, between his legs, him sitting up just enough to fuck me. It makes me feel like I'm praying, like a nun.
A very bad nun.
I know my back and my butt look sexy as hell and that it gives him a great view. His body is extra hot with his illness, I can feel it in his hands and his thighs.
The scene from the vampire show is still in my head and I see his mirror across the room.
'Stand up,' I tell him, 'come here,' and we move in front of it.
Now the transition is complete. Vanity pushes me over into mistress, lover, slut mode. He looks hot in the mirror, his stomach muscles tensed, his strong arms, his pretty face. I get a thrill knowing that he will be fucking a guy at some point, that a guy will see this, see him like this, but that right now it's mine.
I put my hands up, as if handcuffed, up against the beams of the sloped attic roof. (Yes, my artist lives in a garret apartment - of course. My cliche. Canvasses are leaning beside the mirror too, paintings of a shadowy man, a demon, an angel...). He holds onto my hips. I watch in the mirror. When he comes it isn't with his usual smile, that completely happy face I used to find so charming, it is more manly, more painful, more hard.
It was good. We go back to the settee and I zip myself into his sleeping bag with him, crushed together, my face on his chest. Dangerous. I must keep a neon sign in my mind-
G. A. Y.
Flashing, warning don't fall in love don't fall in love...at least, not any more than I already am. Infuriating to be a woman sometimes, to whom smell and fucking and closeness can lead like a trail of candy into love.

Two days later: 7am text: 'I have told my three best friends, it was tough but they responded well. I hope you are proud of your boy? Did you have a good weekend? xxx'
I am proud.
I am calm.
I will take him out for dinner and champagne and remember I had more of him than any girl.
I will be his friend.

Some new source of sex will be found.

Warm Me Up Again

Chance meetings...fate...6am, getting my bike from the station, so drunk and cold and dreading the cycle home, the boy appears. He was on the same train. He doubled back to check if my bike was there. He is drunker than I am. Tempting.

I want to stay at his for the night. Better than cycling home in the cold, better to cuddle up to his permanently warm body, better, after a night in an Amsterdam club littered with the unattractive, to achieve something sexual, to wrap myself up in some beauty.

He resisted a little. He is going for a drunk bike ride to sober up. Perhaps throw up.

'Give me your keys. I'll warm the bed up for you.'

'How will I get in?'

'Ok, let me in now, go cycle. Come back.'

'Your company would be nice but..I'm so drunk, I just want to sleep.'

'Me too. I'm freezing. I just want to cuddle up.'

How hilarious. It's only in hindsight that I realise I've used THAT line. The 'I just want to cuddle' line. The one where both of you know it will end in sex but you need that removal of guilt. The need to fake innocence. It's normally the man's line. Our role reversal permeates unconscious levels, even the fact that he likes to boss me about sometimes, 'ride faster, do this, do that,' he's like a nagging woman! I kind of like it. It appeals to the lazy side of me and it makes me laugh. I wouldn't do anything if I didn't want to.
So, I go into his apartment. Close all the windows, draw all the blinds. The place is messy, the bed dirty, but with his smell, a good smell, comforting. I leave a t-shirt on, tight (the one that makes my tits look great) and climb into bed. I'm drunk, but only mildly.
He staggers in. Gets naked. Stumbles around the place, slipping on the wooden floors. A rare sight - the naked boy without a hard-on. Normally you only have to look at it for it to grow. He's cute. Smiley.
'You know what happened tonight?'
'What?'
'E-slut asked me to come home with her, to sleep with her.'
I feel a red wave of fury rise up from my gut.
'I said, if I was going to sleep with a girl why the fuck would I sleep with you when I've got Elizabeth?'
E-slut apparently stuttered at this, she didn't know we were still like that. Well now you do E-slut. And if I hear about you trying it on with the boy again, I won't be so polite next time I see you. E-slut has slept with most of the boy's friend group, but it is him she has always loved and jesus, does she hate me. E-slut also can't keep her mouth shut about his sexuality, not recognising it is his choice whom he tells and when.
'I told R about me tonight too.'
'You did? Oh baby that's great!' I fling my arms around him. This is real progress. He is telling his male friends one by one.
We cuddle up.
'I might do you in the butt in the morning,' he says.
'Charming,' I reply.
We pass out.
In the morning all is lovely. All is as it was. We are giggly, cuddly friends again, thank God. We do indeed fuck, twice. He has a fascination with my breasts for some reason, squeezing and sucking them, asking for them. I give him the special thing I know he loves, a blow job and a finger inside him, it never fails to drive him crazy.
'If I'm stuck in any Freudian phase, I think it must be the oral,' I say during a change of position.
'And I'm stuck in the anal,' he says, ruefully. No kidding.
We go for lunch around 5pm having spent the day in bed. It's good. I feel.....relaxed. The boy is himself again. We are friends, albeit sexy friends for the time being. He is gradually coming out which must be such a relief for him. E-slut has been put in her place which is a relief for me.
All is good with the world.

....

Outdoor whore

Last night I felt like a whore. And my payment? A painting. A painting of James Dean. Yes, the boy is back. After a week of silence, we met, talked, went for a bike ride late in the evening. We both kind of knew where we were going but after so much inconsistency I don't assume anything when it comes to the two of us. We cycled to the park.
It's getting cold now, the time for lying on the grass, for no coats at night, is gone. We cycled along an ever darkening woodland path, the occasional car cruising past a little way away, the occasional bike parked in the bushes.
'What are we doing?' I lied.
'There's something we haven't crossed off our list,' he replied.
Outdoor sex. Uppermost in my mind was a fear of dogshit.
'I could just rape you here,' he said, skidding his bike in front of mine, 'I owe you one.'
That turned me on enough to stay silent, to follow his bike with mine until we reached the lake. Ducks and birds scattered. Duck shit, I thought.
The stars were out, The lake was flat and grey and wide, a horror movie lake. It was quiet. The cruising cars were far away.
A bench. Thank god. We sat down together, I put my legs over his lap.
'So you think you can just bring me out here to fuck like a hooker? What made you think I'd go for that?'
'Because you're a bad girl,' he said.
'You know, I purposely made myself come twice this afternoon so I wouldn't be uncontrollably horny when I came to see you.'
'You didn't think I'd be up for it?'
'I didn't assume anything.'
He got his dick out, hard already. Jesus, put it away, start a little slower...he has to be told every time. A girl needs a build up! Besides, a hard-on feels damn sexy through jeans.
We kissed. He learned to kiss with me. At first there was too much tongue, his lips too wide apart. The boy has a big, pretty mouth, hundreds of white teeth like a shark. Now he kisses well. Tongue penetrating just enough is good; it promises things.
We tried to fuck with me on his lap, but even turned around so I was sitting on him, it was still awkward and I didn't want to do all the goddamn work.
'Fuck me over the bench, from behind,'
He obliged.
'My ass in the moonlight,' I giggled.
He fucks well, but always worries that he will come too soon for me. I have to tell him it's ok, that he can. After all, I'm not going to come like that, I take time, concentation and clit. I love to be fucked, sometimes that is enough for me, but there comes a point where I want the satisfaction of their orgasm. My prize. My body. My skill. 'Come, give it to me, wherever you want.'
He tells me when he comes now. He used to be silent. I like him vocal. He came inside me.
'I brought tissues,' he said.
Premeditating bastard!
We cycled home. Cuddled on the couch and I left without fuss. With laughs and hugs.
Who would have thought mutual using could be so theraputic?

Options

Today was spent in a contemplative mood. One of reality versus fantasy. I dressed feminine today, took my bike out in the sun, skirt lifted Marilyn style by the ever present Holland wind. My new haircut makes me feel like a doll, makes me stand out from the blondes. Feels like me. My crotch hurts from all this cycling and not at all from sex. I haven't had sex since Tuesday. Remnants of bruises on my arms.
These are my options - there is a German boy, my own age, blond, muscular, tall. He wants to come to visit me, having never met me, with the assumption of a fuck. I tell him I will need to see if there is chemistry first, that I am not some stupid young girl who sleeps with anybody, who falls for the 'let's just cuddle' line. He is persistant. His personality irritates me already. Cocky, arrogant, casual about sex. I am never casual about it. I am intense. Even in my one night stands, which are rare, I am determined to give both of us an experience to remember. My last one....
It was out of anger, a hiatus in the middle of my faux-relationship with The Boy. I took home a young, chubby, rich public school boy. Thick blonde hair. Sexy purely because of his wealth. 'No strings,' we both agreed, 'no meeting again or swapping numbers.' We fucked. Or at least attempted. His cock was small. And it wasn't an illusion based on his chubby body, it was small. I played his body like a maestro piano player on a Tomy My First Keyboard. It was enough. When morning came he didn't run, he stayed and stayed and asked for my number.
It wasn't forthcoming.
Where was I? Ah yes, so I have the option of the German. A coldblooded thing. His body looks good. His face is nice looking though not pretty enough for me. I worry that he could come and I wouldn't find him attractive and then I would have an unwelcome guest on my sofa. But...I need sex. That is the reality.
The fantasy? That's Jim Caviezel. Jesus or The Count of Monte Cristo to you and me. Sunday early evening spent watching him. Something about his face. And he is Catholic. Somewhat SUPER Catholic. Someone who has defined what 'Good' means to him and is trying damn hard to be it. Whilst my definition differs, his 'goodness' makes him eminently fuckable. Corruptible. His ass in blue jeans is the American Dream.
I've taken some good pictures of Delft. Does my camera really still need those batteries?

The way out is fuck

I'm back. Complete with new 'pony' and darker hair. Very fierce. Last night I went to Leiden and partied. Met a few nice people, barely any of noteable beauty. An old man became mesmerised by me, asked my IQ - the best chat up line I have heard, and called me beautiful, intelligent 'and, I think dangerous, yes?' Why yes, old man, thank you for noticing. Was it the way I smoke or the way I look at you with eyes narrowed in amusement and slight contempt? 'Carmen' he called me, I had a flower in my hair. I must look up the operatic story of Carmen and see if it is true.
I have a loathing for Spanish women (which is part jealousy as my True Love used to have a fetish for them) I can see their sexiness but I am irritated by the incredibly loud voices the groups of young Spanish tourists tend to have. Truly though, I reserve my most genuine jealousy for petite French women. I adore them and I will never be remotely like them. I'm an Amazon, feminine but tough, curvy yes, but I love androgyny and petite breasts are quite fabulous I think...especially when paired with elfin hair and high heels. No. Not me. I digress.
On the way home The Boy was on the train. I'd seen him riding his bike from the back and thought he was a teenager. He was drunk. We smiled. We stood together in the passageway of the train, not caring if we were overheard and talked.
'Ive done a painting, it's not the one you want but you can have it, it's for you,' he said. The painting I want is of Pan, a blonde, aroused, young Pan with an Alexander the Great head. 'It's of James Dean. But it also looks a bit like Ethan Hawke.'
Before Sunset/Sunrise. Two of my favourite films.
'I'm sorry for the...well, you know. The other night,' I said.
'It's ok. We won't mention it.'
'I thought I could cheer you up.'
'I know. You're lovesick. But you know, you've meant so much to me this past year and a half I'm not just going to disappear from your life.' Kind Boy again. The boy I am lovesick for. I breathed in his scent. Hugo Boss, Nivea deodorant.
It felt good. We talked like old friends. He told me he had come out to a male friend, a huge step forward. I told him of the night's flirting.
Outside the station, we air kissed. Three times. The Dutch way. He will be calling me about a Japanese film festival next week. I wonder...will he?
I plan to fuck him one more time, lovingly, make up for the rape, leave him with a sweet taste. And then we will be friends. He makes me laugh. That is worth the long, dark journey through the love to friendship, to admitting he is not mine.
That night I gave my number to a boy seven years younger than me. Toothy smile, thick shiney hair. 'Pretty boy, here's my number,' I said as we air kissed. He was in a band. Jesus Christ isn't everyone? I looked at a long haired barman with interest for a while. My heart is my True Loves, my longing is for The Boy. I think I must fuck my way through the journey to friendship, I think that is the only way.
I took my batteries out of my vibrator for my camera to take photos of Delft. All it was used in conjunction with anyway was group gay porn. Not helpful. I see The Boy there. I see myself owning one of those cocks.
Back to boring old hetero/hetero I guess. Or shall I peruse the gay bars for more pretty confused ones?
If I was completely without feeling, I might.

Smoking, thinking. The rape of the boy.

Westersingel, Rotterdam, Tuesday.
After an altercation at my ex's house, I feel powerful, shades and smokes, strutting the sidewalk, dodging the trams. Ha! Last night: When a boy tells you not to go around, he is in a bad mood, don't ignore this advice. Don't think beers and a good fuck will help him out. At least, not if the guy is an artist desperate to paint away the self hatred of his hidden homosexuality.
I love this boy. He is beautiful. He WAS kind. For a year or so. Kind and fun. But he never loved me. I still don't entirely understand that. My ego won't allow it. Men fall for me all the time and I have the art of making them love me pretty much down. I'm sorry if that sounds cynical. But it is true.
I made him cry. I pushed him to talk about the reason for his bad mood. He cried on the bed and I stroked him and told him he was beautiful. Which really doesn't matter when the love runs one way - it doesn't count. I made him dinner. He seemed to recover and sat cross legged on the floor going through his paints, looking beautiful....wavy hair, green eyes....I stood behind him and something came over me. His innocence....my anger that he didn't love me....I felt like a lion looking at a deer. I told him. He sat on the couch and hid his face. Cute. Really cute.
'It's a good thing I'm not a man,' I said, 'Or I would fuck you right now. I'd rape you.'
'You don't have a penis,' he replied. Ah yes, the reason....the reason. I reached behind me into the alcove where he keeps his clothes.
'Yes. I do.'
Doc Johnson makes incredible ones.
I pinned him, I bit his neck. I flipped him over. And this guy is 184cm, muscled (but boyish and pretty). If he wanted to, he could have stopped me. But I was violent. This was rape and I hurt him. He made me suck him a little but I wanted to fuck, not be fucked and he came all over his own chest. Poor boy. I had to stop halfway and fuck him with something smaller...after all, I didn't want to damage him. It was good.
We cried, we fought again. I am really paralysed by the change in him. When we broke up, his kindness, the fun we had, disappeared. Natural, you might think, but for the fact we broke up because he was gay, not because there was any bad feeling. We intended to stay close friends. He is not making it easy.
I stayed the night. We slept far apart.
In the morning, he didn't want sex, but again...I didn't take no for an answer. Yes, I know, I should maybe let the fucking stop, it would make things easier for him, for his understanding of his sexuality, for our friendship to be simplified. The problem is, he's beautiful, I'm horny and we do it damn well together.
Two rapes in one night.
I got my period during the second one.
'Well that explains last night,' he said.
Readers, I'm not a feminist by any standards, I'm far too lazy to be one, but that really pissed me off. Men need blood. Men need proof of hormones, proof of emotions. They can understand that. They don't believe bad moods are valid unless they're accompanied by it. By blood. It's that that makes us act the way we do apparently.
Poor boy. The hormones may have heightened things, but really? Really there's more to it than that as I will explain.....
For now, give me a cigarette. I'll turn into the wind, guard it, make it light. Burn it up. Walk the streets all pretty and think, What next?