Monthly Archives: February 2012

Handjob Limited

There’s something about getting too personal on a blog.  I do my best to refrain.  I have multiple blogs for multiple subjects and my semi-split or rather contradictory personalities.  When I put myself out there on my blog especially for many to see I can feel a little vulnerable.   But not much.. as I don’t give a fuck about what people say or think.  All that matters is how I feel about things.  So here is me getting a bit more personal.  Enjoy it motherfuckers!  😀

The only other thing (surely not the only other thing) besides a heavy make-out session with hair becoming knotty, breaths syncing with your partner, jeans having sex with one another, foreplay as if there were no tomorrows, knees buckling under the constant sexual tension, massages that run off way into the night of something completely new.  Something I truly enjoy that is a part of this list are giving handjobs.  (Receiving ones too.)  For me, there’s nostalgia in it.

All of these wonderful actions I mentioned were all the lovely things I started out on in my childhood.  What I call the ignorant in bliss stages.  The come now or never curious factor.  Or freedom of an invincible kind of the expression of Self?  Way before delving into sex and having it turned up its own nose on oral, vagina and anal intercourse..  There was what was and there was what is.  Never mind bedroom techniques that keep the boys home loyal with or without you being by their side.

I honestly love the days when things were simple.  No thoughts to ruin the underlying moment.  No indecisiveness.  Just total sexual combustion at will.  All the easy things to get off on that required no actual penetration.  I would love to go back to the time when things were still like this for me because when it comes to the complicated magnitudes of sex and all it’s idiosyncrasies, partners, conditions and affairs…I don’t know if I can win?  Somewhere between one’s thoughts, feelings and biased views there are disruptive limitations quickly set by the enemy of the mind.  And this is where handjobs come in.

I never give them anymore.

My nonexclusive partner wasn’t like all the other guys I dealt with.  Lube IS needed.  His head gets sensitive quick.  I would go into it overthinking, before, during and after.  It sounds a lot like this:

“Can I give a good handjob?  Can I keep up with the pace my lover wants in any given position?  Is his head too sensitive right now? Am I gripping too hard?  (I’ve had this complaint before.)  How will I know?  Do I have to play with his balls now?  Does he like it?  Are his moans real or fake?  Is there enough lube or spit on his dick?  Can I compete with his techniques he’s learned and has been accustomed to since he was a teenager?  Do I have to be good?  Am I doing poor?  Must I pressure myself?  Does he have to cum every time I give him a handjob?  Does any of this even matter?”

How can I make all these questions stop while giving him a handjob?  Or right before I like to give him a handjob that never begins?

When younger, I would never complicate what is or what was or if I could live up to my own expectations because for some reason it didn’t matter.  Sometimes the only thing I sought out for was just to have fun anytime, anywhere on every occasion like that one time at a party in the closet.  I took turns with the brothers.  Handjobs were fun!  So now I should be saying:  Who cares if the guy cums?  And who cares if there isn’t any lube?  It was enough for me to appreciate the act as did the people I gave handjobs to.

But now, I’m grown.  I’ve tarnished everything and everything about everything has to be in a structure according to my belief system..even if it’s not true.  The fuck is this about?  And how can I go about healing it?  Healing me?  Healing the penis I know I can worship with just my hand?

This is all.


These Are The Days, These Are The Nights

And what if I had no time to think,
Would I continue my thoughts of madness?
And if there were never a thing of goodness,
Would there ever be badness?
You look me in the eye without a question of why.
You cannot suspect things from my side.
There’s an open invitation wide as the sky.
It’s a do or die kind of night.  Never a try.

What do you know of me,
When I’m an illusion of your fantasy?
Picking apart the Present like delicacies
And wonder about my gifts given angrily.
This pretending is wearing me down.
Living day to day without bearing purpose or ground.
Pushing physical boundaries is all I’ve found.
Despite the outwardly world of my favorite nouns.

This smile washes out by middle of night.
I beg to be free.  But even this is a fight.
I bargain and plea with light in what I write.
But wanting anything is natural spite.
With or without cause we are breathing to die.
I don’t mind disappointing them or you by and by.
I live my existing and dying days for I.
And never feel the need to question why.



Are you dirty like
the balls of a turkey?
If so, how much?
Are you like me:
Clutch your cunt
to get in touch?
Did it stem from childhood
and wishing on all THAT good?
Or did it bloom
from the state of
reaching perfection
forever dysfunctional
and misunderstood?

I smell my earwax.  If you give me a choice between urinating in a toilet bowl in the middle of the night or an empty bucket with a funnel on the side.  I’m taking the second!  I blow intense snot rockets, not only in the raging streets of New York.  But on my breasts in the shower.  And when I’m feeling super creative and dedicated I finger paint a massacre in my tub with my period.  Now that I think about it?..

If my boyfriend during the age of 12 never told me, “You don’t stop eating your boogers you can’t be my girlfriend anymore”, I wouldn’t be able to truly pinpoint to myself or anyone else when I would have stopped eating my salty, soggy, brittle, chewy boogers?

I don’t like clean gyms.  The fuck is sup with that?   Can’t we get housekeepers to do something else?  Perhaps powder my face down after I’m done with my sloppy cardio session?  I like those precious and going instinct basement dungeon, scary dark, who-the-fuck-wants-to-workout-there meathead gym.

I never understood people who believe a gym is supposed to be spotless.  And though I can appreciate a mega clean, bright doctors office, glamorous Gym and Spa like just doesn’t suit my carefree grungy personality.  Or give me the edge I need mentally to get a heavy-duty workout in.

I mean, am I the only one who has seen the asshole with gallons of sweat coming off onto the gym floor while he performs a marathon on the Stairmaster?  Am I the only one who has the nerve to leave glute sweat on spic and span benches?  How about my snot tissues in the treadmill bottle holder?  Have any of you come across them? 


Are you aware the people who are the cleanest are the dirtiest behind closed doors?  It’s why I don’t trust men with super clean faces or woman with perfect bounce in their tresses.  The least I could do is show you the build up of lint on my sweatpants and the smudge porn mascara streaking my face like black comets because I medicate myself with raunchy workouts.

I’m not sure where this dirtiness arose from?  But back from the age of 7 I could tell you my mother and aunts had to force me to get in the bathtub.  They would check the bar of soap, see if it was dry.  From there on out I had to wet the bar of soap before I came out the bathroom.  Eventually my aunt won.  I couldn’t turn away big boats along with those green little army men with guns and soap war.  Clever bitch?

I never enjoyed washing my hair or detangling it.  I kept it hidden under a hat.  (Still do!)  When I came back from hanging with the mob of boys from what I call our car-house at an empty lot I was content with the dirt on my face and greasy oil under my disgusting fingernails.

I remembered a few times I got hit on the head Puertorican style with a hairbrush because I somehow had bits of chocolate, ladybugs, leaves and branches falling out while the bitch of my mother tried to comb through.  I was that kid who would bring lice to school.  Probably the kid your own parents warned you about?  During these times, I made sure to take advantage and visit my asshole cousins often to give them a taste of lice when I could.

So tonight in the gym I felt extremely dirty and I must say:  I get off on it mentally.  Mostly because nobody knows it.  And although I sneer at any man who decides to get close to me with a dumbbell in hand, I smile silently to my hearts delight.  During the first set of Incline Dumbbell Chest Press I could feel the unity forming between my perspiration and heavy menstrual flow bubbling into what I call Wet Farts.  These suckers slide from down below where my vagina hole is and works it’s way up to the starting line of my outer lips.

I could sense and visualize the air balls in full detail and in my head they make little pop, pop, pop noises.  Nothing loud.  Just undercover.  This evening, (not the first time around) I wondered if the herd of men in the weight-room heard them too.  You know, in the exact way they sounded in my head.  FUCK YES!  I wanted them to hear it.  But I refused to take off the music blasting happy in my ears to see if the noise came through.  Still, did they? 😉

On every failing rep for the evening I felt the push of blood sprouting out and about right on the mess of my napkin.  Surely, it’s annoying at times.  But my devotion to the work and effort I’m putting in literally outweighs every con within the high of moment.  Yet the topper of the night was practicing some jogging (fake) skills and psyching myself entirely by saying:  Just 5 more minutes and just 5 more minutes until 40 was completed.  (Because I hate cardio!)

But fuck me man!  I wanted to run the hell away from the treadmill as I felt the world of mangled people in my panty from a kotex-wreck.  And through the sweat, front, back, shirt, breasts, neck, pausing to tie shoelace, side stitch and excessive menstrual flow.. I had to put up a gigantic fight through the disturbing mental waves while seeing red.


Nothing As It Seems

Everything is a lie.

Ain’t that the spirit?

I don’t say this with a bitter heart.  I’m compassionate when I give someone access beyond hard armor.
Is it strange I place my faith upon?..

Whatever you desire, you believe is real.  But it’s not.  Nothing is what it seems.  If need be, review the fickleness within your friends, dependency versus interpersonal cyclic manipulative roads between every relation and lover.

Give attention to the gloom under your rug where buried secret emotions dance against it’s own twilight and into tainted expectations that mesh well with authentic delusions.