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Archive for the ‘worship’ Category

Nico is getting senile. We think her vision and hearing have both become impaired. The good part is she seems in good spirits most of the time. I guess it’s both fortunate and unfortunate that she wants to go in and out of the house about fifty times a day and has taken to WHINING and barking madly if we don’t comply with these requests. You think fifty is an exaggeration? Okay, at least twenty-five times a day. AT LEAST. It’s insane.

Sometimes I do lose my patience with her and feel so frustrated not knowing if it’s our fault for giving in to her or if she has genuine need (or perceived need) to go outside so often. This morning after she woke Delia up WAY too early to let her out and back in she then ate and pooped on the floor. She never does that (poops inside). I think she’s just totally confused and can’t get comfortable so she paces around. Then when she goes outside her rope gets hung up on rocks or stiff tufts of grass and for some reason she can’t pull free of those tiny hangups anymore and just starts going apeshit for  us to come out and rescue her.

Lately she can’t find the doors she wants and we’ll see her in the bedroom waiting at the closet door or the bathroom door (this makes no sense). Last night she was stumbling around in the dark doing god only knows what. This makes me wonder if it’s not really a vision problem, but something else; if it were her vision, wouldn’t she still have the layout of the house memorized?

So I asked Delia, “do dogs get Alzheimer’s?”

Delia’s response: “no, but they do get Barkinson’s.”

*****

In other mundane, un-sexy news of real life, we had to take one of our beater cars to the shop today. It is going to cost over $900 to fix it. We can’t afford it, but the main reason I felt compelled to go ahead with the repairs is that we’ve been really lucky with our vehicles for the past couple of years (aside from getting pulled over for having a stolen car, but that’s a totally different story) so I felt like it was time to pay tribute to the gods of car or whatever. We got this car for free and it should continue running reliably after this so . . . yeah. Goodbye, thousand dollars. Or rather, “hello, maxed out credit card that I was trying to clear room on to pay taxes”.

I also found out my mom went to the hospital last night. She’s (relatively) fine — it was an anxiety attack. One of those things we know is a serious problem for her but that she is in denial about. The only treatment she’s ever had for it was years ago when her way of describing the problem was that she had trouble sleeping. So our pill-happy family doc/gp prescribed her Xanax. Which she became addicted to.

Fortunately she kicked that addiction all on her own. Unfortunately, she has never talked much about that and never did anything else that I know of to deal with her problems that she doesn’t really acknowledge. It’s not that my mom is reluctant to talk, or to talk about problems, but getting to the root of matters and deciding to make really important changes that start with herself? Not so much. Instead she’ll be like, “if I could just catch my breath for a couple of days and get that goddamned garage cleaned out it would help so much!”

How do you get a woman to realize that her problems go ever so much deeper than A FUCKING GARAGE? You can try, but it’s extremely ineffective.

So last night at the hospital she was prescribed Ativan. An anti-anxiety med that’s even MORE addictive than Xanax! And the doctor flat-out lied to her about what it was. He said it was a muscle relaxer she should take when she’s feeling dizzy.

Someone tell me again why pot and prostitution are illegal. I think someone misfiled RATIONAL THOUGHT in this country.

Anyway, I have a billion related and unrelated thoughts on this stuff and life in general and my direction in life and wants and desires and loves and blessings, small and large, and ways I’ve been ministered to online and off in beautiful ways and inspirations and insecurities and religion and porn and coming out and staying in and spycam projects and activism and writing and music and dancing BUT there are so many awesome books and six feet of girlfriend to go to bed with that I’ll leave it at that.

I masturbate differently in webcam shows for a large group than I do for myself or for private shows.

During group camshows I have a whole hour to draw out the experience. I put on a little makeup and usually wear something that allows me to do upskirts – little nighties, slips, miniskirts, etc. If I have enough time, I love wearing hosiery, especially opaque thigh high socks which is what I wore today: long, tight, stretchy, dark brown socks under a hippy-style sundress with a smocked top which is great for showing off my cleavage and tits.

Because I’m not being paid by the minute to fulfill requests by viewers, the “action” in my group shows is aimed to please me (and, incidentally, other people who have my particular tastes), all slowly paced to fill out the hour. I’m not super-entertaining, I just slide into a groove and enjoy looking at myself doing things I wouldn’t otherwise do: smiling at myself in the camera, and just making myself do shit that makes me hot, like exposing myself in taunting, mostly-softcore ways. I get very mesmerized by myself, like when I show myself (and everybody else) my creamy thighs parting to expose my hairy cunt with that beautiful contrast of the dark socks. I don’t know what it is about that contrast, but it’s fucking irresistible to me. I can watch myself do that over and over again.

We had more time than usual between shows this month so it’s been about three weeks since I enjoyed one of these long sessions; doing these long shows every other week or every three weeks is perfect for me because, without knowing it, I really build up a desire for them. My clit’s had a break from extended time with the hitachi magic wand and it’s been awhile since I really took a good look at myself.

Today I decided not to shower, putting my dirty hair in pigtails instead. It’s been four or five days since I had a shower and maybe only two baths (last night and some other time) during that time. For three days I wore the same pair of sticky, hot-smelling panties. My bush is getting really filled-out again, and every time I go to the bathroom I sniff the crotch of my underwear and play with my cowlicks that come together and curl up where my lips meet. The musky smell of pussy-hair steeped in cunt-sweat is part of what I love about not shaving.

Anyway, it smelled so good today during my show, I just kept petting it and bringing my hand up to inhale, over and over again. Deep breaths, totally drugging myself on that woman-sex smell of myself. I fucking could not get enough of it, smelling it, and watching me on the monitor, stroking myself with my light-pink clit poking out between my dirty-blonde fur and those SOCKS pulled up on my thighs making everything in the middle look so fucking naked and whorey.

I remember the first time I ever rode on Highway 1 through Big Sur, not being able to get enough of that hot sage smell. It doesn’t smell like pussy exactly, but it’s addictive and elevating, like ascending to heaven and being on some other unearthly level in between the ground and meeting God’s secretary while He’s away. I feel the same way about the smell of my musky bush, like if I were to immerse myself in it far enough I would wind up in some other place of knowledge and luxury and a decadent form of peace.

Today while I inhaled I realized the scent on my fingers reminded me a whole lot of crayola crayon wrappers. Not exactly like that, but similar. I always wonder where that Really Perfect Pussy smell comes from, like what the secret recipe is for it to be that perfect all of the time. Was it steeping my hair in dirty underwear so long? Was it the hot apple cider and cashews we had before bed? Was it the flax seed and evening primrose oil? Was it having PMS? Was it the mingling of a favorite lotion with the cunt smell to create a perfect pussy-church combo?

I came three times today with one of the orgasms augmented considerably by the call and response of me being ridiculously horny for myself and crooning, “oh yeah” to myself right before Jimi Hendrix said “oh yeah” at the beginning of Red House. Then . . . brilliant guitar and that was all she wrote.

*****

Right after my show I still felt a little hypnotized. I took a powerful piss, then stumbled into the bedroom where I felt a hot gush of liquid burst through my cunt. I reached down to touch it and came out with beautiful, crimson blood all over my fingers with more than enough left over to streak down my right thigh. I haven’t had such a dramatic start to my period in years.

It’s very strange to walk through a bookstore and have my eyes captured by so many familiar authors and editors: people I know through the blogosphere, people with whom I’ve exchanged emails and links, people I’ve met in “real” life, and even people who have or are about to send me contracts and checks to put my own work in their volumes. It’s not the least bit glamorous, but it feels that way anyway because I know OTHER people (horny nineteen year old college girls with sensitive nipples, I hope) might think it’s dreamy and impressive because they don’t know any better. Right now it feels super cool to me because I feel like it happened to me by accident, without intent I’m a dork and it’s COOL to look at names on the spines of books and think to myself, “talked to HIM on the phone, met HER on porn set, commiserated with HER regarding obnoxious blog fans, was stark naked at HER house, am quoted in THAT book, blah blah blah”.

I can whittle the vanity down to something even simpler, though; it’s delightful knowing some of those book people know who I am. It’s neat-o to be in a public place surrounded by people who think books and the people who write them are really cool, and to feel “special” because some of those people whose names are on books because they’re responsible for the content inside of them, SOME OF THOSE PEOPLE KNOW WHO *I* AM!!

Through my porn sites I have attained a degree of immortality. It sounds crazy, but it’s true and it fascinates me. So much of the work I do amplifies and extends my living; I do feel like I’m more alive because so many people KNOW that I’m living, WATCH me living, READ me living, etc. It’s heady, powerful stuff that overfeeds my most basic, primitive survival instincts. Maybe my own instincts have gone off the rails or I’m unwittingly describing the hallmarks of some kind of pathology, but whatever. Some people cheat death through extreme sports to feel more alive, some people have kids, some people perform acts of heroism . . . but I feel more alive simply because a few bloggy book people (along with thousands of men who’ve become erect and spilled seed over my web-graven images) know who I am.

The idea of low-level celebrity is becoming more and more intriguing to me as it becomes more common in our world and as I attain some of it in a barely-measurable way. If Kathy Griffin is D-list, I guess I’m somewhere around Y, which as you know is right next to nothing; it may not be much, but it’s an eye-opening position granting me a zillion unblocked views into the various phenomena associated with fame and its varying degrees. Even if you are decidedly NOT famous, if there are a dozen people in the world who assume you must be and they communicate that assumption to you in a prone position of worship you DO learn something about the condition. Most of the time you just snicker to yourself because the concept of YOU being FAMOUS is ludicrous and hysterical, but you still have to recognize that you’re experiencing something that most people don’t and in that way you are exceptional. You are, for example, the exception in the bookstore, not the rule.

*****

Fucking has been a daily event for the past few days, and will continue to be for the next couple of weeks as we continue trying to get pregnant. Thanks to some good timing with Netflix and some splendid hand-me-downs from a blog reader (thank you very much for Mr. Beaver and Squirm Sockets, which I especially like), we have some hot movies to accompany our wholesome procreative sex efforts. WARNING TO VOYEURS: if you’re expecting wild, nonstop sex in a variety of positions during our baby-making attempts you’re bound to be disappointed. We don’t want to overdo it, and we’re aiming to finish in the missionary position every time for maximum spooge retention.

I’m now going to go poop. The reason I’m telling you this is because it makes me feel so ALIVE when I talk about pooping. If I pooped and nobody knew about it, I would feel half-dead, but knowing that my stinky essential ritual of daily life is haunting strangers around the world? I feel like a god. Like a god who doesn’t carelessly use his divinity to give up on pooping, because a true god knows that it feels so pleasurable when the poop stretches the anus.