WARNING: LIVEJOURNAL POST FOLLOWS.

No, I am depressed. I'm not hungry, not sleepy, I'm just really fucking lonely.

I'm the sort of person who'd rather have a few very close friendships than a lot of pals. I can have fun with a big social group, but I need a small circle of people I can really trust. And right now I feel like that circle is broken to shit. CC is gone, Danny has a girlfriend who doesn't want him associating with me, I've been single for more than a year, every member of my family has left this city, and so have 90% of my old friends. There's plenty of people I can go drinking with, a decent number I can fuck, but I'm counting on less than one hand the number I can cry to. And even with those few I worry that if I cry very much I'll be a needy burden and they'll get sick of me.

(I'm crying to you now, of course, and most of you aren't so close to me, but ah well, it's just the Internet, it's not for keepsies.)

This is temporary, it always is. When I was a teenager there were times I thought I'd be alone forever but I'm old enough now to know that isn't true. New people are always coming into my life and old ones sometimes surprise me. And when I really need to cry, instead of just emo-whine, more friends than I ever expected are there for me. As long as I'm willing to be a good and giving friend and lover myself, I know I'll get it returned in time. That's not blind faith, that's plain ol' pattern recognition.

I'm still really fuckin' lonely right now though.

"Don't worry baby, it's less-lethal!"

Tommy stungunned me!

It actually wasn't the worst. On the ol' 0-10 pain scale, maybe a 5? Worse than a handslap, but not as bad as something that, y'know, hurts. I give the sound and sight perfect 10s for horribleness though. Hearing that *CRACKSNAP* and seeing GODDAMN LIGHTNING is way worse than the actual shock.

I wish I could say "yep, I just manned up and did it," but the truth is that right after declaring I wanted to do it, I came down with a pretty bad case of the cowards and had to be kinda coaxed into it. Fortunately Tommy is inhumanely patient and trustworthy in these matters and if you want the perfect man to hold your hand and run 300,000 volts through your ass, you couldn't do much better. (Why you would want this is a question I have never satisfactorily answered, but at this point I'm fairly comfortable with just accepting that I do.)

I'm really glad I did it. Even though the act itself was kind of pointless, the fact that I went back and faced something I feared, something I had regretted not doing, means a lot to me. I faced something I was terrified of and found that it's--not painless--but not an unfathomable pain. That's an important thing to learn symbolically and something I'm still working on. It's the difference between "if I fail, it's the worst thing ever" and "if I fail, it's bad, but the consequences are finite and I'll still be alive at the end."

Sometimes submitting can teach you how not to be life's bitch.

Posting in bed with Tommy and his girlfriend.

And all I can think to do (I mean, other than both of them) is play the Candyman game.

Eurosabra, Eurosabra, Eurosabra!

Boston!

Tomorrow morning through Monday night, I'm flying out to Boston! Whee! This is partly a family thing and partly a Tommy thing--I'm not entirely sure what, if anything, will happen but I'm a little nervous either way and looking forward to it either way.

I'll almost certainly post from the road at some point, but my WiFi gadget has a really teensy keyboard so it's hard to get into in-depth analysis of anything, my thumbs cramp up. Wordiness will resume Tuesday.

Regret.

I wish I'd let Tommy stun-gun me.

I wanted it, sort of, but I'm kind of phobic about electricity, and when I heard the noise it made and saw the size of the spark I was terrified all the way into flight-or-fight physically-get-away mode. Spastic shrieks of "augh no I changed my mind safeword safeword no" is not considered "enthusiastic consent" by your more considerate doms, so it never happened.

Man, I hate panicking. (I also hate admitting to panicking, but confession is good for the soul, or good for getting attention, or something.) But there are a couple things that will make me panic at the thought of even touching them--fish, electricity, and skeletons. For some obscure reason they just set off the "run first, think later" switch in my head and it's impossible.

Which is why I wish I could have withstood it. I wish I could have that memory of looking down from the mountaintop and going "holy shit, I did that and I'm alive." I wish I could have the memory of looking in Tommy's eyes and thinking "I trusted him to do this and he didn't let me down." I guess I have those, sort of, about other things, but I wish I'd tackled a real challenge.

Confession: I often, often think about getting tortured with electricity when I masturbate.

I regret not doing it, and yet, I think if I got the chance again tonight I'd refuse it again tonight. Climbing a mountain is a good (if hackneyed) metaphor; it begins with making a decision, but it sure as fuck doesn't end there. To actually get there you've got to fight your body every inch of the way and it may turn out that you're just not strong enough.

I suppose it doesn't take strength to get stun-gunned, exactly. But to ask for it, to continue to ask for it after it's cracked like tiny lightning before your eyes, to hold out your tender pink skin for it, and to ask for it again even when the metal is cold against your body and a single finger flick would bring unknown pain, takes more than I have.

More than I have now.

:(

I am, in a sort of amicable and inevitable way, single again. Sigh. It's (I hope) not a "fuck you, you crazy bitch" thing half so much as a "we're too far apart and this was an intense but short thing which is clearly burning itself out" thing.

It's one breakup where I really hope the "we can still be friends" part isn't bullshit, though. Tommy's too damn cool a guy to just disappear entirely.

The "welp, that was bound to happen, kind of a relief in a way, let's get to meeting dudes in my own time zone" part of my brain is having one hell of a battle with the "DAMMIT DAMMIT, wail to the heavens and eat cookie dough" part of my brain.



(DUDES WHO LIVE IN THE GENERAL SEATTLE AREA: THIS IS TOTALLY YOUR SHOT. PERVOCRACY@GMAIL.COM DUDES.)

Using my grown-up words.

Rrrgh. I'm having angst, and I've been trying to write a post, but I couldn't quite articulate myself. The problem was, basically, that I'm having trouble articulating myself. I pride myself--or used to--on being disgustingly frank in sexual matters, but the last couple weeks I've been an "I want you to um my um... no I don't! Wait, yes I do! Wait, no!" girl. Which is terrible.

I think it's an unfortunate side effect of really liking Tommy. With Benny, or random strangers, I could easily voice my desires to cheat and be beat, because I didn't give a crap what they thought--with Alan, I didn't need to voice them because he didn't want to hear about it. But liking the same guy that I'm practicing wacky sexuality with requires that I talk about sex to someone whose opinion I care about. And that's scary. It makes me terrified of his disapproval. Not that he's a disapproving guy. I just get afraid to say things like "I'm gonna go pick up some random dude to fuck" or "I'm not comfortable playing this way, here's how I'd like it"--not because he'd get angry, but because he wouldn't be happy.

The stupid catch-22 is that these things have a chance of making him unhappy, but horrible communication will definitely do that.

At least I've figured out what's going on. Knowing why I'm having an attack of the mealymouths, and how fundamentally pointless it is, will hopefully help me get over it. Tommy's a pervert, dammit! He likes to slap me around and he wants us to fuck around on each other! The things I can't talk about are things we've already freakin' agreed on! This shit is like being embarrassed to tell a butcher that you want meat!

Resolved: to just not be embarrassed. Shame leads to dishonesty and it's not worth it. Um my um? I want you to fuck my ass. And I want some other dudes to do it too. And it'll be awesome.

In a bind.

On the one hand, it's nice to have a boyfriend who reads the Pervocracy, because it means I'm not keeping a secret from him. On the other hand... it makes it sort of hard to write frankly about the things we do together. I can't very well give a detailed description of his sexual performance in front of him, can I? Even though I'm entirely pleased with it. Just don't feel right to share that amusing analogy I always use for his penis.

I will say, though, that one of the things I really really like about sex with Tommy is that he wants to hit me. It boggles my mind, in a good way, that he gets turned on by exactly the thing that turns me on. That shouldn't feel so novel, but it does. He's not hitting me as a favor while he taps his foot and waits for me to be ready to fuck. He seriously gets off on it. That's so cool.

Also, I really, seriously, not-just-a-favor get off on sucking his cock. That's pretty damn cool too.

Back from Tommy.

We had a lot of sex and also kind of a lot to chew on relationship-wise. Mostly good. I might be having my Tommy and eating my random sex, too! Which, weirdly, makes me a little nervous, but... also a little horny. My angst and my perversion are good at canceling each other out like that.

The last time we had sex (out of nine total in two days, we're freaking bonobos) he cut my ass with a knife. It felt like he was making a shape but I couldn't tell what and his apartment didn't have a mirror at the right level for me to see. Now that I'm home I have a full length one, I can pull up my skirt, look over my shoulder and see...

The sign of the Z.

CURSE YOU, ZORRO!!!

So soon!

Tomorrow I'm working a 24-hour shift. (For a total of a 72-hour week... I may be decadent but I'm not lazy. And, I think, it's a testament to the ferocity of my sex drive that I even have one at this point.) At the end of that shift, on Saturday morning, I'm going directly to the airport. Then I'm sitting on a plane all day.

And then... TOMMY! I'm going to see TOMMY! I know I already posted about this but I am so excited! I like Tommy so much and I missed him and now we're going to be together and yay and schmoop.

It's certainly been weird, not fucking other people. I think I'm doing it more for Tommy's sake than my own--in my scheme of the world, sex doesn't have to be exclusive for a relationship to be sincere--but my world-scheme also allows that if I like someone enough, and I know that me having random sex would hurt him, I can restrain myself. So apparently I like Tommy more than I like random sex. That's a lot.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that Tommy is really, really, really good at nonrandom sex. I don't know if I ever made this explicit, but the last time we saw each other it was for four days and we had sex twenty times. Each one a keeper. He beat the shit out of me. It was awesome.

I could go on about how much I like Tommy--so smart! so funny! so cute!--but you get the picture, right? I'm infatuated. I'm almost scared by how infatuated I am, because this seems too good to be true, but it's sustained itself for quite a few months now. I keep half-expecting the other shoe to drop, like I'll suddenly learn that he has five abandoned children, or he's a convicted terrorist, or a Scientologist, or something, but no. Apparently the other shoe is that he's just a really great guy who likes me back.

Hm. Apparently I did go on about it. Well, at least one person will enjoy this entry.

Next entry: Cosmocking!

Hard Limit.

I have, as time goes on, a lot fewer limits than I ever would've guessed. There was a time when I couldn't have dreamed of having any kind of casual or kinky sex. Admittedly, that time was around fourteen years old, but still. And then again there was a time only a couple months ago that I swore I would do anything in bed except the bathroom functions, it went without saying I wasn't that sort of girl.

I'm still pretty damn sure about poop.

The amazing thing about breaking through limits, though, is that I've enjoyed it. I didn't break, say, my limit against being hit in the face because I could just barely tolerate it; I broke it because it's hot as hell to be slapped across the face mid-cocksucking and told just how bad and naughty I am. Tearing down limits means finding pleasure in more places. It just means that increasingly, they're places I just can't tell my regular friends about. "He spanked me" is good ol' girl-talk; "he put clothespins on my pussy and made me pull on them and call him Daddy while he fucked me" is somewhat less so.

In conventional girl-talk the script is for the boy to make bizarre requests and the girl to act as the voice of reason and deny him, then laugh that he even asked. "And... get this... he wanted me to call him 'Daddy' and let him whip me with a belt and make me piss myself!" The story becomes much less shareable when it's followed up with "So I did, and I fucking loved it."

Anyway, the current limit-I-will-never-break is the stun gun.

I'm pretty scared of electricity. I panic a little bit even from doorknob shocks. I hide under the covers during thunderstorms. Just the sight and sound of the stun gun are fucking terrifying; the idea of actually allowing it to cause me pain is beyond me for now.

Why do I say "for now"? It's entirely possible that I will never have 300,000 volts routed through my ass, and yet somehow manage to live a fulfilling life.

But... I know me.

Yeah, by the time I'm thirty I'm going to be doing something that one-ups 2Girls1Cup, I can pretty much see that coming. I'll probably enjoy the hell out of it though.

Gettin' on a Schmooplane.

Welp. The flight is booked. August 9-12, I'm going to be in Boston and I'm gonna give Tommy a BIG HUG and then let him beat me and piss on me. And then, more hugging. (Maybe a quick shower in between.)

It feels weird, like a big step to be making this kind of trip just for a boy. But it also feels really really good.

Schmoop.

I haven't had sex in a month. Not for lack of drive nor lack of boys, but for lack of Tommy. He's... not perfect, now, but he's a lot of what I could want in a man. He's smart, funny, geeky, tough, responsible, affectionate as hell, and a sick bastard. Even though he's in Boston now, we talk all the time and it always makes me happy.

The word we've been using is "schmoop." Schmoop covers a lot--everything from "call me when you've had a bad day" to "I'm going to tell you exactly how cute you are and I won't take no for an answer" to "let's just stay up late on the phone talking about nothing for hours." Schmoop feels good.

And it just wouldn't feel right to have sex with someone else now. Having Tommy find out about it would make me feel horrible, and hiding it from Tommy would make me feel horrible. I'm horny as hell, like always, but right now I'm really only horny for Tommy. The sex we had a month ago was rough and sweet and fucking amazing. Maybe I'm spoiled, but I don't just want to have sex--I want to have that sex.

I'm going out to Boston some time in the next month or so. Eventually, he might actually move to Seattle. Which scares me that it might be too much too soon--how could someone think of changing their whole life because of lil ol' me, he must be crazy--but it also feels like something that would make me fantastically happy. I almost don't want to talk to him about it for fear that I'll wrongly encourage him to do it; I'd love to have him here so much that I don't want to influence him into making a bad decision.

(This isn't as out of the blue as it may sound. Tommy and I have been schmooping for several months. I've just been circumspect about posting about it because Tommy reads the Pervocracy. But now we've talked about these things so I feel okay posting them.)

I like Tommy so much that I'm actually giving up my slut ways. It's bizarre. Thank God he's a sick fucking freak in bed, or I don't know what I'd do with myself.

Lust makes hypocrites of us all.

Clothes on, sitting around talking:
"I'm just into normal kink, you know, hitty stuff. Crazy fucked-up shit like ageplay and calling someone 'Daddy,' that's so not my thing."
"Oh yeah, me too, that's... good for other people if they like it I guess, but yeesh, weird. Like those crazy fucks who play with piss."
"Oy. Yeah, the whole bathroom thing, so not sexy."

...

Naked, on my knees in the bathtub with bruises on my tits and his cock in my face:
"Be a good little girl and pee for Daddy."

Guest Blogger

Dear Pervocracy,

Holly's a little preoccupied right now. OK screw this, it's the Pervocracy so why mince words. Holly's sucking my dick for the 20th time this weekend(bless wireless keyboards. Bless 'em). We're awesome perverted geeks. So what the hell, let me toss off a couple of quick points here while I've got my hands free.

1) Ladies, whatever the magazines say, FUCK NO, USING TEETH DURING ORAL SEX IS NOT A GOOD IDEA. Holy crap, I feel better just having said it. Holly, honey, you're good about this one. Seriously. It doesn't feel good. I don't know how somebody got it into their heads that that's a good technique, but I don't think a guy came up with that one. Imagine some guy using teeth on your va-jay. It's not a pleasant idea, right?

2) People that whine about how much their partners aren't willing to have sex with them need to change something. Whether it's their partner, their arrangements, or their whinging, something's got to give.

3) People who waste time on Pick-Up Artist bullshit rather than oh, say, improving themselves as people, physically, mentally, and emotionally, are losers. There's no exception to this. I'm a geek from New Jersey, folks, I love Bon Jovi, Star Wars, and comic books, and I still get laid pretty frequently. Y'know why? Not because I'm some superstar catch physically(I'm not bad, but I'm not Brad Pitt), not because I make a ton of money, not because I have some super-sekrit(tm) way of putting women down in such a way that they'll sleep with me. Because I'm willing to better myself. Yes, Eurosabra, just so that I'm fucking crystal clear here, I'm talking to you. Go work out, get a job, and pull your head out of your ass.

Now, if you folks'll excuse me, I'm gonna go make this pretty lady cry (and come!) before I have to hop a plane back to the East Coast.

-Tommy

Now THAT'S sadism.

Cosmo suggested that to get kinky and taboo, I could wear sexy lingerie or give him an oil massage or--so very naughty--pretend we were strangers.

Tommy rolled up the magazine and spanked me with it.

Like bunnies.

Tommy the Cuddliest Sadist has been staying over. He's been here since late Thursday night and we've had sex thirteen times. That works out to... about every four hours. Really more since we sleep. The boy has stamina.

And by "boy," I mean "Daddy." In the last couple days he's shoved a piece of ginger up my ass, put clothespins on my breasts, beaten the holy hell out of my tits and ass, snapped a thin piece of metal against my pussy to raise welts before he fucked me, and made me scream "come in me, Daddy!" where people could hear. And then we cuddled.

We've got more planned. I can't type for too long here. But it's just the coolest thing ever to be spending so much time with someone whose sexual interests and appetite are as weird and large as my own. I'm used to guys being less horny than me, used to them cutting me off at some point and telling me I've had enough sex or hitting. Tommy is as horny as me. It's fucking awesome.

Although god damn am I sore right now.

Blogosexuality.

The awesome thing about having a sex blog is that it can get you laid.

The awkward thing is that after the laying, he rolls over and says "Oh God, I'm going to be an entry on the Pervocracy, aren't I?"

Well... yeah.

A million little virginities.

"Please don't let anyone piss on your face before I get the chance, Holly."
"I won't, baby. I'll save myself for you."
"Aww. I get to be your first."