stronger britney: you are totally pregnant
It is now Confession Time without the ceremony, the confessional, the crucifix, and the priest. This is not the sort of confession for which you repent, hoping that God will forgive and forget. In this sort of confession, you don't wish to be absolved, you want your sin again. So perhaps it's not just a confession. It is also a prayer. A devilish, evil thing to pray for, but you cannot help yourself from doing so.
Consider the vehicle: ten years a senior of a sixteen year old me, a 1973 Alfa Romeo. Formerly cherry red, he said, but aging necessitated a paint job, and he picked black because 'I fancy myself a dangerous lad and the birds like it,' he said, the silly tosser. It was immaculate on the inside, that car. He spent all his coin on having new interior put in. I will admit it, even if it is very shallow, but that car was mostly what attracted me to him. I deserve a break on this, though, because in my defense, I was sixteen and my mum hated him. I had very good reasoning! Anyway, I told my mum that we were going to see a film, but we went parking.
At the time, I had no intentions to have sex with him. I just thought we would share a bottle of wine, snog off for a bit, and then he would take me back home sometime before dawn. I guess that he had other plans, because the second we got situated into the back seat, he slid a hand up my skirt and produced a rubber from his pocket. There was the grating noise of his zipper going down. "Roll it on for me, okay?"
Cheeky little thing, me, I did it with my mouth, and I was proud of myself for thinking of it when he started to smile. He didn't know that I was a virgin. I didn't think that it was necessary to tell him. I remember not wanting him to shy away and I remember not wanting him to think that I was some sort of trophy. So, what to do? I crawled up on top of him and pretended to know what I was doing. No, Alex James, I did not bleed all over the place. I didn't have a life-changing epiphany. I didn't magically transform into a woman. I didn't feel any different, actually. So I had a fag and I went home smelling like wine and his cologne.
I haven't kept up with it in my diary, but I can tell you that it's been weeks since I've last had sex. That is my confession. It's probably been years since I've last made love. Yes, there is a difference. I don't miss either of those, really. I miss fucking. It's probably a little strange that the three have different connotations for me, despite the fact that they all have the same literal meaning.
Making love is easy to differentiate from the two. It's not as much about physical pleasure as it is about emotions and the way that you feel about the person that you perform the act with. Sex and fucking are the two that you could confuse. In my head, sex is simple, casual, and easy. Fucking is something different. It's also about emotion, but little to do with love - anger, lust, passion, something intense. I don't know. That's what I miss, though. I miss the feeling of being needed, the feeling of raw lust pitted deep in the belly.
I used to know a man that took to rubbing my knee whenever we went out. I would cross my legs at the ankle and under the table he would palm my leg, barely sliding his fingertips over the thick cord in the back of my knee, sometimes sliding his hand up the inside of my thigh, but always concentrating on my knee. Just enough to drive me nuts, my knees became erogenous for me. I miss people knowing these sorts of details about me.
I like sex in the afternoons. I am a very oral person. I like it when it's hard and rough. I think that watching someone come is the most intimate act that two people can share. I get off on giving, because knowing that I'm capable of pleasuring a person is more erotic than sex itself. I think masturbation is the best form of meditation. I am a plethora of too much information. What do you have to confess today?
No one ask me about the paternity.
Consider the vehicle: ten years a senior of a sixteen year old me, a 1973 Alfa Romeo. Formerly cherry red, he said, but aging necessitated a paint job, and he picked black because 'I fancy myself a dangerous lad and the birds like it,' he said, the silly tosser. It was immaculate on the inside, that car. He spent all his coin on having new interior put in. I will admit it, even if it is very shallow, but that car was mostly what attracted me to him. I deserve a break on this, though, because in my defense, I was sixteen and my mum hated him. I had very good reasoning! Anyway, I told my mum that we were going to see a film, but we went parking.
At the time, I had no intentions to have sex with him. I just thought we would share a bottle of wine, snog off for a bit, and then he would take me back home sometime before dawn. I guess that he had other plans, because the second we got situated into the back seat, he slid a hand up my skirt and produced a rubber from his pocket. There was the grating noise of his zipper going down. "Roll it on for me, okay?"
Cheeky little thing, me, I did it with my mouth, and I was proud of myself for thinking of it when he started to smile. He didn't know that I was a virgin. I didn't think that it was necessary to tell him. I remember not wanting him to shy away and I remember not wanting him to think that I was some sort of trophy. So, what to do? I crawled up on top of him and pretended to know what I was doing. No, Alex James, I did not bleed all over the place. I didn't have a life-changing epiphany. I didn't magically transform into a woman. I didn't feel any different, actually. So I had a fag and I went home smelling like wine and his cologne.
I haven't kept up with it in my diary, but I can tell you that it's been weeks since I've last had sex. That is my confession. It's probably been years since I've last made love. Yes, there is a difference. I don't miss either of those, really. I miss fucking. It's probably a little strange that the three have different connotations for me, despite the fact that they all have the same literal meaning.
Making love is easy to differentiate from the two. It's not as much about physical pleasure as it is about emotions and the way that you feel about the person that you perform the act with. Sex and fucking are the two that you could confuse. In my head, sex is simple, casual, and easy. Fucking is something different. It's also about emotion, but little to do with love - anger, lust, passion, something intense. I don't know. That's what I miss, though. I miss the feeling of being needed, the feeling of raw lust pitted deep in the belly.
I used to know a man that took to rubbing my knee whenever we went out. I would cross my legs at the ankle and under the table he would palm my leg, barely sliding his fingertips over the thick cord in the back of my knee, sometimes sliding his hand up the inside of my thigh, but always concentrating on my knee. Just enough to drive me nuts, my knees became erogenous for me. I miss people knowing these sorts of details about me.
I like sex in the afternoons. I am a very oral person. I like it when it's hard and rough. I think that watching someone come is the most intimate act that two people can share. I get off on giving, because knowing that I'm capable of pleasuring a person is more erotic than sex itself. I think masturbation is the best form of meditation. I am a plethora of too much information. What do you have to confess today?
No one ask me about the paternity.