Technocrati Profile

Technorati Profile

This is my attempt to get more comments on my blog. I am finding it very difficult to use this blogging tool with only one loyal reader from Estonia.

So here is the profile that I'm hoping will at least bring me some comments from around the Blogosphere.

I am writing a novel about a character called E for now. Until she and her friends find character they don't yet have names.

E is a confused married woman who keeps having bad affairs with younger men. I am trying to develop her thought patterns and her voice through the use of three techniques. Writing about her in the first person, the third person, and having her write letters to and about her lovers.

What I am looking for are opinions on the characters, the four main so far are E, J, L, and T, opinions on the writing style, opinions on the different premises, and just thoughts about sex that could be incorporated in any of the big or even the auxillary characters.

I'd really appreciate any feedback even if you hate the ideas or the writing style.

Thank you,


What Kind of Weather is E?

E just wanted to do something a little differently today

You Are Wind

Strong and overpowering
A force to be reckoned with, no one dares cross you
You have the power to change everything around you

You are best known for: your wrath

Your dominant state: commanding


At J's-Pt I [Confusion] Third person

E almost drives by the house. The lack of streetlights and the warm buzz of alcohol keep her on a forward trajectory down the street she’s on. Out of the corner of her eye she sees J sitting on the steps and hits the brakes a little too hard. Heat rises in her face, knowing that he saw her driving poorly. Her driving abilities have always been a source of pride. One of her masculine traits. One of the things she thinks makes her sexy. She parks behind the house. Carefully, measuring her steps to look more sober than she is, she is wound up much more than she hopes shows.

He leads her up an interior stairway to his third floor walk-up. It’s early July and the stairwell smells of must and heat. He gives her a tour. His apartment is small. The ceilings slope inward following the outline of the roof. A few dishes in the sink, stains on the faded blue gray carpeting. There is an old battered couch and an enormous television in the living room. He has a new kitchen set that he has just assembled, incongruously clean and new against the nicotine stained walls. She notices his curtain rod which is identical to the one in her living room and the shower curtain the same as the one in her last apartment before she and her family moved into their new house. She laughs at herself for finding similarities.

She steps out of her shoes and throws herself on the couch. Nervous tension makes her bouncy and almost buoyant. The half liter of Bacardi she drank before she raged at her husband and made her mad tearful escape has helped to keep her on this manic energized edge. She plotted to get herself here around her third double. She became angry at her husband for being an obstacle to that plan around her fourth. And somewhere around her sixth she decided she was just going no matter what she had to say to do it. When she finally got out of the house she simply drove towards where J lived. Trying to text and drive. Trying to keep it light but get an invitation. She gets one. It sounds begrudging but everything she’s gotten from him has been. She’ll take what she can get. She realizes as the rough fabric of the couch scrapes her thighs that she has exhausted all aspects of the plan and she has no idea what to do now.

The foolishness of the situation hits her as she looks at his giant television that dominates the room creating a dull reflection of her falling into it. She asks for cards, a movie, music. None of her comforting vices are available to her. She senses J doesn’t know what to do with her either.

She had been hearing ongoing complaints about his back for days in their chats and she had offered to rub it for him. He asks and, relieved, she agrees. She has him fetch her lotion and take off his shirt. She spreads her legs which hikes her micro mini up to her pelvic bones showing a pair of clashing purple cotton panties and the obvious fact that she doesn’t believe in razors or wax. He sits between her legs and leans back into her. His weight presses the air from her and pushes her back into the coarseness of the couch. She can feel his heat pour into her body where he touches her. It flows in a hot circle through her thighs, chest and arms. Breathing deeply, E can smell the sweetness of his shampoo and a soft powdery soap. His hair looks soft and she follows her urge to put her face in it, rubbing her cheek against his head and neck, feeling him softly bend beneath her. She rocks into him, pushes her hip bones into his lower back. Electric currents of desire course through her thighs, fingertips, the roof of her mouth. The deep low ache radiates up her abdomen and down her legs. Her breath is coming more ragged and she exhales on his neck. He arches his back when she rubs his chest and makes soft noises. She knows that she wants to do this but she doesn’t know how to do it. She hesitates; she keeps him wrapped in her legs waiting for him to decide for her. He doesn’t decide. He gets up and walks away from her. Offers her water.

author's note-I am hoping that in this scene the reader's can see the obviousness of the situation even if the character E cannot. Have I acheived that or does she just look like an idiot?

At J's Pt. I

J is waiting outside for me. It is dark and I am pretty drunk so I speed by before I have to brake and back up a bit. I follow him up to his third floor walk up. It’s early July and the stairwell smells of must and heat. His apartment is small. The ceilings slope inward with the outline of the roof. A few dishes in the sink, stains on the rug. There is an old battered couch and an enormous television.

Now that I am here I don’t know what to do with myself. My plan only went as far as getting here. The huge fight it took to escape my husband. The difficulty I had trying to get together with J tonight. It hasn’t really left me with that much time to think about what it was I was going to do when I arrived. But now I’m here.

The couch is rough against my bare thighs. I am wearing my shortest micro mini and a cutesy t-shirt that doesn’t match. My feet are bare. My shoes discarded randomly at the end of the couch. I sense that J also doesn’t know what to do with me.

I had been hearing ongoing complaints about his back for days and had I offered to rub it for him. He asks and, relieved, I agree. He takes off his shirt and I have him sit between my legs, leaning back into me. His weight compresses my chest giving me a slightly strangled feeling. I am pushed back into the coarseness of the couch. I can feel his heat pouring into my body where he touches me. My thighs, my chest, my arms. As I rub his shoulders and chest I start to sink forward into him. To put my face in his hair, to smell his neck. I rock into him. Press my hips into his lower back. I can feel the electric thrill of desire in my finger tips, the tops of my thighs, the roof of my mouth. My breath is coming ragged and I exhale onto his neck. He arches his back when I rub his chest. Makes little noises. I am waiting. Do I want to do this? I want him decide for me. He doesn’t. He gets up and walks off. And I am in limbo once again.


First Love Letter to T

I am really confused. I have so much I want to say. I am so articulate at night before I fall asleep at night and in the morning in the shower. During the day, however, all my language slips away like a hallucination and I am left crowded with thoughts but void of words.

The dilemma is that I love you. It’s so odd to just say it like that. But it’s true. I keep trying to smother it. “I’ve just got a physical attraction.” “A crush.” “I’m just bored.” “It’ll wear off.” But here’s the thing. It’s not a new ardor. I loved you long before now, I missed you often for lots of years, and I have come to the conclusion that I will always love you. No matter what.

That is unquestionably one of the scariest things I've ever written.

You said something to me about passion the last time I saw you alone. I didn’t get it. I thought you meant you had no passion for me. That, of course, I could understand. But, I’ve begun to think; maybe you thought I had no passion for you. That, I’m afraid, is completely untrue. I’m just afraid of being too unconcealed about it. I’m afraid of scaring you off. Not just away from whatever it is that is between us, that I could handle, but from my life altogether. You’ve told me more than once that you could just drop me. Well, I never want to give you any motivation to do so. I told you I expect nothing from you. That the way I feel about you is unconditional. This way everything I get from you is exceptional. Even twenty minutes at a bar with you pissy and disgruntled with me is at least mine alone. And when you do something that is intentionally for me then I feel incredibly appreciative. Anything that is just mine is a gift. It also means that I can insulate myself from the sting of you not returning my feelings or my lust. You do (did?) seem to share at least some of my lust. Well, that’s another gift for me, too. And, if it were just a case of drunken horniness on your part and feminine silliness on mine, not expressing too much depth of feeling would definitely save me a huge amount of face.

I am still struggling to express myself. Me at a loss for words? How novel. But you do that to me. Not only do you distract me. But, apparently, you also bewilder me.

I miss you. I feel as though I haven’t really seen you or spoke to you in a very long time. You’ve been to the house twice and I avoided anything at all that could have been mistaken for impropriety. It’s made me feel lonely for you.

It may be too late for this letter. I have no idea what you think or ever thought of me or of our affair. What you ever wanted. How you felt about anything. For all I know, you have a woman you are currently pursuing and I am a bad footnote for you. It may never have been time for this letter. You may have never really felt anything for me sexually or otherwise and I was just over-ambitious and now I’m projecting. I think my repeatedly failed attempts to get you alone lately have been informing this particular point of view for me.

Well, here it is. On top of everything I’ve said to you in this baring of myself, I still want you. Very, very badly. The thought of you makes me wet and, my god, you smell good. When you sing it makes me so excited. I kept thinking that after our disastrous encounters (which I must confess were great fun even if they were both physically damaging and frustrating for me) that this sexual hunger for you would dissipate. That maybe it was all just the initial heady rush of desire and trouble. Nope, not worn off. I really want to fuck you. Hell, I just want to blow you properly. I really, really enjoy doing it. And I really, really do it well. But I can’t even try if I can’t even get you hard. How am I ever going to rub your cock all over my face & throat? Taste your cum on my lips? Your cock and I have never really been properly introduced.

I have never in my life been as turned on as that first time you kissed me in the car. Never. Ever. I could hardly drive after I backed out of the driveway. Hell, I could hardly back out of the driveway. I keep thinking if I could just get you alone, relatively sober, then I could just fuck you stupid. I’m not just looking for a cum. I’m looking for a sweaty almost painful orgasm. For both of us. Well, okay, certainly for me. I just want you to cum period. What the hell is that like? I’d give anything to just see you truly excited just once. Anything. I fantasize sex with you time and again. Masturbate to you in the shower. Think about little things like licking your ear or just putting my hand on your ass a lot. Okay, you are my sexual fixation. I do have to ask myself if it is because you are my white whale or if I have trouble not giving up on something I’ve wanted for almost a decade. But I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t really matter to me why, just that I know what I crave and I hate to pass by something that I really desire with out trying my best to attain it. I’d adore being your ‘band camp girl’ and just have simple uncomplicated casual sex everything said above notwithstanding.

Am I delusional? Or are you bored with my advances and with me? Was it stupid to write this letter? Are you done with the sexual aspect of us? My god I hope not, but are you? I think that question is truly my goal in writing this little confessional. I thought I’d just put it all out there and see what you had to say about that. What do you have to say about that?

Dreamt of U last night -Here's a poem about it

Bury my face in soft hair
Inhale sweat and shampoo

Push my mouth into chin and neck
Drink salty skin

Knead biceps, shoulder blades
Grip ribcage between tightening thighs

Rush with warmth and wet
Look down on soft skin

Let soft noise escape
Echo those in the air


Letter to T

I took a moment from my day 
Wrapped it up in things you say
Mailed it off to your address
You'll get it pretty soon unless*
I’ve been trying to write to you for days. I start and stop.
Don’t know what to say. I miss you. Miss talking to you.
Hanging out with you. Having fun
The packaging begins to break 
And all the points I tried to make
Are tossed with thoughts into a bin
Time leaks out my life leaks in
I didn’t want to write another letter where I bear myself and be raw.
I just wanted you to know that I think of you. That I am thinking of you.
You won't find moments in a box 
And someone else will set your clocks
And that I hope you think of me sometimes, too.
I took a moment from my day 
Wrapped it up in things you say
And mailed it off to you
My moment from today? I was having my morning drag, watching smoke curl out the window,
alone and letting my mind drift. And I drifted to you.
You won't find moments in a box 
And someone else will set your clocks
I took a moment from my day
And I looked at my thought. I wondered, isn’t that strange?
I wonder why did I drift that way again?
Why, when I tell myself its no good? Not worth the time? The hurt?
I've been wading in the velvet sea 
But then I thought of you again. Smiled. Felt myself warm up.
Realized any pain I feel, and any happiness too, isn’t on you. It’s on me.
Because it’s not important who loves me, only whom I love.
I've been wading in the velvet sea 
So I write this with a grin, because no matter where you are, or whom you see, or what you do.
I will always love you. No matter if you love me.
I've been wading in the velvet sea 
I've been wading in the, I've been wading in the
 * "Velvet Sea", Story of the Ghost, Phish, 1998