TastyTrixie.com

Archive for March, 2002

GOOD MORNING HUG

What could possibly be better than waking up to my view . . . seeing a middle-aged woman in a purple robe walking a beautiful dog in the alley below me . . . opening my window to compliment her on the fine animal then hearing the story of how she may have to get rid of him. So I came down to give her my phone number and she wound up telling me an “I-can’t-believe-I’m-telling-you-this” story about how she’s thinking of taking a new last name and in spite of what I’ve just been reading (in a book called “Porn Row” that one of my special viewers gave me) about how we lavish love and affection on animals because we’re so touch-deprived and disconnected from one another . . . the lady in the purple robe and I hugged a long non-perfunctory open hug in the alley for a good morning happy-we-met human touch.

LOSS OF FASCINATION

I’m so disappointed . . . but relieved. Apartment Boy #3 has succeeded in holding no fascination for me anymore. Yeah, I know it was only a few weeks I was feeling all kinds of missing-him feelings. But now that I’ve had the “pleasure” of a few of his late-night visits I’m disgusted to find all I have left is a residual adoration of him as a stinky puppy dog. Last night I was amazed to be reminded that sex IS different/better when you care about somebody. There IS something to be said for chemistry and all of that . . . how is it that I used to enjoy what felt like remarkably wonderful sex with this twenty year old boy . . . but when he touched me last night it felt like nothing but a vaguely entertaining nuisance like a funny commercial you’ve seen too many times. When he played with my tits it felt like he was trying to milk me like a cow. I had to tell him to knock it off. When he pulled my hair it felt like he was just reminding himself, “she likes this . . . do this manouver even if you don’t understand it.” I had to grab his hand out of my hair and tell him to quit it. And even though I loved hearing him make all kinds of sweet uncontrolled noises when I was working my slobber-slick palm and fingers around his dick . . . it was like playing with a really good toy, not trying to make another person feel good. And when he begged for me to suck it (under the right circumstances there’s nothing I love more than seeing a guy squirm and hearing him beg) I just laid there, giggled, and refused him. I mean, what am I getting out of this deal? Last night I resolved to make him do the work. No more Trixie on top when she’s tired or using her mouth on his dick. So at least I got a little of what I wanted . . . the old in and out.

I am allergic to his nicotine-coated presence and cat-hair-covered whiskers. I shouldn’t have opened the door when he knocked . . . I should have just ignored it and went to bed. But I was listening to James earlier and it made me feel lonely which is why I must have opened the door to AB3 and answered the phone earlier when the Irish Think Tank stopped by and called from outside and we wound up going and sharing some prime rib at the neighborhood diner.

And now I’m listening to Ani DiFranco and more James so who knows what I’ll do today in a state of music-induced melancholy.

WE HATE THOSE PEDOPHILES

. . . but we sure love hearing about them.

Every time you turn the tv on there is something about sex crimes. Constantly. I’m watching Law & Order right now — I really have a hard time distinguishing between these shows and porn. The only difference is that these shows say, “oh my god!!! Isn’t this SICK?!? Let me tell you all about it!” Then they walk you through the grooming/seduction, hints and descriptions of what happened . . . blah blah blah. On Oprah yesterday America listened to a priest talking about how he gradually started getting turned on by kids, etc.

It cracks me up that people pretend they are SO different from the people committing these crimes . . . while they like nothing better than to consume narrations, descriptions, and recreations of these crimes like cannibals eating up their favorite delicacy.

But they all pretend that their hands are clean as long as they can stretch their judgemental fingers out and blame someone else.

We are kidding ourselves . . . and as long as we do that, kids are going to continue being victimized en masse.

ENEMA

After a lovely professional massage this morning (leftover therapy approved by car insurance after my car wreck I mentioned yesterday) I went grocery shopping. In addition to getting a new hot water bottle (to keep my feet warm at night) I decided to try something new . . . I bought an enema. I’ve never had one and it’s an experience I’m curious about. No, don’t tell me what it feels like . . . I want it to be a surprise.

EYE ROLL GOAL

I’ve been trying to stop rolling my eyes. It’s a really annoying overly expressive nonverbal commentary that I need to purge from my litany of obnoxious facial expressions. I was doing pretty good at avoiding the eye-roll until I spent a few hours with the Irish Think Tank . . . that seemed to bring the eye-roll back to my face in overdrive.

LITTLE FUCKER

Tsk. I just saw that little fucker apartment boy #3 drive by and it reminded me of my dad telling me I have a taste for shit. AB3’s a smoker, a litterbug, and a lover of noisy automobiles. What was I thinking? Why must we women have such a soft spot for the cute depressed puppy dog with tattoos type of guy?

ESTROGEN ANYONE?

Yesterday I had some kind of an estrogen attack; everything was building up to make me want to just weep weep weep. Nothing tragic or profound happened to me but starting in the morning everything seemed designed to make me cry.

First I had a private show with a patient but demanding Master. I’m not used to doing bondage or fooling around with much pain so the whole hot-candlewax bound-by-saran-wrap ice-cubes-in-the-ass double-penetration scenario was an unusual thrill that brought my emotions to the surface. When he finished with me and I was done untying myself I got an email from a dear friend saying her grandma had died . . . the same day this dear pregnant friend had posted a letter to her grandma telling her how grateful for her and inspired by her she was (so her grandma never got to read the letter). Then I had to go to my gynecologist which is a nervewracking drive for me ever since I got in a gigantic car accident driving home from this gynecologist a couple years ago. For some reason I can’t go to or from this doctor’s without remembering my station wagon being totalled in a 13-vehicle smash-up on the freeway. I have visions of again seeing my car on Northwest Cable News, a mangled mess wedged under a car-carrier.

Then at the gynecologist’s I picked up “People” magazine only to see 31 widowed-by-9/11-women’s faces staring back at me with their fatherless babies in their arms. Then there were some other things that made me sad at the hospital. Then I spent the rest of the day and night with my mom and grandma. Grandma broke down into tears a number of times talking about my now-dead grandpa and everything they went through together.

Then today on our long way home from my grandma’s new home in Sedro Woolley (way fucking north of Seattle, north of Everett – almost all the way to flipping Bellingham) my mom started talking about how she was my little sister’s age (about 24) when she met the perfect man. She was married to my dad and still without kids . . . it’s heartbreaking to hear about this special relationship she had for nine years to a man who’s dead now. It’s sad and lonely thinking that my mom’s 57 now and obviously some people are so exceptional that no one can really hold a candle to them because over the past thirty years she hasn’t been with anyone like him.

But then I think she’s pretty damned lucky because I’m 29 and sure as hell haven’t met the perfect man (or woman for that matter).

Thank god for that.

NAKED PICS WITH FRIENDS

I’m nervous and excited about my friends Betty and Kate coming over today so we can head to a nearby bed and breakfast and take pictures of each other. I’m looking forward to getting spankings from both of them.

I know I haven’t been writing much but I *have* been having fun working on getting the members area ready for my site which hopefully will be done by (or even before) my May 1st “deadline”.

It’s not that I haven’t had any sexploits to share . . . if only my dirty sheets could do the writing and tell you what they’ve witnessed. Okay, okay . . . so my life’s not *really* that wild. I just never change my sheets! Still, if a crime were committed in my bedroom the dna testing would be very exhausting for a detective what with all of the hair and spooge remnants splattered hither and yon.

MARX . . . AND NOW TRIX

SPECS

I’ve been wearing contacts since 7th grade and haven’t had a good pair of glasses since then. Until today — yeay! I finally have a thick nerdy pair of spectacles propped on the bridge of my nose.

I got the stitches taken out of my wisdom toothhole this morning then I had lunch with the Irish Think Tank. You can’t drink just a couple cups of coffee with him . . . no. If you excuse yourself before 13 cups he’ll accuse you of being a rude socially inept asshole. Fortunately I had an ace up my sleeve to end our social engagement and get some solo-time. He is DISGUSTED by the mere mention of menstruation. So I said, “I think my period started . . . hmmm. . . I’ll just check here”, thrust my hand down my pants and performed a diptest. His eyes were clenched shut and he kept them closed while donning his hat, gloves and coat and didn’t open them until he was gone and assured he wouldn’t be forced to look at my blood-slickery digit.

You know, I’ve really fallen down on my self-appointed task of informing people of out-of-the-way women’s history stuff for this month. I should do some research about feminine hygiene, etc. Bet that would really stimulate people.

THE OLD IN AND OUT

In the past couple of days I’ve had the old in and out in a couple different ways.

Way Number One

First, I got completely plastered on Chilean wine at the Irish Think Tank’s on Saturday night. The past few months we’ve mostly ignored each other — I wanted to avoid being abused and hearing about him hitting rock bottom financially. He finally called to say that he and his girlfriend are engaged, everything’s looking up, and a company hired him and is paying for him to finish school. I breathed a sigh of relief at this news (all except for the part where he’s really not sure if I can ever meet her because of my unwillingness to lie about my work — don’t ask me why I can’t just tell her that I do phone sex and internet porn). So last night he called to say he was fixing her a surprise roast chicken dinner and needed me to explain to him what, “cover loosely with foil” meant. Then lo and behold he *invited* me to dinner to actually *meet* this enigmatic and apparently worldly-unwise fiance. I was happy to go . . . but for some reason she never showed up or called after she got off of work, and the Irish Think Tank and I demolished the chicken ourselves and wound up drinking almost three bottles of wine between the two of us. Then somehow right before midnight I was laying on his floor while he insisted I remove my sweater and abandon my bra for one of his terrible massages where he barks, “would you RELAX?? Just TRUST me! Don’t be such a baby!” There I am topless laying underneath him while he tells me to “roll over!” while I ask with complete befuddlement, “when is she going to be here? But what if she walks in?”

He had no good answer for me, I put my clothes back on and stumbled around in a drunken stupour telling him, “I have to go – oh god I’m drunk!” while he said, “no you don’t — just sleep here!” I told him to walk me home but as some kind of punishment for not spending the night he refused to walk me home so I had to brave the wild streets of Tacoma by myself at midnight (he lives on the “wrong” side of Wright Park, I live on the “right” side of Wright Park — I’ll walk lots of places by myself in the middle of the night, but not on the “wrong” side of Wright Park). I was forced to cover the same territory all alone where a man was stabbed just a couple weeks ago and he wound up “just like a pincushion” according to the local grocery store cashiers from whom I heard the tragic news. Well, I made it home safely, weaving and stumbling the whole entire way only to get home and discover that somewhere along the way I must have lost one of my contacts (you have no idea how long I was stroking my left eye with my fingertip trying to find the absent motherfucker). I passed out for awhile and then woke up ready to “out” the wine I let “in” earlier. The old in and out. My toilet and the surrounding area looked like I’d been stomping grapes and mashing potatos in it.

Way Number Two

So my houseboy comes over early on Sunday (my birthday — yes, I’m twentynine now) only to discover me in a foul and vomitous temper. Fortunately that passed fairly quickly. He gave me a sweet and thoughtful gift of a metronome (I’m always amazed by people who remember what a person needs/wants that will make unexpected and much-appreciated gifts). Then later in bed we were in a mutual handjob position that I love, laying side by side with his arm wrapped around me and stroking my clit while I played with his cock. It’s a shame that I’m too lazy to set up the camcorder to capture some of this stuff — I was the only person who saw his cum arcing onto and over my thigh, hip, belly, breasts, and shoulder — movie quality jets of spooge shot many feet and splattered all over my body. He had his eyes closed so even he didn’t see it. It was sooooooo cool!!

Then as I’ve mentioned before the only thing I’ve been “missing” lately is straightforward fucking. It really has nothing to do with my orgasm since I get plenty of those with him. It’s just some primal need to be fucked hard. He’s had it in there a few times but it’s usually over really fast and there’s nothing primitive or hard about it. It’s sweet and gentle where every move further inside can be felt and treasured (and make me want even more to have a platoon of sweaty soldiers lined up to violate my pussy with a complete lack of sensitivity). So I was so SO happy yesterday after I got a teasing glimmer of his chubby unit inside me for a few thrusts before I heard the familiar line, “I *knew* that was going to happen!” that guys say in this semi-accusatory tone like, “damn it why’d you make me fuck you and cum so fast!?!” Anyway, Twat must have decided to prove his manhood or something . . . he resurrected his erection in record time and was soon on top of me giving me . . . the old in and out! Bliss!!! Joy!!! And then I got on top of him in my ball-crushing position that I love so dearly and completely wore myself out getting off that way a couple of times. Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!

I almost feel guilty for loving the old in and out so much. As though my enthusiasm for it yesterday somehow invalidated everything else that we do. Twat is probably the most skilled, generous, sensual, sexy, open-minded lover I’ve ever had. He makes me feel so good! So good, in fact, that I get so excited and worked up that I want my holes to be pummeled in ways that I rarely ever fantasize about.

It’s funny how 10 or 15 minutes of old-fashioned fucking can almost realign the planets.

SNOW ON MY MANIFESTO

Today is a nice snowy day to work on writing my webwhore manifesto. Here’s my view. Yes, I know I wasn’t going to post pictures of my view but that was when I only had a couple pics that showed everything my windowsill. I finally figured out how to download pics off my digital camcorder soooooo . . . yay!