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Slutsville Diary - P3 - Mirror.. Mirror.. on the wall .. show the bitch in me for all ..

My parents sent me off to India where I completed my bachelors degree. The few possessions I had after four years in my own l'll Alcatraz were a group of close friends and a college degree. At 21, that seemed quite an achievement when compared to my friends out here who were still figuring out what field to pursue. Plus, no college loan to pay back. I could begin my life afresh without too much baggage.

My job in Chicago, my team of happy-drunk Irishmen, a latina bombshell and a couple of sober Pakistani guys, my work that I can sleep-walk through and still appear quite good at, my work schedule that leaves plenty of time to pursue my other loves, my apartment here, my collection of books and glass ware, my red-devil ride - a Mustang I bought after I saw Carrie drive one in Sex and the City (a different model though) - all of it helped stabilize my life. Cooking was a therapy I discovered accidently.

My girlfriend in Atlanta is a goody-goody Catholic girl, still trying to come to terms with her faith and her choice. I am not much of a help there - she has to fight that battle alone. We are planning for a fall wedding next year but so far, we haven't put much thought into it. I guess all good things in life take their own time - at least in my life they do.

Why am I here ? Because I love this place. It takes me away. Behind every doll, there is a real person. They all have a reason to be here. People discover each other, get attracted, even fall in love, get engaged, get married, get divorced, break up and start all over again. A month here is a long time. I am happy to just count my hours. I have my happy-places here - that remind me of a place in the real world where, at some point of my life, all I felt was happiness - the beach brings back some fond memories with a good friend, especially when I am curled up in a blanket in the real world, looking out at the snowy white landscape outside. I love the dance floors, because I suck at it in real life. The comedy club cracks me up - I can just sit there, drink and listen to inane jokes - If Moses had walked a few more fucking miles, all that oil would have been ours !

And then I get a message. Somebody wants to come over and screw me. Oh, of course I am a bitch. Bitch is the new black. Deal with it !

Slutsville Diary - P2 - In a fake world, faker meets fakest !

If you thought my previous piece was rather dramatic, oh well, I guess you were right. I promise to tone it down in the piece below - a rather unfortunate sexcapade where my real world and make-believe collide.

The character today is a hottie in a red silk blouse and skirt, who met me in the "Passion Pit" - a bar that hosts live sex shows. I was dressed in an aquamarine blue top, with an excessively ornate ruby necklace nestled around a neckline that plunged rather deep, a white wrap-around skirt that accentuated my curves and matching white boots. Graciously acknowledging the whistles that erupted upon my entrance, I made my way to a corner from where I could view the action on stage while checking out the crowd that walked in. My feeble attempts at multi-tasking two favorite pastimes were interrupted by a message from this hottie, who called herself, of all unimaginative names possible, "PressDown". I shortened it to PD because it rolled off the tongue better. We stuck up a conversation, within minutes of which, it was quite evident that this, here, was a "he" pulling off a "she" - the height was still 6"3 in the profile, the profile itself quite unimaginative, to speak nothing of the distasteful photos. I played along, curious on how it would turn out. Bad mistake !

We met up the next day, after repeated requests from her to get to know me - thereby, violating a cardinal rule - women never sound needy. I took her to the scene of my tied-and-gagged whipping session, the BDSM room you saw in the pictures. I bumped into another friend and asked PD if she would like to do her instead. PD insisted on pleasing me and that it would be worth my while. She found the room not to her liking, so I took her to the adjoining Resort room, with a beautiful view of hills and lakes. The dolls undressed and stood there on the balcony, doing a slow dance to no music in particular. And, that is where all the action stopped.

PD was more concerned with my real world reactions. For two hours I endured the torture of reading through lines of corny lovemaking sequences she imagined she was doing to me, interspersed with what she actually wanted me to do to myself. In between, I almost died laughing - she walked me through how to find a particular spot hidden deep inside an organ I did not possess, that if pressed the right way, would make me want to pee. Now, back in the real world, were I to possess such an organ and be in the process of pleasuring myself, for the life of me, I could not understand why I would want to do something that ridiculous. Bitch that I was, I had multiple chat sessions open with some others who ranked almost the same on the bitchiness quotient. We bitched the hell out of PD's attempts at trying to arouse me.

The process finally came to an end after an exaggeratedly loud sequence of inanely random key-presses to convey the inability to type coherently in the midst of orgasmic convulsions. Two hours for this crap? God, I wanted to stick a needle in her eye. Thankfully, so immersed was PD in her act that I managed to sneak by with canned clickable responses readily available in a menu. In between bitching sessions with my other friends, I was able to read through a chapter from a collection of Rand's unpublished work.

The next hour turned out to be more fun than I expected - an abject contest between a man's ego and a woman's vanity. PD could not understand why I was not interested in getting to know her. I told her I did not care. I was happy not knowing her. She told me her real name was Ericka. I said I preferred PD. She wanted appreciation for what she considered a great lesson in the art of lovemaking. I gave her none. She professed her desire to belong exclusively to me. I said I did not like sushi every night. She gloated how all the others she had "made love to" wanted her back for more. I told her they were more than welcome. She called me Ms Francon, because I liked Rand. I corrected her - Ms Francon would be Guy Francon's daughter - I would rather prefer just Dominic. She meant the essence of the character - being devoid of attachments. I thanked her for the complement. He/she finally gave up, with rather trite dialogues on how I survive without feelings. She looked forward to meeting me again. I thanked her with all the sincerity I could muster. With that, she disappeared .. *poof*.

I guess I still managed to come off as a touch too dramatic. Oh well, maybe next time !

Slutsville diary - P1 - The kindergarten teacher.

I lie in bed here, drained of my vitality, after a whole night of unbridled passion. To me, the real world is just a blur and I am who I am in spirit - a slut and a glutton for punishment. I have been here a week now. In this one week, I've see the doll that covers my spirit get abused, tied, gagged, whipped, clamped and gang-raped. But, it is the strain on my spirit - a strain from the pain, sorrow and deceit so nakedly evident in the people I meet here - that has made me yearn to reach out to the real world. I can only reach out to the few people, who, I know for sure, will not judge me.

Some of you have l'll toddlers of your own to worry about. You would want the best for them at every stage. You would ask around and finally choose a kindergarten school that best suits your child's needs. The teachers there would probably be the kindest souls you have ever met, always with a charming smile and an unlimited reservoir of patience and energy. I met one such soul when a group of us went skinny-dipping on a hot afternoon. I was, of course, the first one into the pool. After many whistles and catcalls, this teacher, V, felt a connection with the loudest nutcase in the pool, me, and swam over. We talked about a lot of stuff, likes, dislikes and absolute turn-offs. One thing led to another and we ended up in bed. The love-making that followed was one of the most intense and passionate I've had. And, in between gasps of delight, I got to know the real woman. Earlier in the pool, when asked what her turn-offs were, she had said animals, children and bathroom stuff. I took it to mean doggy-style, catholic school girl role-play and sex in the shower. Now she elaborated. The four years, from twenty to twenty four, when you are out of your teens but not just a woman yet, she worked her way through college as a slut. She figured there were enough sorority parties where she ended up in bed with some complete stranger, so why not actually get paid. She advertised in local dailies and only took requests in the other end of town. The money was good. It paid the bills. But, ofcourse, there were the occupational hazards. She met men who wanted to watch her do their children or their dogs. They wanted her to urinate and defecate. She still had some of the scars from those days, and not just on her body. Today, at thirty nine, after a stint of management jobs and a nice little nest-egg of stable investments, she is, sort of retired. Teaching at the kindergarten school, she says, is her therapy. Some habits die hard though. She hates one of her co-workers, a real bitch, so she gladly screwed her husband. She has a regular group of swinger friends, three married couples. The Christmas night ended up with her doing it with all three husbands while the wives watched. She has known a lot of men in her life - bosses, plumbers, soccer coaches, pizza guys, bankers - but none she felt she could enter a commitment with. Fault, she says, may be her own - she just dosent know what it means to trust someone anymore. Later, as we lay there in bed, held so close to each other, the gulf that separated our lives felt the widest.

With every day I spend here, my life in the real world feels so blessed.

Thank you .. for just being there.

Laila

Sands ..

Me ::
Oh sands of time
I walked so long
where are my footsteps
who washed them off
the marks I made
when I stumbled and fell
the spots of blood
when I cut my feet
you had no right
to wash them off
I have the sight
so I want to see
the prints I left
by despair's sea.

Sands ::
My poor l'll girl
why use your sight
to turn back and see
the falls and cuts
ahead lie the sands
as far you can see
where you can make
prints as many as be
and if you see blood
you spare a thought
blessed are you
you have the sight
for she who ran ahead
ran just blind.

I am your woman, my man..

Hi there,

Pleased to meet you, my man,
I'm the woman you strip naked with your eyes,
stare at the straps of my bra,
every time they slide off my shoulders a bit,
steal a peak down my blouse
every time I bend,
gaze at my panty's lining
when it slips a millimeter over my trousers.
Oh yes, I am your woman, my man.

I am the woman you wish to be with for one night,
you would see and feel and touch me if I would let you,
you would kiss my nipple if I would let you,
you would lick my navel if I would let you,
you would caress the curve of my hip if I would let you,
and the next night,
you would just think it to be your right
to see and feel and touch me
and that it is not mine to choose, I would have to let you.
Oh yes, I am your woman, my man.

Have you ever thought, my man
that the brown nipples you so desperately want to see,
had I a wart half that size on my forehead
you would have called me ugly,
that the hole in my tummy you call navel,
had I two of them a fourth of their size on my cheek
you would 've shunned to see me,
that the curve of my hip you keep gazing at,
had I another one an eighth of its size on my neck,
you would've called me diseased.
For if I had a wart on my forehead, a hole on my cheek,
and a bulge on my neck,
I wouldnt be your woman, My Man.