Saturday Night Special

Sales on memberships to our sites are a new thing. Our first publicly-announced special: probably this Valentine sale in 2017.

Last year I started running flash sales on random weekend nights. Something special for people who are like Delia and I: prone to staying home when other people go out.

People who can’t sleep on Sunday nights & stay up late masturbating instead.

Folks who find themselves awake or alone when everyone else is either fast asleep or partying with other extroverts.

This being the middle of a long weekend in the states, I just opened up a Saturday night special:

JOIN NOW for $3.95 or $30

Normally I end the sale whenever I wind up going to bed, but tonight I’ll keep it open until morning since I’m sure a lot of you will be up all night long.

Note: when you join DeliaTS.com (my wife’s site) you also get access to my members-only area too (TastyTrixie.com/members is included; our sites are networked together so one membership login gets you into both). You’re also welcome to join at any of our normal prices if neither of those terms are what you want. 

 

Starry Winter Night Stroll

We got up too-early to go dance. It was worth it, but then all we wanted was a movie and food-in-bed and murder-porn lazy-time.

File Jan 25, 1 35 04 PM

With the velvety curtains drawn around our well-fed body heat, it finally got too stuffy by other people’s Sunday-night time-for-bed standards under the sloped-ceilings of our sleeping alcove. I whined for Delia to make me a bulls-eye egg NO WAIT can we take a walk?


Out in the dark in our pajamas, strolling the silent neighborhood … so many stars. My pj’s are a soft knit dress and thin fleece hoodie: no panties, no bra. Just shuffling along. It feels balmy compared to a couple weeks ago when the moon was full and the ground hard-frozen. She finds out her new nalgene does indeed glow.

We should be walking naked. Through gardens, not towards the obscenely-bright porch lights of people who go to bed so early. We should be walking naked with bare feet. RUNNING, even. Maybe we will someday, and then come back inside to dance. Or if it’s summer … stay outside to dance. All night long.

Huglamp_16-9

There’s Orion. There’s The Big Dipper. There are billions and billions and billions of things I don’t know the names for. Just tiny little lights in darkness from where we’re moving, such tiny barely measurable distances together, walking at night towards another cold still building where we’ve danced before, and other people. Maybe for a hundred tiny little years.

HOLD MY HAND, I said. WE’RE MATES. MATED FOR LIFE.

We left the sometimes-lit straight roads for the darker curving trails. Little miniature hills roped with roots, rising and falling under our feet.


 

I can hear her downstairs, smell the buttered bread and egg she’s frying for me coming up the stairs.

Friday Night Alone in Winter

It’s Friday night, and I have myself all to myself.

#DeliveryTruck in the #moonlight. #notforme #tistheseason #December #coldnight #holidays

A photo posted by Trixie Fontaine (@tastytrixie) on


When the weekend starts I get to feel invisible, the way I do when I’m up all night. Independent of other people’s expectations and standardized routines. Normal people go their way, and I untether myself from any semblance of connection to the majority, drifting into a continuity of creative solitary work that makes me glad nobody cares what I’m doing tonight, or if they do care, they know that I want to be left alone.

Like our friends who left a message about a party invitation for tomorrow. That I’m glad I didn’t hear until tonight when it’s too late, even though they already acknowledged on the message that they know I’m not too big on gatherings. I will tell them that if I were going to go to any holiday party this year, it would be that one. And it’s true. Just being invited is good enough for me, and being invited too late to actually go is the cherry-of-relief on top.

I don’t know. Maybe I’d go just for a few hugs and a couple of tamales if I could somehow look pretty without washing my hair. Or if I knew I’d meet somebody with a big dick there who’d take me into the woods and fuck me. But I do have to wash my hair and even if I did, there wouldn’t be some big-dick no-problems stranger there, and even if there were, I’d come back from the woods with my clean hair all fucked up and everybody would feel sorry for me for being such a slut.

Everybody always feels sorry for me for the wrong fucking reasons. I’m so fucking bored by normal-people interactions I want to rip my dirty-clean hair out and my clothes off just so we all have something to talk about.


The phone rings with a name I don’t recognize. So I pick it up. If it was somebody I actually knew, I wouldn’t want to talk and would have just sat there, cringing and guilty, waiting for the ringing to stop.

A man’s voice demands to know who I am.

Dude, you called me … who are YOU?

He’s frustrated and insists that *I* called *him*, but I didn’t. I didn’t call anyone. But I’m compelled to help him get to the bottom of it. A woman’s voice breaks in every so often to balance out the guy’s tension; she’s really sorry to bother me. She thanks me for my time.

YOU CALLED ME! I MISSED YOUR CALL! I’M JUST CALLING YOU BACK! AT NUMBER (not my area code) (not my phone number at all). I tell them my area code (not the one he said called him at all) and we’re all flummoxed. How could this be? So I suggest they try calling “me” back again to see if the same thing happens. AND IT DOES! They call a number that’s not mine at all, and my phone rings!

We’re united in this intrusive, totally mundane mystery.

She apologizes again. I say it’s fine and that I’m totally bored anyway. And it’s true. Whatever normal conversations I could be having with people I actually know sound like boring torture compared to this meaningless interruption (that would bore most normal people) that’s like random chat roulette, trying to untangle some absurd crossed wires that we’ll never make sense of. I roll out hypotheses about google voice and call forwarding, I ask who his carrier is … I think in my head of someone who might be fucking with me because he likes fucking with people from a distance. But it’s probably none of these things. We’ll never know who each other is and why we wound up talking to each other.

Those were the only people I felt excited to be verbally engaged with today. On Friday. When normal people get off work and do normal “fun” things.

blue moonlight lily

Strangers are the only ones you can say anything to. You don’t know each other so you can start from anywhere. Your entire reason for interacting is random, so whatever you say to each other can be random, too. You can pick the most important thing or share something real and observable happening right now. You’re not building on a relationship and have nothing to lose. You have no obligations to each other. Whatever and where and who you are RIGHT NOW at that moment is what you have in common, and RIGHT NOW is what I want to explore most closely. The observable things, the creation of connection starting from “zero” where there’s so much detail to explore without any memories of each other from any past time or any fear of we’ll break our friendship or future together. With strangers you get to be anybody, and still stay safely alone. You can teach each other magic and give each other keys you could never get from people you know. With people you know, you have to waste time asking about yesterday and planning tomorrow and wondering if they’re sick of you yet and how to manage yourself and your time together.

My spiritual advisor says “stay close” and “call anytime”. And he means it, but I don’t know how.

People say call somebody when you need to talk and “that’s what friends are for”. I don’t believe that. If you’re friends with somebody you know that they’re busy. You know they don’t have time. You know they’re going to worry and want to fix it all. You know you’re going to owe them afterwards, and you don’t want to owe anybody anything, especially not a harrowingly dull session listening to them tell you the whole entire plot of a movie you don’t fucking want to see LET ALONE HEAR SOMEONE DESCRIBE blow-by-blow, or shopping trip where they had to return something but then they forgot the receipt and then you won’t believe who they ran into. What’s worse for me is if the conversation is actually GOOD because I don’t know when the conversation should be over, or how I’m supposed to end it. So I just keep talking until my ear gets hot and my brain is jangled and nothing I say makes any sense and I just want to scream I LOVE YOU BYE BYE!!!!!! Instead you know the ending will be planning to see each other and I want to see each other but I don’t actually want to plan on it or commit to it and I don’t believe it anyway and just get off the phone and eat 3,000 calories because I don’t have xanax so I just have to eat my way into a tunnel of calm.

You can’t call people who care about you and just be as fucking weird or sad as you feel. It’s fucking unsettling, and I don’t want to unsettle people I love; that’s extremely counterproductive and I do enough of it already. I would rather call the prayer line of a televangelist or the sex toy infomercial line that has sex-specific numbers (I called the one that’s supposed to be for men because I figured they are used to hearing it all, but they insisted I call the line for women but it didn’t make sense because all of the operators were women).

What is the weird-feeling or sad-feeling equivalent for hitting the punching bag or pillow when you’re angry-feeling? For awhile it was the internet, but I think that internet is gone.

Sometimes you just want to hear somebody else’s weird voice in your ear, and that’s all. Somebody saying goodnight just to you and only you. And sometimes the only (or the best) way to get that is to pay a stranger for it.


Call for a cozy (not phone sex) recording I made late last night while it was raining
Call for a cozy 6 minute recording

Note: all is well here, and Delia puts up with talking to me every day if I want, and makes it so I get to be alone a lot without every being really *alone* or having to stay that way. Which is so fucking awesome that I continue to feel self-conscious and guilty about it and am still learning how to embrace it.

Blow Drying

Picture Delia just took of me drying my hair inside the cabin while she stood outside the cabin door looking in:

image

Might bring back fond memories for someone. And/or be a foretaste of more hair dryer pics to come with someone else. I’ll say no more. They’re almost like inside jokes. Except not really “jokes”.

Thank you, Delia, for interrupting your camming to come outside and do this for me! I tried to take some pictures myself using the self-timer and my little camera-phone tripod setup, but they were utterly worthless relative to the effort and headache I was putting into it. Well, even NOT relative to that.

*****

I haven’t been spending  much time over the past year or so surfing, reading blogs, “researching” things online, etc. But today I did a little of that. It was interesting. But I have nothing to show for it now except a great reminder that now is not the time in my life to get all up in arms and “informed” about important things. More important is just starting my day out on the right foot, working efficiently, and taking care of myself with time and energy left over to be with Delia. There are some goals I want to meet by the time I turn 40 and that’s barely over a year away. And then maybe I’ll do important things. Or just have more time to fuck lots of people. Or just have more time to fuck Delia lots!

Going to get into bed now and start out better tomorrow.

Taking Turns

We took a walk tonight. Sand came in through the air-holes in the tops of my new shoes. I’d anticipated that, so I didn’t wear them for the beach part of the walk, but then there was unexpected sand.

We saw a Komfort branded travel trailer and decided if we ever took to the road in comfort, we would call it our “CumFort”. At the time it seemed really funny.

I have heartburn right now which is really annoying because I haven’t eaten anything deliciously bad for me today. It doesn’t actually burn, it’s just like a heavy lump of mild pain in between my back and the middle of my chest. Like if you could swallow it down it would turn into an ass-ripping turd the size and shape of a small cannonball.

Then it was dusk and we heard music and decided to investigate. There was only one number left so they let us in for free. We were exactly where I like to be: on the periphery, behind the partitions, peering through little windows. The stage was full of men with their instruments, and when they started playing them I felt like crying (don’t worry; I feel like crying about everything I like sometimes). They all took turns making their math sounds with their mouths and breaths and hands and hammers, and I could move around a little without being obnoxious because of where we were, on the edge in the back. It was beautiful and every voice was different and “special” and all of that shit, like the little guy with the silk pants and baritone sax got the most cheers next to the guy playing vibes. That made me want to play vibes too, not because he got the most cheers but because I’ve always wanted to if always means for the past 16 years. But there’s not even room for my piano in the new house and I hardly ever play it anyway so whatever.

When Delia found a ten dollar bill in the pocket of her vest she hasn’t worn in awhile, I immediately thought ICE CREAM CONES, but then I remembered I’m not eating that kind of thing. At least not today. Now that I have heartburn I resent not having the ice cream. Found money in my head LOOKS like a plate of mashed potatoes and gravy with some salty bloody meat on the side or ice cream or salt ‘n vinegar chips in bed plus chocolate cake and three different beverages.

There were 10, 20, 30 . . . probably 40 people on that stage. Every single one of them was a man, talking their math language to each other, showing off their chops. I loved it, but I get sick and tired of people not giving a shit about how obvious it is that something’s wrong and acting like we’re assholes for noticing it. That isn’t why I felt like crying, though. I felt like crying because I loved it/them. It just would have been nice if there were even ONE FUCKING WOMAN up there. I would like to see more stages filled with ten, twenty, thirty women or more. But I guess then they’d all start talking at once and smiling and hugging and ruining the whole thing? I don’t know what the problem is, I just know that there is one. And it has something to do with Amy Winehouse . . .

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