Never Settle Down

Thank you, friends. I really love all of your kind and encouraging emails. Keep them coming. Your words are my fire. You are the reason I continue to write about my life.

A lot of you have asked if I have a boyfriend. The simple answer: no. Seriously, why bother? I don't want to settle down. There's no need. I like going out every night with a different person. It allows me to experiment, it allows me to date young boys with intensity and eagerness, as well as older men with ingenuity and experience.

I've even been thinking more about Sarah lately. Ever since that night, we've been closer. I can tell she feels more comfortable around me because she sits closer to me on the couch and stands closer to me when we talk. Everytime we're together, I feel the need to touch her soft skin, to break that boundary between friendship and sexuality.

I often want to bridge that vast chasm between the friend and the lover. I've never understood this seemingly universal separation. The closer the friend, the more I want to pledge my undying desires for their physical features, their bodies.

It makes nose sense: I trust them more than others, enjoy their company more than others, and thus I cannot touch them. They're in their own personal bubble and society says I'm not supposed to pop their little cherry. Screw that. Literally.

I still remember Sam, a boy I knew a few years back. He was thin and geeky, with pasty white skin, dark eyebrows, and matted hair. He would sit with me on the bearskin rug in front of my parents fireplace and, without fail, the closer I edged to him, the more nervous his limbs jittered, the farther he slid away.

Even though Sam rejected my advanced, I could see in his eyes that he wanted me. He would feel the warmth on his back, look into my eyes, and bite at his lips. Occasionally, I would catch him touching his fingers to his wrist to check his pulse. He was so frightened that I would notice his desire for my body, that he made himself miserable.

Amazingly, I wanted him. Skinny and geeky as he was, he was my closest friend at the time. I couldn't have felt more comfortable with anyone. I wanted to remove the tight, grey, Armani shir the always wore and slide my forearms over his tan skin, and cool the warmth of the fire on the boy's exposed ribs by blowing lightly through my pink lips. We would have been in haven: comfort, trust, eros, pleassure.

Instead, we giggled aimlessly, took short breaths, and held back when we should have pounced upon each other and rolled out the doors, only to jump into a murky pond, remove our clothes, and fondle each other's beautiful, mannequin-like young bodies as they drift and bob, boyount and free.

Unique Obsession: Still Bodies

I have to admit I have a unique obsession. No, nothing cheesie. I'm not obsessed with love, men, sexuality, dark chocolate, or even the willows on a rainy day. I have another, perhaps embarassing obsession: mannequins.

I can't say they turn my gears or get my forehead sweating, but something about their exotic poses, their simplistic blank faces, and their emphatic and angular poses makes me feel a kind of curiosity I can only be ashamed of.

White mannequins, tan mannequins, and black mannequins: each have their own unique gifts. If they are buxom broads, I want to sneak up behind them and slide my fingers up through their thin, silk undergarments. If they're chiseled men, I want to rasp the back of my fingernails against their washboard stomach.

And I thought I was the only one. I was wrong:

PONTIAC, Mich. Jan 25, 2007 (AP)— A man who acknowledged a sexual fetish for female-shaped mannequins was sentenced Thursday to more than a year in prison after repeatedly breaking into storefront windows.

Ronald Dotson, 39, of Detroit, was sentenced to 18 months to 30 years on charges of breaking and entering and being a habitual criminal.

He was arrested in October after police in the Detroit suburb of Royal Oak spotted him near a smashed storefront window containing a mannequin wearing a French maid outfit.

The arrest came less than a week after he had been paroled for his sixth breaking-and-entering conviction in 13 years.

Some of the previous cases also involved mannequins. Police once found him in an alley behind a women's clothing store with three mannequins dressed in lingerie.

"I've never been able to take care of myself," Dotson told Judge Denise Langford Morris at sentencing.

Morris acknowledged that Dotson had never assaulted a person but said his behavior "strikes fear in the community."

Copyright 2007 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.

Turth be told, I feel sorry for the boy. He was only guilty of one thing: not being able to control the same desire we all have, the desire to be able to openly endulge in our friends bodies. Do we not all, somewhere deep inside, want to touch those we choose to be around?

Have you never thought of touching your boss's legs, sleeping on the same couch as your best friend, giving that confidant a deep tissue, full body massage? I have. Everyday.

While I'm walking through the mall, I'll purposely step closer to the mannequins, trying to convince myself that this time I'll reach out and endulge. The thing is, I'm afraid of what people will think if they see my warm hand, grasping or pulsing on the mysteriously fake material.

What will they think when they see me feeling the statue and feeling the tingle of eros? I know exactly what to expect: they'll point their fingers, laugh, and yell. They'll scream and shout, cause havoc; hell, they'll do anything loud enough to stifle their own inner voices which whisper in their ease to join me in my fantasy.

They'd rather see the police dragging me away from their own fantasy, than suck it up and cop a feel of their own. You know they want to. You know you want to.

Lovers on a Hike

Yesterday afternoon, Christopher took me on a hike through the mountains, which was a wonderful opportunity for us to step back from life, look out over the city with awe and appreciate life; however, something unique and unexpected stole attention. At the top of one of two large sprawling hills, a couple (each no more than twenty years of age) pressed up against an electrical tower, sharing in each other's bodies.


The young woman, a petite Japanese girl that looked much like our own Ryoko, had slipped her red-and-pink underwear and tan pants from her legs and flicked them without regard into a nearby thorn bush. Her accomplice, a young, tan caucasian boy with hazel eyes remained clothed, leaning on the concrete base of an electrical tower.

The young man's broad shoulders were accentuated by a light leather jacked. For a moment, my lips tingled and my eyes began to water. Clothed as he was, his zipper must have been slipped down, for the Japanese girl held tightly onto a coil of metal, wrapped her legs around the boy's waist, and rocked forward and backward. She tossed her hair over she shoulder as she rocked, her neck suddenly arched backwards, while the tips of her toes curled forward. They looked like baby hot dogs shiverin the cold.

The couple was lost in the moment and couldn't have seen was watching. Christopher and I looked at each other and smiled, half-embarassed and half-excited.

Just then, a police car swerved around the corner and stopped at the base of the hill. If only for a moment, I felt a strong desire to rush up to the couple, to rip their bodies apart, pull their clothes on, and point them in a safe direction re-commence their passionate snuggling. Instead, we stared on, open-mouthed and helpless, entirely unsure how to proceed. Should we run? Should we stay and share what we'd watched.

The bright-red break-lights of the cruiser kicked in and seconds later the officer sped away. Meanwhile, the couple had re-arranged their linking bodies. The girl held onto the concrete base of the electrical tower with our warm, brown, outstretched arms, while her lovely ragdoll stood behind her, kneeling, and holding on tightly. While their bodies ripped like soft waves, the boy took his hand and slowly moved his fingers up the young Japanese girl's right inner-thigh. Then, as if I in the boy's embrace as well, I felt a warm tingle on my own right leg.

"I almost think we should..." I said to Christopher, trailing off.
"...should leave?" said Christopher.
"No," I said, "Not really. I was just thinking."
"I don't understand," Christopher said, staring at me blankly.

I could tell he wasn't on the same level, wasn't appreciating the beauty of the moment we were so fortunate to stumble upon. I wanted to brush Christopher off, like dust on a shoulder. This was "our" moment anymore. It was mine. I wanted to stroll up to the young couple, touch their backs, their arms, their faces. I wanted to share in what they had. I could have joined them.

I didn't. I've been thinking about it all morning. I feel a pain in my hips, a nervous anxiety just short of regret. Could I have met them? Are they one of the few people in the world that understands what these glorious bodies of ours are for, what potential for pleassure they have?

I really don't know what I've lost. When will such an opportunity show itself again?

Later in the night, Christopher laughed the whole thing off as we drove towards home. He felt the incident was grotesque, or at the very least improper. It seems so many boys feel this way... so focused on regret for their own desire, that they scold everyone--even themselves--for letting it all go.

I want to go back. I want to find nature's embrace.

Waking in Sarah's Arms

Last night was a rush, but this morning was... amazing. When I woke up, I found myself on the cold hard-wood floor, cuddled in Sarah's arms, her chest heaving, her warm breath sliding over my cheeks.

I remember Sarah leading me to the couch around three in the morning. I had too much to drink and she was trying to keep me from batting my eyelashes at a young blonde-haired boy with blue eyes and eyelashes, that drove up that night from Nevada with his older brother Jonathan. The boy would have been a superb bed-mate; but alas, Sarah had other plans.

Last thing I remember, Sarah pulled me into the living room, pushed me onto the couch, and covered my body with a dark blue goose-down comforter. My mind swirled with boozey warmth and I felt her cold lips touch my forehead. "Night sleepy-head," she said, "Don't get up. I'll keep an eye on you."

I don't remember moving from the couch to the floor, nor do I remember Sarah joining me under the sheets, but there we were, huddled on the floor under the soft blue comforter, our arms entwined, the breath from our lungs passing back and forth from nose to mouth and back again. It was like a dream.

If only for a moment, I felt as if our bodies were one, as if we could feel each other's thoughts, share each other's feelings.

How did I get here? Did we kiss? Suddenly, I was distracted by Sarah's soft facial features. I can barely describe her to you and really need to find a photograph. She is a Eurasian girl with stunning, long black hair and Asian facial features, only improved by a cotton, powdery-tan, caucasian skin.

Relaxed and comforted, I slipped my hand under the covers and stroked the fingernail of my pinky finger over Sarah's belly button, only to realize that she was still fast asleep.

Fearless, I shifted my weight, rolled into her embrace, and looked under the covers to notice that her long pajama pants were crinkled up near her feet and she wore a silvery-grey bra and thin, white, semi-translucent thigh huggers that shown almost peach under the dim morning light.

She woke suddenly awake, though without even the slightest nervous gesture or confused look. She knew where she fell asleep. She made that concious decision and didn't regret. I admire that. More than that, though, Sarah knew I didn't remember. She saw the unanswered questions, the yearning, the apprehension.

"What did I do last night?" I asked her.
"Nothing sweety," she said. "I made sure you were safe from that pesky boy. Girls stick together, don't you forget that."
"Right," I said.

And we both knew that no more questions were necessary. We smiled at each other and walked to the kitchen giggling, hand in hand. We prepared pancakes with maple syrup and strong black coffee.