Archive for September, 2008


Posted in cusak, thoughts with tags on Mon, 29 Sep, 2008 :: 272/40 :: 13:48:43 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

There’s a place in my soul I mostly try to ignore. It’s the place envy is born, the place where my reach will always exceed my grasp, because as soon as I’ve grasped whatever it is I have ceases to exist. I’m aware of this place, it’s a neurotic little center of me. A place I wish I could heal over, but never have.

It keeps chewing on my brain. This little part of me that keeps telling me I’m not good enough, that the ex is how it’s always going to be. That we’re going to stall out, the boat’s going to crash on the rocks. That someday he’s going to look up at me, and I’m going to think I’m going to the dance, and instead I’m going to be going to a football game.

It’s not that I want it all right now…I just want it all right now. I rationally get that now isn’t the time, or the place, and that grabbing greedily for it will just end in the same emotional turbulence I’m having about Mr. Wayne. I get it.

But it doesn’t stop me from being scared. From wanting. From trying to see there from here and being terrified the fog will never lift.

This little part of me is welcome to shut up, any time it wants.



Posted in cusak, thoughts with tags on Sat, 27 Sep, 2008 :: 270/39 :: 15:40:10 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I’ve been trying to put an entry up here for almost a week now. I have a half done entry about the ex, and a couple of thoughts that have become three sentence place holders in my drafts file. But of course, the more you want to pin the butterfly of thought to a board, the less still she sits.

It figures then, that my times of greatest thought are my times of least communication. I find it amusing that afterward — when the thinking’s done (much like the sex) — I want to talk about it. I want to process every little detail, and relive the whole experience through the vicariousness of my words, of sharing it with someone else.

That means one of these days you’ll get to see the posts.


It’s crossed my mind a lot, recently, that it’s been more than a year since I did E. I kind of miss it, in that “it was fun, but not worth risking my health or freedom to try to arrange it happening again” kind of way. Still, when you have a brain that moves as much as mine does, anything that gets you out of the head and into the body is something to be aware of.

Maybe it’ll fall into my lap again. Maybe it won’t.


Cusak’s mother now knows we’re “serious,” whatever the hell that means in the normal, white-bread world that is the place his parents live (existentially, not physical location). Have I mentioned how nervous I am at spending the holidays with his family? I mean, let’s break this down. I’m a Jew, I’m from the west coast originally (which is not where I’m currently living, obviously), my favorite colors are black and pink, and my favorite bands are the kinds of things grandparents yell at kids to turn down. How am I going to keep a straight face while sitting across the table from generations of old people, staring at a trussed up turkey, and wondering if he can replicate that kind of tie when we get home because I think it would make a great sexual position.

I have a hard enough time being “normal” around his immediate family, and they’re the liberal ones.

…the holidays, I’ve always thought, are sort of a purgatory for people like me (us?). We go back to these nests of people who would disapprove if they knew who we really were, and what we really did, and we pretend to be like them. We hide our deepest truths under the superficialities of our lives, and pretend like we really are the people we send to work, we take out of the box when dealing with sales people, the faces we hide behind.

And they believe it. Which makes me wonder how much our families ever knew about us anyway.


Maybe I’ll get to another sex post one of these days.


Posted in cusak, real life with tags on Sun, 21 Sep, 2008 :: 264/38 :: 11:55:36 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

The ex used to be a rock star. I was his rock star girlfriend, not really a rock star in my own right, but definitely cooler because of my orbit around the little blonde sun he was. We’d go to parties, and he’d be popular, and people would get close to him to get close to me, and the whole thing would be kind of tawdry and ridiculous.

I tried being a rock star while I was dating him, but if I got too popular and out in front, it seemed like he’d feel the need to diminish me, because he was supposed to be the “name” in our relationship.


Last night Cusak and I went out to an event. And I realized that we’re rock stars together. He doesn’t feel the need to make me play smaller, to frame his performance with my own. He plays off me, and I play off him, and the whole thing makes the both of us a little cooler. A little more fun to be around.

We got in the three-way flirt last night, a couple of times, and I’ve also realized he’s really good at it. He can play off me in ways I’m not used to. It’s nice having a boyfriend who knows how to be a good wingman while maintaining his position as my boyfriend. This seems to speak well for my future in this relationship.


Drama continues elsewhere…but I think they’re just jealous of what I have.


Posted in cusak with tags , on Sat, 20 Sep, 2008 :: 263/38 :: 12:21:18 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I want him to make me beg…but I’m no good at it. Generally by the time I get to that point, the only words I have left in my vocabulary are “Yes,” “Please,” “More,” and “No.” Sometimes I have such advanced linguistic skills as “Harder,” and “Hurt me,” but even those generally die under the haze of coming and needing to come and being on the edge of that great wide-open void of bliss.

The other day I dreamed (and have been polishing in my mind since then) a fantasy of begging him. Not our usual power exchange games, the ones where I give up my identity to him, and let him shape it into something new, a beautiful object for his gratification. No. This dream was about something deeper, darker, more intense. A new way of shattering my self on the hardness of him.

I knelt. I wore what he wanted me to wear, some confection of plaid or frills or lace. It isn’t terribly important, the set dressing. My hair fell down my back, until it wrapped easily through his fist. One hand caressed my cheek softly, his eyes meeting mine. “I’m going to hurt you,” he whispered softly. Tenderly. A promise, not a threat or an angry expletive. “I’m going to hurt you, and I’m going to watch you cry, and I’m going to make you tell me how much you like it.”

His hands went to work, finding the soft places in me. Waking them to attention with teasing little touches, with the warm strokes of his tongue, with the heat of his breath and the barest edge of his nails. And then, when I shivered, when I gasped softly, the only begging I know, he gave me the promised pain. He found each of those soft places and pushed me harder than I thought he could into them, pushed me over the edges of sensation until I was whimpering, sobbing, needing more from him. Wanting it to stop and to never stop, and to be taken into his arms and told I was a good girl…and wanting him to push my face into the bed and tell me that if I had been a good girl none of this would be necessary.

Instead of these things, he lifted my chin, tilted my head up to look at him, stroked his thumb through the trail my tears had washed down my cheeks. Purred in that inimitable growl of his, “And now…now you’re going to beg.” I’m certain that even in this chimerical dream, he could see the fear of my ineloquence in my expression.

The hand that touched my tears slid lower, tracing the salty wetness down the skin of one breast, stroking it as he whispered the words he wanted to hear in my ear. Growled a little as I hesitated and stuttered, his hand stinging my cheek easily with the slap. “I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t stutter. You won’t either.” The game continued, words being fit to my mouth, his hand finding home on my cheek, my body, as I failed to repeat them…or finding new homes, soft and pleasing homes, as I succeeded. Rewards and punishments, dragging me further from my shell, turning me into this new thing for him. An extension of every object he’d ever derived pleasure from, directed to his exacting standards, and willing…more than willing, wanting to be this for him. To give everything to him, to empty the shell of identity and let him fill it for these few hours with his needs and desires.

I’m not sure that it matters that it ended in fucking, in climax, in lying sweaty on the bed claimed thoroughly as his, able only to summon up the presence of mind to breathe “yours” in response to his claiming.


Posted in cusak with tags , on Thu, 18 Sep, 2008 :: 261/38 :: 12:49:17 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I’m carrying his lighter today. His first lighter. It’s brass plated, wearing away a little at the edges. It’s been loved. I wish I knew its stories, when he first got it, when he used it, whether he lit the cigarettes he smoked after breaking up with his ex with it.

It feels intimate, this object in my hand. It’s a piece of him, and if I had pockets, I’d nestle it in one. Next to my skin like a kiss or a bite, trace my fingers over it surreptitiously when no one was looking. It would be like having him here with me, the warm little play of breath on my skin as he leans in over my shoulder.

I hate this week. This week of girl-body, necessitating intellectual intimacy instead of physical intimacy. It seems that in this week I am most easily distracted by his lips against mine, by the feel of his thumb stroking circles on the small of my back, of the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps next to me. I want to take him, in these moments, to crawl into his lap and push his pants aside, and have him within me.

Instead I’m carrying his lighter.


Posted in cusak, thoughts with tags , on Sun, 07 Sep, 2008 :: 250/36 :: 18:24:53 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

“I’m going to do bad things to you,” he murmured in my ear last night, hand in the small of my back, heat diffusing along the thin silk.

“Will you cuddle me afterwards,” I asked.

“Will you beg?”


I don’t think he knows just how much I think about him. About how often I visit the thought of his hands or his shoulders. About how in the lull of a quiet moment at work I close my eyes, bite my lip, and let the feeling of his skin on mine become the center of my universe.

More baggage than I want to unpack with him, but it’s not fair to keep it to myself. I have to tell him, sooner or later, because if I keep it to myself, I can’t blame him for not giving me what I want or need.

Right now though, I just want to curl up, with his hand between my shoulder blades, my head tucked under his chin, breathing in his scent.


He did do bad things to me.

And I begged.


Posted in cusak with tags on Tue, 02 Sep, 2008 :: 245/36 :: 21:01:09 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I’m irritated with myself, really. I hate feeling jealous, and when I do it’s such a hard thing to control. I’m sitting here seething, unable to share it — because what would that really accomplish besides end in two people being upset.

Feeling like this is just so frustrating.