Magic

I'm at a low ebb, so I'm just going to ramble a bit, saying things I probably don't mean or may mean right now but reserve the right to change my mind about later.

I know why people want to recapture their youth, or at least one reason, a good reason. As you get older, the magic goes out of things. In my case, I'm thinking about sex. Not that I don't enjoy sex, or that it hasn't perhaps even gotten better as I've grown up, or that there's anything so terribly wrong about the magic going out of things. It's a natural part of getting older.

Understand that I'm not talking "magic" in the sense that many people mean, where it's just another word for "spark" or "elan" or "verve" or whatever word it is you use to describe a satisfying thing, one which is exciting. I'm talking about the magic of novelty, the magic of the unknown. I'm talking about the way that children can legitimately believe in things which we as adults can't. The storytelling ability of children is amazing, and if you're very lucky as an adult you'll be able to retain some small amount of that essence and tell stories to your own children which make them grow up magically.

When I was young, sex was magical. It was new, it was fun, it was playful, and it was something which could be explored. There are many positive things to be said for knowing what you're doing, for having a mature knowledge of something so you don't have to fumble around in the dark. But there is still magic in early sex, or perhaps there should be.

I can never have another "first time" again. I can have first times with new people, and I can try new things (yes, even I have many things left to try, which is all for the good). And I'm really, really happy with my first time; it was wonderful, and I wish everyone could have as great an introduction to the subject. Most people don't unfortunately, but that just means that those people can have a "first good time," the first time they had sex where it actually was having sex and not just fumbling in the dark and being miserable. And you can have many different kinds of first times. But I can still never go back to that very first time, any more than I can travel through time and tell my past self not to go to Seti Alpha 5 (okay, geek test. Who failed it?).

And I'm not sure I'd want to. It was fine the first time, and while I'd be okay with living it over again, just exactly the same way, that would basically be vicarious pleasure through my younger self. Hell, I can get a modicum of that by remembering it fondly.

But I remember my brother and I used to do crazy shit all the time, because we didn't know any better. Hell, the first time he stuck it in my ass, we didn't mean to. It was fumbling and awkward and magical, and it wasn't all that pleasurable when compared to things we've done since. But there was magic there, the unknown, the undiscovered.

I remember the feeling I used to get in the pit of my stomach every time someone asked me if I wanted to have sex. This was way after I'd been sexual long enough that the act itself was nothing new to me. But when I was finally out in the world, fucking people outside of the house, and I'd get asked, it made my stomach feel a certain way. There was a moment of nerves, or anticipation, or something. I don't get that feeling any more. Sex is no longer magical in that way, and there's really nothing I can do to recapture that feeling, and again, I'm not totally sure I want to.

I love sex. I enjoy the hell out of orgasms. But I know that. I used to believe more than know. And while I still believe, it's in a mature, adult way, the way I believe in Santa Claus (and don't say anything; I may not believe in him the way kids do, but I believe in the idea) or the spark of the divine in everyone, or what have you. Nothing wrong with that, and it makes my enjoyment that much greater to believe as well as know.

But occasionally I think back to myself when I was young and dumb and full of cum (you know I had to say it) and miss her, just a little. I don't want to go back; I didn't love my childhood in many ways, and I've always been precocious. But if I could recapture my youth in some small way, I'd enjoy having the magic back, just for a moment, right before the next time someone asks me if I'd like to make love. That, "Really? Me? Now?" feeling. It felt lucky.

Panties on the Brain

Reading The trouble with Victoria over on Lola's blog (although written by Mischievous Little Vixen) got me thinking about panties again, because I rarely need an excuse to think about panties. Seriously, I love the hell out of panties, wearing them or watching them or seeing other people take them on and off. I'm not completely sure why it is either; I don't care that much about clothes in general, but I'll buy panties to beat the band. Which is why the post struck a chord with me (go read it) before I realized something: I am not a Victoria's Secret addict at all.

I've been in there, sure. Even recently. But I rarely buy anything from them. It's the cost more than anything else, and while they may or may not be higher quality (I'm not sure they are, really) and they may or may not be more exciting (I think the name is what makes them exciting to a lot of people, like Frederick's of Hollywood, which is pretty shitty actually), they aren't enough to justify the price.

And they sell things other than underwear there now. It used to be going into Victoria's Secret was the closest thing to going into a sex shop you could get without going into a sex shop. Maybe it's that I can actually go into sex shops now, or maybe it's just that they've lost the allure.

But by the opposite token (and I reserve the right to be completely illogical here because I'm a girl and you can't do anything about it) it's like going into a store which only has exactly what you're looking for. There's no challenge to getting panties at Victoria's Secret. You go in and you're basically obligated to come out with panties. At least I am.

So I've bought bras there, because they have very nice bras. And panties there, because they matched, or because they were on sale. But I really like shopping for panties at places which don't specialize. I like finding exciting undies in department stores (because I've got to go there for some other reason, usually). Or even a big Wal-Mart-type store. There's the thrill of the chase there.

Now, I said all this because I just saw a pair of panties from Victoria's Secret that I really want to buy, and if I'm somewhere where there is a Victoria's Secret soon, I'm going in to see if they're on sale. Damn it. You can't stop me.

Finally, a Work Story

I'm classifying this as a recollection simply because, although it was only a few months ago, it feels like years. This was during my period (not that kind) of intense work-itude, and I promised and promised to tell the story but just never had the impetus. Now, as I'm trying to keep certain things off my mind, I'll recall it for you.

I've mentioned that I like to keep my work life and sex life fairly separate, but that I don't think that a fling with an actor violates that code. It's one of the fringe benefits of being in theatre, actually; many actors are easy, and getting a little something on the side alleviates the boredom and makes up in some small way for the fact that many actors are also egotistical divas without a shred of concern for anyone but themselves. No, actually, that's not fair at all. I get along fine with most actors, and have acted myself in the past. But on occasion one must put up with actors who are tedious in the extreme, and while they give the vast majority of nice actors a bad name, I view fucking actors as being karmic retribution for my annoyance. Plus, actors are fun to fuck, and they get the whole "show romance" thing for the most part, so they don't expect things to go much past a short-term fling. Not that this is always true either. And actors are pretty sometimes.

Anyway, the show I was working on was a beast (well, a series of beasts) but included some very alluring women, all of whom, unfortunately, were completely off the market, which was an oddity. I had a severe lust-crush on one of them, and then found out that she was older than I am and married with children. Oy. Not that it never happens, but she was out of circulation.

So I took to hanging out with one of the younger male actors and ogling the unattainable women. Don't ask me how that happened; I guess I was just in the right place at the right time, and made some comment and he'd heard rumors or maybe just assumed I was a lesbian. So we were having a good time, being mildly sexually-harassing in word but not in deed, not being sexual, just being appreciative of the form. I confess that I appreciated his form a bit too, although he never noticed that, as will be seen.

I didn't go out with the actors though; I was too busy. But during rehearsals and such, I had plenty of time to hang out with him, and we struck up a sort of comradeship in arms, as it were. At a certain point he made a comment about wishing there were available women around, and I said something equally flippant along the lines of, "What am I, chopped liver?" To which he said, "But I'm not your type."

The long and the short of it is that he thought I was a lesbian, hardcore, no eyes for anything but women. When I disabused the poor dear of that notion by putting my hand on his crotch and giving it a playful squeeze, his jaw dropped. I couldn't really do anything else; backstage is dark, but people would have noticed. Still, I whispered in his ear that if he was really as hard up as he seemed like, I could make it all better at a later time.

I was tired, sore, bitchy, and pretty much didn't give a shit any more. I wanted to go home, to sleep, to not ever have to go to work again. But the idea of getting a little loving kept me going that evening, and even though afterward there was no chance of not having to do a bunch of work, he promised to come early the next night.

There's a catwalk running around the stage which is hidden from view in places, and it was to there that I took him the next night, mostly because I had to be there anyway and if anyone wanted us they'd have to climb a ladder to get there. I try never to wear skirts to go up ladders, but that evening I wore one, and once we got up there, making every attempt to keep quiet, my hands were in his pants from the word go, and he was hard as a rock. I let him feel me up under the skirt for a while as we made out, then shooed him away for a moment to pull off my panties and hang them on the wall (yeah, I'm classy like that) and got him on his back on the floor of the catwalk, unzipped his pants, and started sucking his cock through the fly.

It was awkward and messy, like surreptitious work sex should be, but we enjoyed ourselves. After I got him ready orally, I slipped on a condom and then just squatted over him with my skirt hanging down and eased him up into me, then tried hard not to make any noise as he started pulling me down by my hips while thrusting up into me. I have no idea how experienced he is, but it was enjoyable. Eventually the zipper and pants annoyed both of us, so he pulled them down to his knees, his bare ass on the catwalk, and I got back on top of him and we started again.

I was just about to get off (stress, exhaustion, and the position were hampering my usual orgasmic tendencies), and I think he was getting pretty close too, when I heard someone on stage calling my name. I shouted out, "Just a sec," and hopped off him, then motioned for him to stay put, although I saw him scrambling to get himself partially back together. So I went over to the part of the railing where people can see you and looked down, and there was one of my bosses (it's complicated) asking me to do something. I have no idea how disheveled I looked, but I don't think he could see up my skirt and my shirt was still on. Anyway, I'd been looking fairly disheveled every day.

I finished what I had to do and then went back to my actor buddy, who was sitting up looking sheepish until I pulled my shirt over my head and said softly, "I'm still hornier than hell, and if you don't finish up we're both going to be space-cases for the rest of the evening. There I was in my bra standing over him, and I know he could see up my skirt, so he pulled his pants back down, and I had to re-energize him and put the condom back on properly while he slipped his hand up my skirt again and pressed into my pussy, making me even wetter until I couldn't stand it any more and just had to fuck him.

I rode him again; there didn't seem to be any hope of anything else. I came once fairly quickly from the excitement of the risk, I think, more than anything else. Eventually he slowed and wanted me to suck him over the edge, and I obliged. He tasted like candy canes, just a hint, when he came. Or maybe that was just pre-Christmas talking.

We stood up and I helped him dust his ass off a little (that was amusing) and then he finished adjusting himself and climbed down the ladder to get ready for the show. I pulled my shirt back on, as it was fairly cold, and wished he'd played with my tits more. Then I got my panties back on with difficulty over my big honking boots and got ready for work.

I'd never christened the catwalk before. I'd done it in catwalks in other buildings, but never this one. So that was nice. It wasn't great sex, but it was something to remark on.

And after the show that night, he waited around for me and I said, "Fuck it, I need a break," so we found a secluded spot in the building, when most everyone else had gone, and got to it more properly this time. That's the nice thing about being trusted in the building by myself, and knowing all the hiding places. The sex was fairly mundane, with me on my back and him over me, thrusting with his hips into mine. We didn't do much kissing and he didn't do much more than thrust, but it was still satisfactory enough to get me off again, and this time he pulled out without saying anything, pulled off the condom, and sprayed my belly with cum, before apologizing for making a mess.

I had hoped we might make a regular thing of it, but we never found the time after that. We still got to ogle the gals, but something was a bit different after that; he tried to put his hand down the back of my pants in full view of people and I had to stop him. I don't think he wanted to look any more; he wanted the full package.

I wound up not getting any more from him, which was too bad because I could have used the relief. He probably could have too. There was no real awkward goodbye though; the last time I saw him, I gave him a kiss on the cheek and said I hoped we'd see each other again soon, and he said similar things. Like I said, actors usually get it. Not always, of course, but if I'm lucky.

So that was pretty much the only nice thing to happen to me at work in three months or so. I know I shouldn't complain. And I'm not really. I just won't list all the not-nice things that happened. Why dwell on the negatives?

And if anyone is working with me and would like to institute a policy of hourly sex-breaks during the course of the day for morale and stress-relief purposes, I am behind that policy 100%.

I'm Viral

No, this is not my announcement that I've got some horrible flesh-eating disease. To the best of my knowledge, anyway. I just wanted to let anyone who cared know that I've got a guest post over on Lola's blog, and thus I am in two places at once, which is all it takes to go viral these days. Her blog is worth visiting even if I'm not writing for it, but she asked me a while ago to fill in for her while she's on vacation (and I'm dying of envy there) so fill I have. It's one of the only times I get to fill, rather than be filled.

Flash Fiction Friday - Struggle

On the road back to town, the rain came, and she was drenched to the skin, but this was less a testament to the intensity of the cloudburst and more to the stark nakedness of the subject. That would teach her not to think things couldn't get any worse. Her clothes were gone, the rain had come, and there was nothing for it but to walk back to civilization in her present sorry state.

She soldiered on, bedraggled and despairing, droplets of cold wetness slamming into her skin, no hope for rescue, just inevitable chilled humiliation. Then her foot slipped on a stone and she found herself prone in the mud, the deluge pelting down around her. The soiled water oozed into every crevice of her being, and she almost lost it right there.

Instead, she laughed at herself gently, then rolled over, lying back in the muck, staring up at the gray sky. She made no move to sit up, to stand, to get out of the filthy ditch in which she lay. Not giving in, not taking it, just resting for a moment on the road, waiting for the rain to wash her clean.

Then she shivered and stood and continued.

---

A parable, if you will. Or perhaps a metaphor. The two things aren't mutually exclusive; in fact, it's possible that they are intertwined inextricably, that all parables must be metaphors, that parables are actually a subset of metaphors even. I'm not sure I totally agree with that idea, but there it is: this is probably one or the other if not both. A metaphor for struggle or a parable about life, but then what parables aren't about life?

I actually began with a totally different thought, all about how April showers bring May flowers, and thus this woman must either be named May or after a flower of some kind. It could have worked; I wasn't planning on making it a joke, but rather a story of a different kind.

But I've done the sex in the rain thing. I thought, as I began this, that maybe this would wind up with sex in the rain, that whoever had stolen her clothes would return and ravish her (there were mythological angles to my thought, perhaps unsurprisingly) or perhaps that both she and a partner had been similarly denuded and would walk back to town, cheerfully naked in the rain, and have a bit of fun.

Didn't happen that way, as you can obviously see from the story. It could have been the pensive way she's looking up in the picture; it could have been the character taking over, making me admire her effort in the face of adversity; it could even have simply been that I feel like this parable is about me all too often, and one of these days I'm going to wind up face down in the metaphorical mud yet again, only I won't handle it this well. I don't know. Whatever the reason, aside from some minor tweaking of words, this was basically how it came out. I had to work the last line a bit; at first it was shorter, then I had some extra words so I made it longer, and then it was too long, had too much stuff in it, so I pared it down again. The duplicate "ands" were a conscious choice, and leaving it spare works for me.

I very much hope, what with PB getting back next week, that more people will join in at Flash Fiction Friday, because it's a new year and a perfect time to start something fun and easy and yet at the same time good for you. Make it a resolution if you believe in resolutions. Make it a date if you have someone to join you. Make it a habit if you've got too many bad ones. Give it a try.

And here are the people I know have participated this week. If you did and you're not on this list, let me know.

• Of course, PB: http://insatiabear.blogspot.com/
• Advizor: http://advizortoall.blogspot.com/
• Curvacious Dee: http://curvaceousdee.com/
• France: http://theworldbegins.blogspot.com/
• Katia: http://katiaswritings.blogspot.com/
• Oversexed Librarian: http://oversexedlibrarian.blogspot.com/
• Rozewolf: http://wordwytch.wordpress.com/
• Scintellectual: http://scintillectual.com/
• William: http://thetrainingofmylovelyslut.blogspot.com/

I have no plans to make a list next week because PB will be back to doing it and hopefully people will be back to telling him they're doing it and stopping this horrible scavenger hunt where I feel bad because there's probably someone I missed whose submission was really good but I either didn't know or got tired of hunting. It's the devil's work, it is. Okay, complaining over. I've visited all of the other ones I could find, and the hunt was worth it. A larger list than I expected, given the relative paucity of the past few weeks.

Laggy

I haven't been a good blogger this week. Part of it is the vacation routine, not worrying so much about time or day of the week or things like that. Part of it is that Sveta has to head back this weekend, so I've been trying to pack as much Sveta time in as possible. Part of it is my general lack of motivation, coupled with what may or may not be sickness or period or something else fun and exciting coming up.

I woke up this morning with a hangover, which would be remarkable even if I had been drinking last night, since I don't get hangovers all that often, unless I get really, really blitzed (and I haven't been that drunk in quite some time, I'm fairly proud to say). But since I haven't had anything alcoholic in a week (at least) I can't blame overindulgence. Perhaps dehydration from the total lack of atmospheric humidity in my house. We have old heaters that dry out the air something terrible, and it's very dry anyway. My nose bleeds all the time. Yeah, I'm sure you wanted to know that.

Anyway, I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. I have another gig, hopefully a lot less stressful this time, one with some fun people and the possibility of backstage shenanigans. Being around people usually helps my sex drive in any case, so since Sveta won't be here, I'll have plenty of pent-up lust to inspire writing. I'm trying to put a positive spin on Sveta not being here, of course, but I know she has to go back, and I'll make the best of it.

This weekend, it's possible that there will occur something worth reporting beyond the usual stuff, and if so, hopefully I'll be up to reporting it. If not, I'll think of something to do.

Tomorrow, Flash Fiction Friday, which I haven't even written yet but am going to get on as soon as I hit the Publish button down there.

Lunchtime

I went out to lunch with Sveta today. There's a new restaurant in town I'd never been to, so I decided, what with the new year and all, that I would take her out to make up for the fact that we didn't go to the party last night.

I know everyone was hoping we would; it would undoubtedly have made for some exciting reading. But since Mike wasn't here and I wasn't really feeling like partying, we actually made a very early night of it. Sveta told her parents she was doing New Year's at a friend's house, and they were only too happy to get rid of her (and I really hate them for that, I really do). So she came over, and my parents and she and I all watched something amusing and then watched the ball drop, and by that point Sveta and I were both so tired we almost fell asleep waiting for it. After a "Happy New Year!" to all, everyone trooped off to respective sleeping arrangements, and she and I cuddled up and fell asleep almost immediately.

So anyway, to make up for not going to the party (although Kate has promised a rain check if we can swing it before Sveta has to go back) I took her out to this new place. Expensive, even at lunch time. But it's okay; it wasn't too much money, just more than I'd ordinarily spend on lunch.

We were both sitting on the same side of the table, with our backs to the wall, and since I eat so much faster than she does, I had the opportunity to start snaking my hand up her skirt. At first, I was just kidding, but after she batted me away and blushed, I liked the idea, so I kept up the pressure until I was completely up her skirt under the table and feeling around in her panties. It wasn't the least awkward thing I've ever done; the angle isn't quite right, really, when you're sitting side by side but around a circular table. But I was working her up anyway.

Eventually, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I'm going to scoot in a little." We were sitting right side by side then, looking quite the couple I'm sure. That would have been pleasant enough for me; we rarely go out and be all couple-y. But when she shifted herself in, she hiked her skirt up in the back and sat on my hand. Someone from behind would have seen exactly what was going on, but since we were with our backs to the wall, we were home free. Plus, it's one of those bistro-type places with dividers between seating, quite intimate (although I'm sure that wasn't intended to be put to this use) so there was even less chance of discovery.

She shifted around a little so I could get my hand down the back of her panties, and then she sat on it. I'd never tried that in a restaurant; the chair was a bit hard, but I was able to feel the warmth and softness of her buttocks and reach my finger up and dip into her honey pot at will. It was a different angle at fingering, but hey, vive la difference.

She kept eating while I started teasing, but I noticed she ate faster, until finally she ground her ass back on the chair, which almost broke my wrist, and made it clear that I had to stop or things were going to get messy (my fingers were starting to lose circulation anyway, but I didn't let on at the time). She left a spot on the chair when she got up, which I surreptitiously wiped up (because I may be a deviant, but I'm not that much of a deviant.

We practically ran home, ripped clothes off, and I was able to bring her to a monster O, all teeth-clenching, hip-bucking, moaning-my-name delicious. She gushed like a champion; it wasn't porno-grade (again, I've heard that those are all faked anyway) but it was drenching, and it was wonderful.

She's pacing around like a bitch in heat right now (not literally, but she's definitely jonesing) waiting for Dad to come home so she can get a little of the old man's ministrations. Me, I'm very satisfied. I got off epically after I finished with her. I may have gushed a bit myself (probably not, but I was certainly wet enough).

Anyway, that was lunch. Dinner, I hope, will be tasty too.