luxdivon

her diary: vol 1: issue 2: BEAUTIFUL RAW
You forget that you really are beautiful some-days. You look in the mirror. You look at your face. And then you see again, oh Im actually really very pretty. Then you think back to the conversation you just had a moment ago, about sex, love, fucking. Whatever you want to call it. About why you havent had any luck with love. Its like you damn yourself from hello. The same words flow out of your mouth, as your obvious and blatent, sexuality, seeping at the seems, the way water overflows a tub already too full. And trying to think back to an actual relationship, your mind fleets through names, nights, (man that was amazing sex) but no, no relationship came out of that either. This is the moment that my heart feels heavy, like it just got enclosed by a brick wall, just like it does when I try to explain why I havent finished my diploma. Yet. And then my pictures. It becomes apparent that Im quite comfortable with my body, and with eroticism, so needy and looking for love, that desperation, oh you know it, isnt pretty, but its as pretty as it gets somedays. Go ahead and ask me. Ask me the last time I had sex. Last night. Youd think that that wouldnt seem like a long time. And that Im turned on by. . . $money$, like everybody else, so wet like you couldnt believe, when I walk out the door, erotic conversations on my hands and knees, oh but that one actually does treat me right, imaginary never met you right, is still a fucking whole hella lot better than reality in shambles. I stumble half connected sentences over words about fucking on the first date, and if I feel comfortable with that or not. I guess he knew that as far as I sat away from him, hed really have to either be the aggressor, or trick me, and I think its late, and I think as we both agree, that even thou sex on the first date doesnt fuck things up, its generally better still not to go through with it. I hurt. My tits hurt. My eyes hurt, and my heart hurts from too many fears. Oh and then theres (god I wish I could say his name)knocking on my door, when the night reached the point, where it hit bottom and was coming back to day, Ill never forget that face, or how alive I felt the next day. . or museful playlful boy with his yes, very thoughtful hours of lovemaking. Its too bad I wont see him for a month, and that he really doesnt care one way or the other. And neither do I. or the mercy-fucking, but really it was another part of the puzzle rough and desireable, I originally said that hey, yea I was game. And so I was. And for my exhibitionism, and my chickenshit excuses, its not what theyd say, its what theyd think. God Im a wreck. But really all the nights were alright, all I can say is t-i-g-h-t except for him (except that one, oh no, you, you were filth like the dirt on the bottom of my garbage pail)and thats ok thou. Because last night was one of the better-- if only because when he held me, he held me. And theres nothing like that in the world. Being held, but genuinely, just for a few hours, is more soothing to the soul, than years and years and years with a mother that holds you, but is farther away than the moon that revolves around the sun. so instead on the plane, bored out of my mind, just waiting to get to the ground, I think about complex descriptive fantasies involving going down on your cock in a restaurant underneath tablecloths that hang down low enough to cover your dirty deed, being just what he needs, thoughts that made me so wet I thought I could cum, I felt like I could have orgasms right then if only I could touch my soaking wet panties, but no, I wasnt going to get away with that. I could only be so lucky.