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| | vendredi, avril 29, 2011

I've been weak. I mean, I've been getting that feeling of weakness, mushy mangled up helplessness mixed with a little bit of happiness, hotness, craving for sex and skin contact. I don't know if you have the faintest clue as to what I'm talking about, but I think it's what K.D. Lang calls "Constant Craving" in that song.
I get it when I watch lesbian movies with hot sex scenes.
As if there's a game of mine sweeper going on in my body. Engulfed by romance.

Don't get me wrong: I don't even like Kd Lang, neither do I like to feel mangled.
But I've been watching Desert Hearts, that old pre-dyke-revolution movie with big American convertibles and lots of sand. And God, that sex scene hits right home.

There's more to it than the sex scene. It's an excellent movie, a good story set in a seductive environment (heat, crooners, casino's, horses and chicks with boots).
The movie is based on a book by Jane Rule and the storyline is rather simple: 1959. Vivian Bell (Shaver), an English professor at Columbia University, travels to Nevada to establish six-week residency to obtain a divorce. She stays at a guest house for women waiting for their divorces to be finalized. That's were she meets Cay Rivers, a free-spirited ceramist who works at a casino. (source: wikipedia)

It's a story of opposites attract. Two smart women. One young, one older. Cay is out, Vivian is struggling heavily with her sexuality.
When Vivian finally gives in to Cay's seduction attempts, she's in that state of utter confusion when there's no way back and a very frightening experience is looming over you. "Somewhere between sex and fear passion is" wrote Jeanette Winterson and that's what it's all about. The intellectual,reserved Vivian has lived a life as dry as the desert. Cay is her way out and Vivian knows it.

While watching the Desert Hearts bed scene I could feel the fear and exitement seeping through Vivian's pores, the hotness and the want stirring her body in cold electrifying twinges. Sex after yearning.
It's about the longest most sexy close up of kissing between 2 women I ever saw in a movie. And what I liked even better was the humour and the realness of it all: the awkwardness, vulnerability and uncontrollable want.

Well, now you know what to watch, when in need...

| | mardi, octobre 20, 2009

"I don’t fit in. That’s the problem."
She says it with a decisiveness that reminds me of old wood. Old furniture. Oak and chestnut, polished a thousand times. Repainted and recoated with thin layers of expensive nourishing substances, but never really touched.
"Every night I drive home together with thousands of other commuters. We crawl down the highways in our pompous shiny cars. And then I feel it: I don’t fit in. I’m always driving out of pace. People get bothered driving behind me. I don’t know why. They don’t want to be around me. I’m keeping too much distance, I guess."

| | mercredi, novembre 12, 2008

Sometimes I want to be a man. A bloke, like the one driving the truck in the lane next to me. One of those muscle and bone men, with dark stubble and fast growing hair. Greasy long hair that needs to be shampooed every day under the shower.
But that's not what I am.
I'm a 65 year old woman looking out of the window of a tourist bus driving through Paris.

Libellés :

| jeudi, novembre 15, 2007

Just take some time to watch this, it's amazing ...

A very good interview "from way back" with Jeanette Winterson "Face to face with Jeremy Isaacs" BBC, 1994, now available on Youtube.
In pieces of course, due to Youtube's bloody 10 minutes policy.

Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zgSsDdd2gIg
Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNVVTzap5Ko
Part 3: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NKMkukxUWCg
Part 4: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJVYIfHMBQM
Part 5: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3B647tMhKI

Libellés : , ,

| | vendredi, août 17, 2007

She lights candles and whispers softly into the fire’s open ear. ‘Work for me,’ she tells it, seducing it to life with her marvellous tongue. She is a deputy of fire, a keeper of the flame. I want her to burn me. I want her to hurt me and for me to do the same to her.

An excerpt from the beautiful story "Gun-metal day" by LOUISE McCLEMMAN. Read on MSLexia.

Libellés : , , ,

| | mardi, mai 29, 2007

When I came to wake you up with coffee this morning you were still sleeping. While you turned around and slowly opened your eyes you sighed and told me what you had been dreaming. In your dream you were making a nipple out of clay. Your hands circling endlessly. You stayed in bed with your eyes closed for another half hour.

Libellés : , , ,

| | jeudi, mai 24, 2007

Break up sex is one of the hardest ways to say goodbye.
You hurt most in the softness of the arms of the one who just dumped you.
But when she started the obligatory “We can’t continue like this” - routine, the only thing I thought was “Please let her get into bed with me just one more time.”
She did bring me home after she had told me it was over. Guilt. I felt so miserable she had no choice. So she stayed. Not on the couch, but in my bed.
“We can sleep together, but I don’t want to make love. That wouldn’t be fair to you.” She said. That made me feel even more miserable. I put out the light and turned to my side, away from the body that rejected me. Hurt.
All night when I had tried to kiss her deeper and with tongue she had avoided me. But now in the bed, we were on dangerous grounds. The mind can be strong but the flesh is weak. Familiar flesh is even weaker.
I felt I was caught in a pantomime of breaking up, not able to change anything about what was going to happen, but I knew sex was unavoidable.
We were wide awake, lying very still and listening to each other breathing. After a while she turned to me. I felt her body heat against my back. She softly stroked my shoulders and then spooned me. I could feel her hard nipples through her t-shirt.
It’s strange how feeling in women can get so complicated and twisted that in the end they always get hard nipples.
I pushed my buttocks into her. Closer.
I remembered the nights I had had her pinned down here on the bed, whriting, moaning sighing, softly uttering oh’s of wonder and calling my name. Coming.
And suddenly I hurt so much. Starting to cry is the one thing you should not do if you want to avoid break up sex. But the tears were already streaming down my face and of course she noticed. Of course she pressed her body closer to mine and started to kiss my neck.
I could feel her tears too.
She was dumping me because she was in love with someone else. “I don’t know where it’s going to go, whether we will start a relationship.” She had said. I hated that “we”. I hated the cunt that had caught her eye.
And what was worse: I hated the fact that I couldn’t master her. All this time I had thought I had her. When she was sitting on my face, when she made me bite a pillow so I would be quiet. When she told me I was wild.
I thought she was at ease with me.
But suddenly I realized why she was leaving me. I never had her because I had never given her anything. Orgasm, yes, but nothing more. There was nothing she could love.

When I turned around and kissed her, she didn’t pull away. Her hips pushed into mine and she kissed me back, deep. Our tears mingled. Now if there’s anything leading most certainly to break up sex, then that’s mingling tears. So you can imagine, it didn’t take long before our hands were trailing over each other’s bodies, firing up the mix of lust, anger, rejection and frustration that was already lurking underneath the surface so impatiently.

I wanted to fuck her, feel her, merge into her one last time, I wanted to remember every part of her. The noises she made, her scent, the crook of her arms, the weight of her breasts. We made love slowly. She kept saying she was sorry, even when she was coming.
And after a while, I started to feel numb. A numbness so typical of loss. I was already letting go. I was preparing for the morning, when she would take her bag and leave for good.


We’re sitting at the table, finishing dinner and we talk about insurance.
I think that the insurance you have might be inadequate.
“I’m hardly ever ill.” You say.”It’s not worth paying an extra fee for.”
You pause.
“Don’t worry.” You add. “I’ll get extra insurance before I’m fifty.”
I look at you and a gap in time opens.
“I’ve got time.” You say. ”Still more than 10 years to go.”

10 years.
I’m not sitting at the table in our house, I have been sucked away in a black hole of fear.
“What’s ten years.” I think. “And then another ten. Sixty. And another ten.”
I wish I could draw you into this black hole with me, this hiding place against time.

Libellés : , ,

| | vendredi, janvier 19, 2007

Dykes and the City asks me about songs that make me happy.

The song that definitely makes me happy these days is Feist's Inside and out.

Other feel good tunes:

- The Gossip - Standing in the way of control
- Katerine - Louxor j'adore
- Joan As Policewoman - I defy (with Anthony)

- Lezzies on X - 30 large (Their excellent heavy metal version of The L-word's theme song.)
- Gretchen Phillips - The reluctant butch

I'm tagging Ysengrin and Sortof.

>> I forgot Heidi Mortenson.

| | jeudi, janvier 11, 2007

Not fiction, but sounds like poetry:

"Vagus" means wanderer -- the nerve wanders through the body. Previously, it wasn't thought that it goes as far as the pelvic region. But our research and that of other laboratories is showing that it does in fact go to the cervix and uterus and probably the vagina. It carries the impulses from those regions, travels up through the abdomen, goes through the diaphragm, through the thorax (chest cavity), up the neck outside the spinal cord, and into the brain.

An excerpt of an article in Wired.

| | lundi, août 28, 2006

I've been looking at your X-rays. They were in the old trunk upstairs.
I was looking for wrapping paper, but before I knew it I had opened the large brown envelope that had the name of a hospital printed in one corner and your name in capitals.
I held them up to the light: 3 parts of your spinal column, one thigh and your left wrist.
I looked at them for a long time, but I couldn't find anything broken.

| | jeudi, juin 29, 2006

"Are you happy?" my grandmother asks me casually, brushing past on her way to the toilet. Her heels scrape over the floor tiles when she stops and turns around.
Her dark eyes lock on mine. The question is crucial. I know it is.
My grandmother never asks anything. Nothing personal.

She has an identical twin sister. But though they look so much alike, they compare like darkness and light.
My grandmother hates flying. She needs to be firmly connected with the earth. She never tires of walking. She walks miles without taking a rest. I can't hardly follow her on my bike.
One day she was violently stumping down the stairs when she suddenly rested. Sweat was pearling on her forehead. "What's the matter?" I asked. "I'm not ill." She answered, "I have never ever been ill in my life and I intend to keep it that way."

She keeps sugar, flour and canned meat stashed in the cellar. Just in case. A war. It could start all over again.

| | mardi, mai 09, 2006

"Edith," he says. "I have daydreams about losing my mind. I am afraid that one day I'll wake up, like in that movie Lost Highway, and discover that I have murdered my family.
I drive home from work at night to the sound of the screen wipers. I can't stand listening to the radio. And every night I fear I will crash into a tree or the vehicle in front of me.
My wife is upset. She buys pickles every time she goes to the supermarket. She walks around there for hours and comes home with big bloody steaks. She eats them rare.
When I open the fridge, the smell of blood spreads through the house. The pets get restless and the baby cries.
I wink all day, a nervous affection of the eyes. I see more darkness than I see light.
I look at people only asking myself one question: will you have regrets when you die?"

| | samedi, avril 22, 2006

Ta ligne de hanche, ma ligne de chance

| | mercredi, avril 19, 2006


| | mercredi, mars 15, 2006

Mercury in retrograde from March 2nd to 25th.
"Mercury rules over the mind's processes, studying, communication, businesses, travels and the like. When Mercury reverses its direction, all these areas are affected as well...
Businesses, travels and communications tend to experience delays and different problems. Computers and other processes that work with information may experience crashes, unexpected failures.

Don't enroll to courses, don't buy expensive Mercurian items (books, cars, mobile phones etc.), don't sign important contracts and do not marry."

And remember: Mercury runs your television set (that's what I read on the internet)

source: Astrology Weekly

Here, here and here Mercury is blamed for all kinds of things. And I'm going to blame Mercury some more.

| | jeudi, mars 09, 2006

Life passes by and we forget the details. I remember the bike ride home. The house you stayed in. A beautiful, old house with a big bath where we saw eachother's bodies for the first time in broad daylight. Days we slept. You worked late. And then you left for the mountains.
Mountains permanently covered in clouds. And when you phoned me I desperately tried not to hear you.

| | mardi, janvier 31, 2006

I wondered if she had already decided that she was going to leave last time we saw them together.
She looked radiant. She was wearing blood red pants and her face shone. Eyes-nipples-cunt. That’s all you feel when you’re in love.
She had lost weight. A lot.
He was shaking in the freezing cold outside and shivering all through dinner.
Said that his toes were ice cubes. He couldn’t get them to warm up. It hurt.
Did he know she was laughing, glowing, sweating, open, free for another woman?
It’s shocking to learn how easy it is. How you only need one moment to say: "I’m in love with someone else. Now get out of my life. Clear space. I’m transforming myself. Our room. I’m having her on the bed. And when she fucks me it tears me up deep down inside where I haven’t felt anything for such a long time. She’s what I need. She makes me complete. Compared to her full colour love, you and me, we’re history. Old newspapers on a pile. I’m taking the kids. Goodbye."

I’m appalled. How can this happen? And yet I know it’s just one look. A movement. From here to there. Hand to hair. To heart.
I know how it stings and burns the first weeks after she’s gone. It makes you smash your head against the wall. She fucks she focuses on someone else. What you are to her has shrunken into a tiny ball. You are nothing.

In the dark she strokes my back softly until I fall asleep. She says: "Maybe you need someone else. Someone different. Maybe I’m not good enough for you."
And I think: how long has it been since I smiled at her and said something nice?
I open my eyes. She’s sitting at the table, writing a letter. I kiss her neck. It’s delicious.
Sunlight splashes through the window and sets her hair on fire.
It’s spring.

| | mercredi, décembre 14, 2005

The eight worldly dharmas are:

Wanting to be praised. Not wanting to be criticized. (praise and blame)

Wanting to gain. Not wanting to lose. (loss and gain)

Wanting to be happy. Not wanting to be unhappy. (pleasure and pain)

Wanting to be famous, Not wanting to be infamous, or ignored. (fame and notoriety)

| | mardi, octobre 18, 2005

Autumn makes me tired and moody.
I lie in the bath for hours and stare at my pubic hair, simulating an alligator farm in the New Orleans marshes before and after Katrina (seen from the air, I love miniature. Mm, I have to check the map of the US ...).
I am confused and distracted. Yesterday I flushed half a cup of cold coffee in the toilet and peed in the sink.
My sense of humour tumbles into a bottomless pit, while leaves discolour and waltz with the wind….
Which reminds me of Patrick Swayze. I don’t know why. But the word s-w-ai-z-ee embodies all that autumn is today.
It’s like the word” sole” when I stand on the beach in Northern France, staring at the white cliffs of Dover in the distance. I can only think of that word. Sole, sole, sole. With every step in the sand I have to repeat it. And nearby seagulls pick it up. Sole, sole, sole, screaming it into the air.
When I was little, I used to wonder about the language of birds. But then I discovered that the mistake we make is to isolate sounds. We want to give meaning to each sound, each word, while birds speak in patterns. Their sounds draw images in the air.

she's like the wind
Birds mimic the sound of cell phones. In the Brazilian Rain Forrest, parrots mimic the sound of chainsaws, power tools and bulldozers.
I wonder how they laugh. It must be so hard to smile with a beak.

| | jeudi, septembre 22, 2005

datelinehollywood.com featured an article last week saying:

Hollywood – Pat Robertson on Sunday said that Hurricane Katrina was God’s way of expressing its anger at the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences for its selection of Ellen Degeneres to host this year’s Emmy Awards. “By choosing an avowed lesbian for this national event, these Hollywood elites have clearly invited God’s wrath,” Robertson said on “The 700 Club” on Sunday. “Is it any surprise that the Almighty chose to strike at Miss Degeneres’ hometown?”

It was a hoax, evangelist Robertson ( yes the one that called for the assasination of President Chavez) never said this in his Sunday television program. But Pat Robertson reacted to the satirical article in a very strange way. He wrote a letter to the editors of datelinehollywood.com:

In the letter he states that New Orleans was destroyed because it's the "epicenter of sinful jazz music". Ellen has got nothing to do with it.
Ellen “DeGenerate" ,"will meet her fate when the Good Lord creates an earthquake centralized directly below the studio where she tapes her talk show."

I wonder, will this get her more viewers?

More at BoingBoing

via mijn kop thee en Puck

| | jeudi, septembre 15, 2005

I bought Camille Paglia’s essay collection “Vamps and tramps” in 1994 and after reading it again and again for about a year, it remained on the shelf for more than a decade.
Ten years mean a lot of changes.
But today I find myself reading “Vamps and tramps” again. I forgot how much I liked it.

Paglia’s writing style is aggressive and direct. She drags you along, then surprises you with her bluntness. The essay “No law in the arena” is Paglia’s “pagan theory of sexuality” and largely explains her views on homosexuality, lesbianism, gay activism and theory.

In 1994 I had sex with men, not with women. I could understand Paglia’s abhorrence of the closed lesbian community of the ‘90s. I was labelled “straight” by lesbians. Not even the fact that I am a woman granted me any sympathy. Maybe I was just another straight, dick-loving traitor to them.

Ten years later, I have seen a fair deal of the lesbian community. I’ve discovered – for example- that lesbian bars are the same all over the world. I got punched in the face or could barely escape a fight for saying inappropriate things to inappropriate lesbians more than once. And most of the time I got plain drunk out of boredom.
Camille Paglia is to my knowledge the first to describe the phenomenon of lesbian bars shamefully accurate: “One is deafened in [lesbian] bars by the juvenile whooping and hollering of packs of lesbians greeting each other like screeching teen arriving at a slumber party.” She says.

According to Paglia there’s no opportunity to have an interesting talk and the music is shit, certainly if compared to gay men’s bars. “Music in the men’s bars is pumping, pelvic, and sweatily sexual; there is an edge of menace, a darkness of artistic ambiguity. Music in too many women’s bars is bland, defanged disco, with a monotonous tic-toc beat ideal for bad dancers. A complex Latin polyrhythm clears the floor. Classic dance tunes, numbingly overplayed, have a chirpy, cheerleading, middlebrow tone.”

Paglia points out that gay bars for men are open to anyone. Strangers can enter a bar and cruise other men anywhere in the world. But in lesbian bars that is hardly the case.
“Solitary cruising and pickups do occur among lesbians, but they are not the rule. Lesbian bars are organized in huge kinship groupings.” says Paglia. “Trying to break into these shifting cliques could drive you mad – unless you join one of their sports leagues. Musical beds is the name of the game. But each person sets up the next affair before she breaks off with the last, so there is an intricate overlapping, producing endless amounts of what Alison Maddex calls, with exasperation, “lesbian drama from hell”. Lushly eroticized push-pull emotion, rather that genital sexuality, is the real heart of lesbianism.”
Well, reading this makes me laugh, because it is so true. It's slowly changing, but still true.

In “No law in the arena”, Paglia states that the lesbian community is childish, debilitating and infantile. Creativity and wit are killed at the root and heterosexual men are rejected out of fear.

Lesbian feminism in the 1970s condemned heterosexual sex and its emphasis on penetration. “Anything echoing heterosexual penetration had to be avoided or disgusted.” writes Paglia.

During the eighties, dildoes were tolerated, but they shouldn’t be compared to penises. They were lesbian toys, but certainly not substitutes for male genitals.
“What bothers me is that the lesbian dildo craze stubbornly avoids acknowledging its anatomy-as-destiny implications.” Reacts Paglia “Why stop at dildoes? If penetration exites, and if receptive female genitalia are so suited to friction by penis-shaped objects, why not go on to real penises?”
Lesbian feminism opposes men and equals maleness to oppression, patriarchy, exploitation. Men cannot be considered as potential sex partners.

The points is, according to Paglia, that lesbian theorists have always evaded every possibility of reconciliation of the sexes and creating a bisexual awareness. A bisexual awareness would be a far more grown up way of dealing with sexuality.
“Any woman, gay or straight who cannot respond to penises or who finds them hideous or laughable (…) has been traumatized by some early experience. She is neither complete nor healthy as a person.” states Paglia.

This makes me think of Adrea Dworkin, the feminist who was radically opposed to pornography and said that penetration (by a male) equals exploitation.
Dworkin had been raped and abused several times and based her views on those experiences and the experience of many abused women.

Paglia and Dworkin aren’t really buddies. Paglia is a fierce defendant of pornography ("a pagan arena of the archaic vigor of nature”) and devotes a 5 pages rant to Dworkin in “Vamps and Tramps”(which was originally published in Playboy …). They take extreme sides in the nature-nurture debate.

I don’t want to go into this, but I really appreciate Paglia’s assertion that something went wrong in the feminist movement the last decades. Sexuality has been so mangled up and stigmatized, that we don’t see the point anymore.

“The real butches are not the lesbian ones, but the heterosexual women.” says Paglia.
Because dealing with men makes you stronger. Women like Lauren Hutton, and Chrissie Hynde should be role models for young women (whether straight or lesbian), not k.d. Lang “with her lugubrious singing style and her passé persona of baby-faced desexed boy.”

Men and women need each other. That’s Paglia’s point. When lesbians cut off men and create their feminist lesbian utopia and when gay men create their macho world of muscles without women, something essential is lost. If we want to be sexual beings we need to explore femininity and masculinity. We need “dual vision”, says Paglia, “in a world in which people can freely cross gender lines”.

Camille Paglia, Vamps & Tramps : New Essays, Vintage, 1994

| | jeudi, septembre 01, 2005

I don't give in to her pleas. I don't even touch her. I just pull off the few clothes she is still wearing and turn up the heating.
Then I sit down and drink whisky. Quietly.
That gets her angry. Rage is building up inside her. Her arms are becoming heavy and she' s running out of patience. But she knows we haven't finished yet. For the first time I can see insecurity in her eyes.

She has the most beautiful hips: round and brown and soft. When she moves, I can see the muscles in her upper arms move under her skin. I observe her and enjoy.

She's standing upright, kicking and cursing. She's too proud and stubborn to admit that she has lost the game.
I approach her and push her against the wall with my body. Brutally. She struggles and pretends to be disgusted. Our breasts touch and I shiver. She's breathing heavily into my neck, but she doesn't bite. I massage her nipples and cup her breasts in my hands. I know this turns her on. She’s getting wet now and keeps pushing her hips against mine.

"What do you want from me?" I whisper in her ear. "More whisky?"
She turns her head away. I’ve still got the bottle in my hand and take a big swig. Then I kiss her. She wants my tongue but I try to push the whisky into her mouth. She doesn’t swallow, just lets the liquid run down her chin, neck and breasts. Slowly, with only the tip of my tongue, I lick it off. From her neck to the hollow of her scapula. Down in between her breasts. Over her stomach to her hip bone. -Thighs, knees, calves to all ten of her toes.
Then back up along the inside of her right thigh. She’s trembling. She’s shaken with emotion and I thought she couldn’t feel anything.
I lick teasingly slow and carefully avoid any spot she likes me to touch. When I reach her lips and kiss her, she kisses me back wildly. I’m afraid she will bite my tongue.

I slide my right finger into her cunt. She sighs. I try not to touch her clit.
She’s really horny now and can barely contain herself. She just wants to move and buckle and grind. Like an animal. Her muscles contract and relax and her skin is burning. She’s having trouble standing up.

“Do you want me?” I whisper into her hair. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I want you. Go on. Don’t stop.”

But I do stop and untie her. I push her into the bedroom, onto the bed and massage her wrists. She pulls me on top of her and starts to move. I slowly push my hip against her wet clit. She’s so horny she can barely hold a rhythm. I push her hips into the mattress and try to postphone her orgasm as long as possible, but she comes almost immediately. Long and hard. I keep moving. She groans and sighs each time my hip or thigh touch her cunt.

She moves a little and squeezes her hand in between our hips to help me. I’m as wet as she is. I can feel her fingers slide over my cunt and I know I’m about to explode. She keeps moving slowly until a big full blown orgasm hits me.
I shudder and contract on top of her, her arms pushing me tightly against her body. I lie motionless and a feeling of release and loss, of sadness and emptiness washes over me.
She caresses my back and shoulders and I stay on top of her for a while. Completely still. After a while she whispers something in my ear.

”Animal.” she says.
”You”, I answer, “You are my animal.”

| | mardi, août 30, 2005

She pushes her fingers in between my legs and I can feel water entering my cunt, its heat slowly spreading itself. Each time her fingers enter me, she pushes my head deeper under water. I want to resist, but I know that the more I struggle, the longer this will take. She wants to be the boss. I will make her think she has broken me.

She's fucking me rhythmically. Slow and deep. I try to concentrate on her fingers and the heavy pulsating beat of blood in my cunt. I try to relax and move with her. She reacts and pushes her hipbone against my lower back.

The water level is rising and she keeps pushing me under water for longer and longer periods. The more I gasp for breath, the more she seems to enjoy it. Her breasts sway with every move. She laughs at me and tries to push 3 fingers into me. Too short, bad angle. Does she think I can come like that? She doesn't even give me a fair chance.
I become frustrated and angry again. Suddenly I remember how she snapped at me in the bar. Bitch. I start to move faster and harder and rub my buttocks against her public hair.

Finally she starts to relax. I manage to get more air. She starts to moan and moves even faster. I can hardly keep up with her, but my arm is free now. With one big punch I can make her lose her balance. I hit her hard in the face. Her hands immediately cover her nose and cheeks. She clearly didn't expect this.

I push myself up, grab hold of her and throw her onto the bathroom floor.
She's still looking at me with astonishment in her eyes.

"So do you want to kill me or what?" I yell at her. "You don't even have enough feeling to commit a murder."

"Amateur!" She yells back almost immediately. Her eyes are shiny with anger, but the blow has weakened her. I grab her ankles and haul her through the living room, over the rough carpet, as far as the stairs. I use my shirt to tie up her hands above her head and strap them to the banisters. She doesn't resist and closes her eyes. She's saving her power for her next assault.
I fetch the whisky from the kitchen and quickly pour a sip into her mouth. That helps.

She starts coughing and slowly realises what situation she has gotten herself into.
The more she pulls and struggles, the tighter her cuffs become.
I can see her thinking. She desperately tries to come up with a plan, a trick that would make me release her. But if I would cut her loose now, she would humiliate me until I would do anything to make her stop.

(to be continued...)

| | dimanche, août 28, 2005

Early sunlight is seeping in through the kitchen window. She breathes heavily into my ear. I can't move. She has me in a tight clamp. Her knees are pressing into my thighs. She tightens her grip and contorts my wrist until I yell out with pain.

"I hate you." I growl.

She bangs her knee into my side and I fall onto the floor, panting for breath.
Then she throws herself on top of me and pushes her wet hair into my face. I can't breathe. Whisky stings my eyes and throat. I grab hold of her thighs and she starts to move.
She stumbles to the bathroom, pulling me along with her.
She opens the taps and tries to tear off her wet clothes. Meanwhile she pulls me by the hair and pushes me into the bathtub. I try to bite and scratch, but she's strong enough to push me under the tab. Ice cold water pounds onto my skull.

"You miserable bitch...", she breathes into my ear. "I should have known. Why the hell did I come with you..."

"This is why." I answer quickly and bite her earlobe.

She tries to turn her head away from me. I can see her large brown breasts bulge out of her shirt. She has goose bumps and big, rock hard nipples.
I reach out to touch them, but she grabs my hair again and pushes me deeper into the bathtub. Her whole body is leaning into me. I lose my balance and fall flat on my stomach. My head bangs into the bottom of the bathtub.

She crawls on top of me now and pushes me down with her strong thighs.
I can feel her toes drill into the back of my knees.
She turns the tabs open full blast. I'm stuck. Water is slowly finding it's way under and around my body.
She is going to drown me.

"Well now, what about showing me what you can do?" she snarls.
"And hurry up."

(to be continued...)

| | samedi, août 27, 2005

The city has become a maze of unhappiness and loss. I'm tired of going out. I'm tired of the dark sleazy discotheques, the hard stares of strange women, the smell of old beer and stale cigarettes in my clothes. I hate the lonely weekends.

It's late and I'm sitting at the counter in a lesbian bar, observing 2 angry butches pushing each other around. They're ready to start a fight any minute now. I'm thinking about going home.

As usual, just as I reach for my coat, I notice her walking in.
She is out hunting. She's tall and strong and moving gracefully. Her eyes lock onto mine and I try not to reveal the mixed up feeling of desire and fear inside me. She lures me out of the bar, into the black night. I can't help following her.

We walk through the small streets in silence. We enter late night clubs, spy around and leave out of restlessness. Bar after bar.
I know she hates to be alone. She’s always looking for company. I'm almost sure she will come home with me later, but first she will humiliate me for her weakness. There will be no way to avoid her stabbing remarks and her arrogant stare. She knows I want her and that's enough for her to despise me.

She wears me out. She throws her head back and laughs like a wolf. She snaps and bites and ridicules. I buy her drinks and the more she howls the less I utter. We drink until the last bar closes.

When we step outside into the shivering cold morning, I am broken and hurting and I don't care anymore. I want to go home. No more thinking or feeling. Just end it all.

“What do you want to end?” she asks. I can see the corner of her mouth curling upwards into an evil grin. Sheis sitting at my kitchen table and looks at me. Now that we are alone and after she’s humiliated me enough in front of everyone, she finally looks at me.

This is the confrontation.
If she wants me angry, she'll get me angry. I grab the bottle of whiskey on the table. Before she even realizes what I am up to, I empty the bottle into her face.
She's soaked and furious. The poignant odour of malt drifts through the kitchen.
"You smell." I tell her dryly.
She jumps up and tries to grab me. I have to duck to avoid her waiving fists.
"You nasty cunt!" she shrieks. "I'll teach you."

(to be continued...)

| | vendredi, août 26, 2005

"Hussain Osman, one of the men alleged to have participated in London's failed bombings on July 21, recently told Italian investigators that they prepared for the attacks by watching "films on the war in Iraq," La Republica reported. "Especially those where women and children were being killed and exterminated by British and American soldiers...of widows, mothers and daughters that cry."

>> Read Terror's Greatest Recruitment Tool by Naomi Klein

"94,000 people -- over half of them African American --were on a "scrub list" in Florida, resulting in their being blocked from voting in the 2000 election."

>> Read The Nazification of America

| | samedi, août 20, 2005

the end of the world

The end of the world. They have sheep there.

| | mercredi, août 17, 2005

( note: this story is not new, but it wasn't on the internet anymore...)

Sophie and I we had always been friends and she had always know that I wanted it to be more than that. We had tried to imagine what kind of couple we would be, but when I’d get too seriously wrapped up in it she’d laugh and say that she would never be able to have a relationship with a woman. Not a lasting one. And certainly not with the first woman she would have sex with. “I would feel liberated probably, once I’d taken the step and I would need to experiment more.” She had said. Who was I to argue. She had her career, her boyfriend and big plans for the future.

I had gotten used to the idea that what I wanted I would never get. But some nights we’d go out and get tipsy and while we were talking and laughing she would become more beautiful and sexy every time I looked at her. At moments like that I was painfully reminded of my position as the rejected lesbian friend. But I never could give up our friendship for it. We had a good time together. She’d cry on my shoulder, trust me with her secrets. That was more important.
When I was with her I just tried to numb out that part of my feelings that had to do with sexual responsiveness. The part of my feelings that went in overdrive from the moment I’d see her. One night I had been talking about a recent business trip to Madrid and how I had fallen in love with this big city of icy winds and thousands of shoe shops. And she had said “Let’s go there together.” And so we did.

We had 3 days and 4 museums to visit. On our first day, we spent hours in the Prado. I don’t know how we managed to get lost in the tube on our way back, but it was near dusk when we got out of a metro station that wasn’t the one we expected. Traffic was rushing by and people hurried into tapas bars for a glass of cava and fresh squid. I was stunned. The grandeur of the enormous buildings and boulevards, feeling completely lost and almost threatened by the ferociousness and speed of the city in full movement.
“Isn’t this wonderful” I said, looking at the cars speeding by in rivers of noise.
“It’s unbearable. I can’t breathe. Get me out of here.” Sophie said.
She panicked. I took her to the nearest bar, so we could ask where exactly we were and lift up our spirits.

The bar was noisy, littered with paper and food rests. We asked the woman behind the bar for a glass of wine.
“Tourist?” she asked. I nodded. She smiled and yelled something at a group of business women at the counter. They interrupted their animated discussion to look at us and laughed too. She gave us very big glasses.

“Go ahead, sit here.” She pointed to two high chairs at the bar.
After a while the woman sitting next to us, who had been previously engaged in the noisy discussion, turned around, facing us and said: “You lost the way, eh? You took wrong metro from Prado. Wrong direction. Where’s your hotel?” She talked fast and loud, with a raw voice. Her eyes were dark and beautiful, sparkling with laughter.
I showed her an address card from the hotel. She looked at it and showed it to her friends, commenting in quick Spanish words.
Then she turned back and said. “You can go with me if you want. For free. Taxi is very expensive. But first you drink some more,” she grinned and pointed at the bar woman, who had been observing us and quickly poured us two equally big glasses of wine. I didn’t know whether to be thankful or not.
“Don’t worry,” the bar lady said, leaning in to me confidentially. “It’s all right. She will bring you to Plaza España, in the city centre.”

It took a while before the woman was ready to go. We had been keeping an eye on her and commenting on her looks. I thought she resembled Victoria Abril, but Sophie kept telling me Victoria Abril would never have such a short haircut. She was getting tipsy after the second glass.
I put her into the front seat, just to be sure she wouldn’t get sick and finally we drove off for a ride through Madrid.
Although we took the big boulevards it took half an hour before I recognized the surroundings again. Colourful advertisements of movies and theatre shows. Saturday night. The streets were packed with people. The Spanish woman didn’t talk. She just smiled at Sophie once in a while and I noticed that she kept looking in the rear view mirror, even when we stopped in front of the traffic lights, observing me with her dark piercing eyes.

After a while she turned into a small street and then a still smaller one and then stopped, only barely missing some trash cans and parking half on the pavement, on a street corner.
“I am inviting you for a drink.” She said, looking at me, then briefly at Sophie. Your hotel is right behind that corner this way. She pointed into a dark street. But drinks is that way.” She smiled. “Come on, it’s Saturday.”
Sophie looked at me and hesitated. I don’t know if she expected me to decline the offer or not, but I thought, “what the hell”, and said “Yes, We’d like to go for a drink.”
Then I noticed how pale Sophie’s face was. She shook her head. “I’m going back.” She said. “I’m not feeling up to it.” Before I could say anything, the Spanish woman had taken her arm. “What’s the matter? You had too much wine?”
She started walking into the dark street with Sophie. “Come, we’ll help you to get to the hotel. What’s your name? Sophie? Ah, nice. Nice name. I’m Victoria.”

I felt useless. Victoria walked Sophie all the way to the elevator, while talking to her and putting her at ease. All I could do was notice her carefully manicured hands on Sophie’s sleeve and her stylish long coat. She even left her card, so Sophie would be able to call her, if she needed help. Then elevator doors closed and I saw Sophie’s confused face disappear. “She’ll be all right.” Victoria said. “Come on. I know a nice bar.”
I should have known what I got into, but I was taken by surprise when we turned the corner and suddenly we were in a small street with bars everywhere. Rainbow flags, red lights: the gay district.

Victoria looked at me. “You like it here?” she grinned. She led me into a small cosy candlelit bar. The slow beats of Massive Attack’s Mezzanine were pouring out of the stereo. Several women at the bar looked at us when we came in. They looked gorgeous, cosmopolitan, wild.
Victoria was talking to the bar lady, she was a regular here, obviously. She handed me more wine.
“Let’s dance”. She said and dragged me to the small dance floor in the back.
“I’ve never danced to Massive Attack before,” I whispered. But she seemed determined and started moving, closer and closer, forcing me into the rhythm.
Her body was slender and firm, like a dancer’s and when I saw her move I amazed at how much lust her movements provoked in me. She was beautiful and strong and sexual. And so different from Sophie. She was a dyke and she was seducing me and the way she danced up to me about knocked me off my feet.

“You look like you need a woman badly, am I right?” she whispered in my ear. “And you know what? So do I.”
What could I say? So, I moved closer and kissed her. Softly, playfully. I tasted her lips and her perfume and it made me delirious. So foreign, dark and sweet. We kept dancing for a while and with every movement I felt my body stir, as if it was reloading itself. Every inch of skin was coming alive, hot and cold and shivering.
“You want to go somewhere private?” she whispered in my ear, slinging her arms around me and grinding her hips into mine. “I have a key. We can go upstairs.“ She saw my questioning look and said grinning: “Rooms to let here, you know.”

The small room she pulled me into was cosy and surprisingly warm. It had a big bed and a chair and if there was more I wouldn’t really have noticed, because she pulled me in and kept her face so close to mine, the only thing I could see were her eyes and jaw line and beautiful collar bones.
Her body was undiscovered territory. I knew from looking into her dark eyes that underneath those layers of clothing her olive skin was burning to be touched. She kept kissing me slowly, tongue and lips thick and wanting and delicately searching an answer. We were already establishing a rhythm and every time her tongue slowly slid into my mouth I could feel desire flowing into me like lava. Through the pit of my stomach and lower still down between my legs.

She dragged me down onto the bed, moaning a little when I answered her kisses with long thrusting movements. I tried to contain myself. I wanted to make love to her slowly, give her all I had, make her beg me to fuck her. But before I knew it she had me pinned down on the bed, arms above my head and her body on top of me.
She started grinding into me, slowly moving her hips, one leg between mine. Her breasts touched mine and I could feel her nipples harden.
I desperately wanted to take off her shirt, but she wouldn’t allow me.
”You first” she said, and she pulled up my t-shirt and slowly took off my bra. I needed to feel her skin . And when, after she had pulled out my jeans, she finally did take off her clothes and crawled back over me, naked and warm, I realised how much I had missed it. The taste and heat of someone else’s body.

Her breasts had beautiful dark nipples and in between her legs she was wet and warm. But I wouldn’t let her come. Not yet. I started teasing her, sliding my tongue along her breasts, her belly and down along her cunt, but not just there were she wanted it. Her pussy was just too beautiful to let go off, too juicy and swollen to give in to it. She moaned, giving me hints about where she liked it. She pushed her clit into my mouth, sitting on my face, but I turned her over quick and held her down with my legs. I circled her cunt with my finger. “Can I go in?” I asked. She didn’t hear me, just moaned and shoved, pushing my finger in deeper. With every thrust she moved her finger along my clit, although I begged her not to. And then I gave in to it. I fucked her and fucked her, two fingers inside her, thumb on her clit until I exploded into orgasm. My mind went blank and I couldn’t even cry, just feel happy.

She put an arm around me and started kissing again, long and deep kisses and she whispered something in Spanish. Her hand slid down again, in between my legs and deeper into me. Then she crawled on top of me, thrusting in her finger while sliding her pussy over my hand. With every thrust the orgasm slammed into my body again like fire. I thought I would pass out. And then she started to come. She moaned and shouted and I felt her breath on my cheek. We were caught in a rhythm together. My body contracting with hers, until she stopped moving an buried her head into my hair and neck and pushed her body close to mine.

We fell asleep for a while. I don’t know how long we stayed into that room. But when I woke up she was sitting on the bed, already dressed holding up a glass of cava for me. “It’s on the house,” she said, with a beautiful grin. She looked stunning. “We need to get out here now. It’s 5 o’clock. The bar will close.” She told me. “I will bring you to your hotel.”
She did. She gave me one of those long kisses and handed me a card. ”Call me, if you are around.” She said. Then she was gone.
I was tired and sleepy and tried not to wake up Sophie when I slid into the bed next to hers in the sad, worn out hotel room.
“Is that you?” she asked, just when I thought I managed to get in quietly.
“Did you have a good time?”
“Yes,” I sighed, “Yes, I did”, just before I drifted off in an oblivious after-sex coma.

| | jeudi, juin 02, 2005

Part1| Part 2| Part 3

She comes in and closes the door. I can see her eyes quickly inspect the room, like a cat. She must feel something is not right.
I'm sitting in a corner, knees up to my chest, silently breathing.
I don't think she has seen me. She walks through the room and pulls a lever or something. I can really see it very well. A door slides open silently and she disappears in the kitchen.
"Would you like tea or coffee?" she yells. There's no one in the room. The front door is closed. I start getting nervous.
"Hellooo there, I'm talking to you." Her head pops out of the kitchen and she's staring me straight into the face. "Tea or coffee?"
A feeling of uneasiness spreads through my stomach when I look into her stale blue eyes. She looks dangerous and tough and I'm invading her territory.

| | vendredi, mai 27, 2005

"You don't understand." she said. "It's not about beauty."
Beauty is one one small aspect of what is hidden and can be revealed.
"I need the imperfections. They function as gates to see something more than the flat reality of a moment."
"But an imperfection can also be beautiful..." I answer.
"Yes, exactly," She pauzed briefly, "but not necessarily. Beauty can make you experience things. Without the sense of beauty you wouldn't see, hear, feel or taste them. But beauty is not that strong. It's been abused, over-used, turned upside down, faked and forged. It's lost some of its power."
I sighed and thought of ancient greek art and how its beauty still touches me.

She continued, ignoring me.
"In Asia, people do not pull out the hairs growing from moles or birthmarks like we do. You can see people with a birthmark or mole on their face and a string of black or grey hairs sprouting out of it. I have seen mole hair that was more than 1 meter long.
That's what I mean when I talk about opening gates through imperfections. The hairy mole struck me as so unusual -it's an emphasized error- I had to reajust my definitions of beauty. After all, the hair is not really ugly, mainly odd.
So the hair became a gate that revealed. I could imagine how the mole haired people would look covered in hair completely. I wondered about how it must feel. The fine hair in the wind. On a bike. The mole haired people looked dignified. Maybe they felt different about themselves."
"But what is your point?" I interjected. "Something unusual makes you upset and thus triggers a train of thoughts?"
She looked at me. Rather sad. "I don't know. I just liked the mole people very much.
They made me think 3 or 4 thoughts at the same time. They made me feel I had a choice in life. You know what I mean, not just one flat, timed trajectory to death, while you are telling yourself: we are build of atoms, love is chemical, death is malfunction. I felt I could make loopholes, beat time. My pulse slowed down. The clocks stopped ticking. I was out of here. Really out."
She paused and looked at me.
"You don't believe me, do you? You don't believe it's possible. You are like them. Saying falling in love is only endorphins running though your veins and believing that hormones can explain every feeling or reaction." She was getting angry.
"No." I answered. "I'm not like them." I decided to remain calm and continued slowly.
"You know what happened when I was younger? Doctors found out that due to some unexplainable flaw in my brain, my body is not able to produce endorphins or certain hormones. But I have fallen in love. Several times. The clocks stopped ticking and my pulse slowed down. And then it happened."

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