all about me

The problem with an anonymous blog is that I don't like anonymity--especially when it comes to photography. I think I am fucking fine, and I love taking and sharing pictures. Along with words, I do my best teaching when using visual aids, so in order to create an entry that will get us better acquainted, I feel I have no choice but to use photos. The problem is that I am tattooed, so even pictures that don't show my face will still reveal my identity. And maybe this defeats the purpose of an anonymous sexblog, but I have decided that I am okay with this because 1.) anyone who really knows me who may stumble upon this would recognize me through the pseudonym, the list of interests and the first entry anyway and 2.) I am hoping that doesn't happen, and counting on my ability to keep this secret from anyone who knows me in real life. I guess I'm not really seeking anonymity from anyone in here; I'm seeking anonymity from everyone out there. Let's get on with it. This is me after a day at the beach, tanned raw from the sun to the point that any article of clothing other than a loose-fitting men's dress shirt was too painful to wear.


I have perfect tits. I am willing to stake my life and my firstborn child on this fact. I didn't know they were perfect until I was seventeen, and my boyfriend and I took ecstasy for the first time with friends of ours, another couple. At some random point during one of the many drug-induced peaks, my boyfriend turned to his friend and was like, "Jake has perfect tits. Want to see?" Then turned to me and said, "Is it alright if he sees?" I don't remember if it was alright or not, I just remember showing him (briefly) and afterwards his girlfriend confiding in me that she thought her breasts were mishapen. Several hours later, at another random point, Jordan said to my boyfriend, "Dude, I don't mean to be rude, but can I see your girl's tits again?" But by then I was experiencing one of the many drug-induced lows so I was like, "STOP OBJECTIFYING ME!!" and then I flashed him again anyway, just for the hell of it.


I have long, long, long legs. They are what make me 5'8" tall. In trying to find a picture to illustrate this phenomenon, I came across this one. The camera angle exagerrates a bit, but otherwise it's pretty true to life. I used to hate my legs because when I was young they were too skinny and then when I got older they usually made me taller than any of my partners, and it's taken me years to get used to that. I stopped wearing heels for the longest time, because I did not want to do anything that would make me taller than I already am. Luckily, I realized that not wearing heels was a waste of my life, and that long legs were meant to be enhanced. They look great during sex, especially when bent at the knee and shoved back towards my head or thrown over shoulders or forced into doggy style. I have green eyes covered by a thousand eyelashes, a tongue pierced through the middle with a barbell and a tiny diamond for a nose ring, a pierced belly button, a pierced clit, and a dimple in my chin inherited from the father who did not raise me.


My hair is wild and curly, and until recently it was long as hell (I had it trimmed up to just below my shoulders the other day.) It's still brunette like it is in the pictures, only now it has blonde highlights. In the fall the blonde highlights become red, or sometimes my entire head does. Pale winter skin goes good with green eyes and red hair. The easiest way to describe it is to say I like it pulled, but really what I prefer is to have hands tangled in close to the scalp, gathering fistfuls and grasping more than yanking. I prefer to be topped during sex, big surprise; but I also like to be on top, mostly during foreplay or making out. I love the feeling of hips kissing hips, legs and chest straining beneath legs and breasts. When it comes time to get down to business, however, I want the roles to switch, want only to feel pressure, pressed on the bed or up against the wall, pinned to the floor, the backseat of your car. Grind me into the carpet til the rug burns, quake me til I'm nothing but ache. I'm leaving out a lot of little details, of course, along with some major ones, and maybe I'll get to them another day--emotional factoids like how sensitive I am to the world around me as well as the world within, how I love animals (dogs, geckos, chameleons, birds) and have a severe intolerance to cruelty, how I can experience Stendhal's syndrome while standing before great works of art but also when I see an elderly couple holding hands on the street, and for as horny as I perpetually am, how I need a mental connection beforehand, and cuddling, laughter and a late-night snack afterwards in order to make the experience complete.

plagued

My girlfriend doesn't pack. Three weeks out of the month, this is perfectly fine with me as I typically do not prefer penetration. I like to come from having my clit either fingered fast and hard, or licked alongside the small barbell that pierces the hood while having my tits played with. However, over the past year or so, and usually only when I'm on my period, I have started craving butch cock like you would not believe, and the fact that she doesn't pack has become a bit of a problem. We have a leather strap-on harness and a purple dildo that fits nicely, both in the strap and in me. We also have a soft packing cock that was my idea. And although we bought the dick together and used it a few times in the beginning of our relationship, I soon found myself wanting more girth, so neither toys get any action presently. It is partially my fault -- I never fucked men, so I never had a dick inside me, so my body never really got used to frequent penetration. So although I crave it carnally and mentally, actually getting it into me physically takes perfect timing and just the right amount of force (lovingly, of course). I know Del loves sex as much as I do, and I know she's willing to do anything to make me feel good. But because she doesn't pack 24/7, or when we go out, or on special ocassions, the dick is never right there when I want it. If I suddenly desire it, she has to go to the closet, fetch the dildo and harness, adjust the straps, insert the cock in the cock ring and get back in bed. This process murders the momentum and I end up giving up before we even get started.

Also, because she doesn't pack, (and is perhaps a little uncomfortable?) if she does happen to put it on ahead of time, she tends to call attention to it whereas I want the seduction to be subtle. I want it to temporarily become a part of her body, I want her to wear it like a second skin, I want it to be masculine. I want her to be a butch with a cock, not a lesbian playing around with a dildo. Does this make any sense? I don't know. I'm cranky and I'm bitching and I'm bleeding. I'm in the grip of a desire I can't seem to satisfy and I have no fucking clue what to do about it.

setting words to voice

I don't know when I started craving butch. I came out the instant I fell in love with a girl. There was no processing, no hesitating, no wavering back and forth between straight and gay and not. I fell in love with a girl and then I became gay; not the other way around. But at the tender age of young nineteen I could only see the feminine, had not yet learned to appreciate the masculine and I was all "I want a girl who looks like a girl" and my girlfriends were all like, "Me too! Me too!" And then I found out they couldn't screw. And this was very disconcerting for me, as I am a complete and utter femme with a high sex drive, an insatiable libido and a desire to fuck until my skin gets raw and my lips are bruised when I check my neck and collarbone for hickeys in the rearview mirror the next morning. If I possessed such a passion for pussy, then why didn't they? Possibly we were too compatible, especially when it came to what we wanted. We both wanted to be taken, dominated, topped until we toppled over, and we both wanted the other to do it first. So after two serious girlfriends who neglected me into monotony with our half-assed love and a handful of casual fucks that never made me come (including one polyamorous couple composed of one very intelligent man, his very sexy girlfriend and my plan to steal her away) my mind began to wander.

Maybe I was watching "The L Word" and I liked the way Shane topped her conquests, loved the sexual chemistry and compatibility between her and Carmen, loved when they played the 'too hot' game and Carmen clad in boy shorts and a wifebeater with no bra straddled Shane's lap and made up the rules but you still knew Shane was in control. I started recognizing the differences between women, between women who loved women, between masculine and feminine and butch and boi and femme, soft and hard, top and bottom. Dyke and lesbian. My six-month celibacy and long list of sexual unfulfillments had brought my core desires into focus. I wanted to meet my polar opposite. I wanted a brief-wearing butch in men's jeans to find me in the city, at Henrietta's or Cattyshack or even just on the street, to come close enough to let me know she was wearing cologne in an open indulgence of her masculinity though she had no desire to actually become a man. I wanted her to fuck me that night, make love to me the next, and continue doing one or the other, repeatedly, for the next two, three, ten years. She would be the Polo Sport cologne to my Victoria's Secret "Very Sexy" perfume, the cargo shorts to my lacey skirts, the boots to my high heels. The mostly-top to my mostly-bottom, but the sometimes-bottom to my sometimes-top. When I found her I locked her in the cross hairs of my target and saw nothing but red. Red shirt pulled casually over toned, tattooed arms, red label on the bottle of beer she was absentmindedly stroking, not yet noticing, red strawberry in my fruity red mixed drink. When she looked my way my hands began to shake; I could feel the chemistry across the room, and until that moment I had no idea differences could render two individuals so fucking compatible.