you can't make homes out of human beings.

(someone should have already told you that.)

reading back on my previous posts, I can't help but feel like I've been trying to censor myself, even if it's just to my future self. I'll write out what I feel here, today, in all my wildness and weirdness.

1) my number is ten right now. I can have sex, and not have it mean very much - with the tenth boy, it was just because it wasn't a big deal and I was curious and hungry. it was really very bad, and I did not enjoy it. he held me afterwards without being asked, and I found myself tucked against him, not sure what I should be feeling. 

2) the A situation. I had a grown-up conversation where I tried to ask the things I want to know, and he put a lid on monogamy. I can feel myself tumbling into something that scares me. I see a future where I fall in love and I can't resolve the feelings of inadequacy and failure associated with a partner that has sex with other people. maybe it would be OK if he only had sex with casual randoms, I reason with myself. maybe it would be a fluid thing where we had rules and boundaries and sometimes it closed up. maybe it would be OK if he gave me the emotional support I needed. maybe, maybe, maybe. I don't know. 

I wonder if I can give all of myself if I am sleeping with other people?

he brought me back a book from his travels. I am making ice-cream from it; silky and tender and sweet. I need to watch it; I need to be careful.  

3) D comes up more and more. we've been emailing, very briefly.

time to deal, I guess. have a coffee, have the chat. 

I know what I want and I'm desperately afraid I'll never find it. 

A Song of A

Six times in three weeks. We fuck ravenously, delightfully. The heft of him in my hands, in my mouth, in my pussy, in my ass - delicious. To look at him is to want him. We have been outside the house precisely twice; both to the bar across the street from me. I don't even know if it really matters. I want to see his house, want to fuck him there and wear a shirt of his home. His smell is arousing; when I lie in the sheets of our distant fuck it sends something through me, something raw and filthy and fresh. His skin is strangely sweet, with a hint of bitter musk and salt.

He's this close to fucking me and coming in me, the bastard. It's pretty much the last barrier. I would let him, if we were dating exclusively. I don't know what the deal is there, but I don't think he wants that, really. I should just ask; people are not all like me. Sarah thinks I have a particularly vivid inner life; maybe A does not.

His dick is the greatest thing I have ever had, lets just leave it at that.

He holds me indelicately and it feels like I might break in his arms. Such arms, too. Mmmm. He's just big all over. I want to fuck him sweetly sometime, but I don't even know if that's something I'm good at.

I do not think he wants to date me and that makes me sad. If I found that out for sure - I would have to stop, wouldn't I? Because I would catch feelings, eventually. I might already have done so.