the end

I must close this blog as a chapter in my life is closing. Thank you to all those who had the patience to read it and see you in cyberspace.
Love, Sylvia

sunday fantasy

She sat on his face. She removed her knickers off her pussy, to the side. His tongue juiced up her lips. Labia lips.
He always wondered how many women would he be able to fuck at once.
He never seemed to agree with himself on the number. two, three? maybe five?
She grabbed the sides of his head. She moved the head back and forth as if it were a salt shaker. She groaned.
He took a big breath and her pussy lips covered his nostrils for a second. He could smell her flesh. He could smell the strength of her wish to be fucked. Through the transparent skin on her pussy.
She put her head back. She closed her eyes and she wished the death of her pleasure. Possibly an orgasm.
He stopped. He pushed her on her back. He opened her legs wider with one hand. He bolstered his cock against her clit. Ten. Maybe twelve. What would it be like to fuck one hundred pussies all at the same time?
She twisted her nipple to red. She blushed but his cock filled her up to the rim. She resisted his thrust. She pretended she's not interested but the hammering accelerated. She begged for forgiveness... Or orgasm.
One hundred fresh pussies to lick, to love and fuck. Red pussies, black pussies, shaved pussies, tight pussies, generous pussies...Fuck...Fuck...He comes.
Her cunt tightened. It convulsively sucked the life out of his cock. She gave in to pleasure. She gave in to him.
It was a sunny day. She closed her book. She couldn't focus on studying anyway. She stood up from the love seat. She picked the underwear out of her ass. She walked to the window. If only someone would call. Maybe she'll settle for a nap. She'll go out tonight anyway.

Victor Oh dear

Santa Monica is quiet a happenin' place. My best friend's birthday was yesterday and we went out for dinner and drinks. She developed an extreme case of drunken logorrhea which is like a diarrhea, but with words.
She talked some dude's head off while he was fueling her rampage with $ 6 drinks. However, she had an eye on this very handsome guy who was talking to his friends in a corner. She was off to play some pool not before giving me instructions on letting the guy know it was her birthday.
He was wearing a motorcycle jacket. White. Ducati. Handsome as a Greek God. He walked to the bathroom. I tripped him on his way back. He turned towards me. His name was Victor. Oh, dear. I told him my friend really liked him and he told me he recently broke up with his girlfriend of two years. "Sorry for your loss" I heard myself reply. What I really meant was: "my friend is looking for a one night stand, not a marriage license". He said hello to Jenn, my girl, but kept it simple.
Later on that night, as I was brushing off some seriously drunk sticky guy, Victor and his friends were waiting in the parking lot. Jenn attacked them all at the same time. Victor oh dear must have been flattered. So young and playing such a tough game.
We went to Swingers for breakfast. Jenn never stopped talking, not even for a quick breath. Victor oh dear sat in his corner staring into Jenn's monologue. I started an interesting conversation about motor bykes and antique cars with the man opposite to me. I learned a few things about shifting gears on a race car.
I gazed in Victor's direction. Such strong features. Sculpted and dark lips. Prying brown eyes. Shy medium sized hands. His strategy of conquest is exceptional for such a young man. He is obviously used to girls coming on to him. Once you'd notice him, you are on his territory, playing his game. He holds your attention against your will, with hypnotic moves and quiet demeanor. He waits for the pray to feel safe and cozy in a friendly, gentleman guarded environment. that way, if he attacks, the pray has no defense. But the key of his strategy is listening. He listened, he learned things about the oblivious girl, who was sweating a joke. The more she would try to entertain, the more she would drown into his silence and the more power he had over her.
Victor oh dear kept it interesting. he opened the door for Jenn, walked to the car and told her he would email her and he would want two things from her: a pic of her fav art piece and a childhood pic. he's good. he'll never email her, but he kept the illusion for as long as he could. for his own vanity. he even made it specific.
Jenn crashed on my couch and we woke up to coffee and croissants.

love left overs

Good Bye, my love! Such an apocryphal story we lived. My butch defense met your see through wall. We bumped hardies and both picked up pieces of our failed game. And baby, what a game!
3 years ago I played my field with a strippologist approach. I was Sylvia, the stripper who loved more than one man at a time. I had L and M and occasionally V, a millionaire from Australia who also helped pay bills and gave me rides in his chauffeur driven Bentley. They all knew I wasn't marriage material and yet they all put their hearts on the altar of love for Sylvia. Unconditionally. Indefinitely. Absolutely. Sylvia forgot how to love, in the process.
Then you came along. Emotionally unavailable, or as you say, you built up a wall of insensitivity to me. You told me I scared you. Fear. Such a beautiful concept in the context of my life before love. I was a tyrant. I knew the power of fear. I didn't know how to make it go away. I wasn't even aware of it, until you told me I scared you.
3 years ago you played your field with a bull in heat approach, fucking everything that moved. That's how you met K, whom you now despise and don't want to forgive while you ask me to forgive you. You loved K once, remember?
Well, my love, a funny thing happened: our love became a thief. Secretive and on the run.
I broke my butch defense and you broke your glass wall. Stop trying to bring it back up. There's no more fear for you to feel. I don't want to harm you. Sylvia is tired. Sylvia will say good bye to you. Go and live your life and be happy.
Good Bye!

Story of a Greek

The Place: West Hollywood. The Time: Ride the Party. The Characters: Me and the Greek in a mass of unknown party goers.
The Greek is confident and his demeanor: stone. He's so young. He never loses track of me. His eyes are glued to my snaking in between other jungle animals. He told me: "you're gonna be the death of me". This made the top three hottest catch phrases a guy could try me with. What did he know about death anyway?
We danced. Trance music, sweaty gay boys showing off chiseled bodies, laughter and the pain of those eyes. The Greek had eyes that knew too much. He was carrying the burden of his thoughts. Every time he spoke he sounded like a prophet. A twenty and change years old prophet.
The first time we made love we never said a word to each other. Pure animal desire guided us. The Greek had confident hands to match his demeanor. His eyes told me stories that I never heard before in a brief REM sequence that I could only read as my own dream.
The West Hollywood party deafened us. We walked to the parking lot. He told me: "you contrast yourself with other people. are you trying to seduce me?"
"is it working?"
"well, Mrs Robinson, no need to try."
We had sex in the car, under a street lamp. I sat on top of him, in the passenger seat. The windows fogged up, the car was rocking and a security guard knocked on our window with a lit torch. We didn't stop until we came.

and you called

and you called after one million years. life is brittle death in between your calls. I actually am in a functional relationship. a man finally loves me for what I am. and you called.
nothing happened since last time we spoke. the Earth stopped spinning, the wind stopped blowing, same old, same old.
Is it funny that I'm sitting in my underwear in front of the computer at six am, listening to amy whinehouse? Is it funny that I am writing about you and how water tastes like sand after you and I stopped loving each other?
We decided to be friends. last night was a good buddies night out. watched the game, talked movies, bitched about the writer's strike, environment and elections, just like we always do. we even had a heated argument about artistic integrity in hollywood. all fine with this picture except: why do I smell you on my clothes? why did you touch the back of my arm at 11:47 pm? why did you hug me and told me you loved me? why did you not make love to me?
my man came home from work late. very late. my body was still emanating heat from your embrace. my man and I went to bed and spoke about our days. I failed to tell him that I went out with you. which is to say, I wanted to tell him but stubborn words wouldn't come out of my mouth. we made love. my man and I. which is to say he made love to me. while I was fighting his kiss. his breath fell on my neck. my breath was suspended on your smell on my clothes. his hands kept my face still and he searched for my eyes. closed. cause I was thinking of you.
he enjoyed those minutes of desperation while my mind was back to when you and I were making love like Gods in Olympus. cause when you and I made love, Gods watched and envied.
If only you'd never call again. I could maybe learn to breathe again.

In loving support of S

S is 21 years of age, full hair combed to the left and a plus size personality. People love and admire him for his ability to throw a party, his taste in clothing and his fully functional gaydar.
"Welcome, darling! Fix yourself a cocktail while I announce you" he says when he opens the door. The party has nothing short of a Holly Golightly gathering. S smokes through a cigarette holder twice his own height.
Soubrette Girl is S's personal assistant/scape goat. She informs me that tonight's party celebrates a very specific event. I dress up as a cop. Get my best set of handcuffs out (I bought them on a trip to Paris, ohh the good old days!!). S prepared the living room for my arrival. He installed a stripper pole right in the middle of it. Blue/red/black lights confuse the atmosphere and throw shadows over life size pictures of Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan. He makes a speech and concludes it with "Bring it home, Sylvia". So I strap on my rubber cock...don't get ahead of me, people...I handcuffed him to a chair, I spank him with a leather paddle (softer than most whips) and had him suck my rubber cock.
S is celebrating his going to jail. His second DUI (the first one he got at 18 years old) will put him in jail for thirty days. He called a stripper (me) to enact the events that led to his arrest and the eventual events following the arrest, which in his dramatic imagination all ended into sucking cocks. Talking about seeing the full half of the glass; the boy could put to shame Walt Disney.
I salute you, oh S, for you only can carry on the gift of positive thinking and bring over a stripper to reenact your arrest!