More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (28. Damn!, swearing)

No dinner tonight. I arrived at Janice’s house at 6 pm and it was dark. I crapped … err, knocked on the door. Nothing. I didn’t see her out during my run this morning, but I suspect that meant she had gone to work. I wasn’t required until the afternoon, so I ran a little later.

Two days in a row? I haven’t done that in a long time. I was hoping to see her, but maybe I should have been out there at six or seven. Some people do work too much … um, normal business hours, you know. Perhaps there was a problem, and she didn’t have my phone number.

Maybe she just blew me off. It wouldn’t be the first time. I seem to be prone to it.

It’s too bad. I needed to be with someone today. Anyone. I said something in rehearsal today, that someone took wrongly. I won’t repeat it. It was BAD, and what is worse, it wasn’t a misspeak. It was a comment about one of the old perverts … err, older violinists of the Symphony, and I had misjudged how much he was depleted … um, respected. That was stupid, and I knew my mistake as soon as the words vomited from my mouth. Whatever respect I used to have is gone now. I used to be that eccentric Brit who was the ace third horn player, who was reliable and never cracked a note in public. Now I’m just a foul-mouthed bitch in the back of the orchestra.

Maybe Janice heard about what I said. A lot of members of the Symphony play for the Ballet. It isn’t beyond the realms of possibility.

What else is there worth talking about today? Nothing.

My card … well, yes:

FIVE of SWORDS. Defeat. Loss, malice, spite, weakness, slander. A separator of friends. Cruel yet cowardly. Evil speaking.

In a word … me.

Fuck.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (26. Lost, swearing)

Christa and Dana are gone. I’ve never let myself become the maternal sort, and that prevented me from becoming too attached to Dana. Christa is more where that instinct hit home. As a student, she was much like a daughter to me, one that I fortunately didn’t have to raise and suffer through her teens. She is an adult and in love with me, but I can’t help that. I love her, too, in a different sort of way.

I got fucked … lost on the way home from the airport. Before I knew it, I was in Springsteen … Springfield, and that is quite a distance too far. I don’t know how I got onto I-55 either. It was dinnertime before I made it back home to East St Louis. Was that a vestige of my possession? Probably not. I was conscious the whole time, thinking of Christa and being lonely … and Allen.

Why haven’t I made any friends here? Am I just too weird for them?

By the way, I need to clear something up. Allen did dispose … depose … err, propose to me last year, but we couldn’t find a priest for our date, so the wedding was delayed, and then I had to come to St Louis, and it kept being put off. Allen didn’t push it, and neither did I. I think he knew me too well.

I only realized that I was still wearing the ring while I was driving, around the time I hit the signs for Springfield. Sadly, I’ve taken it off now. Do I send it back? He hasn’t asked for it. I should give it to him next time I’m in heaven … err, London.

FOUR of WANDS. Completion (inverted).

I don’t think I even need to explain that one. Inverted, that means it is imperfect, incomplete, unreliable (there’s that word again), and over-anxious. (So much for being settled or clever!)

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (24. Done with)

It’s over. I should have guessed it when I drew my card this morning, the Knight of Swords – Allen – again. This time it was inverted.

At least, this time he phoned. It wasn’t a long conversation. I’m too loose … too much of a loose cannon, and I can’t control myself. (Well, maybe if he was here!) I get out of control when I’m lonely, and I still don’t have any regular friends here. I think Evangeline could be a friend … and Marcel. I’m a better slut … err, fit with people that have unconventional spiritual views.

Marcel invited us to dinner tonight, essentially to meet his wife. Unfortunately, both Christa and I had to play tonight’s concert. I think she, Marla, wanted to gauge how much of a threat I was to her.

I’m not. I’m imploding … um, impulsive, and I let the torturers … err, moment carry me away, and I’ve come to confession … the conclusion that it is caused by the same thing that spawns my Tourettes-like behavior. I was, of course, cured of a stammer long ago, but the wrong words just leap out of me, and sometimes they are dangerously too close to the truth. Are my actions governed in the same way? Is eloping with … err groping Marcel something I want to do on a base level? He’s nice. He’s handsome, but he’s also married, and that is something I usually hold sacred.

Allen is gone. Shit!

It keeps coming back. I blew him a kiss … um, blew that one. I never deserved him. On a scale of one to ten. I’m a one, and he’s a hen … ten. (There I go again.)

Christa’s asleep now, but I have a feeling I’ll be up all night. I’ve donned my headphones, and am blasting Bruckner right now. Nothing like some heavy brass to clear the bugs … wax from one’s ears. Only a few days left. She leaves on Monday afternoon. I wish she’d touch me up … touch up my henna before she goes, but Evangeline is doing that next Friday. Monday is too soon.

I’m resolved to wear the henna until this evil spirit is completely gone. I still feel the urge from time to time, and I’m desperate to have a man between my legs. That may be more due to the fact that I’m in a period of abstinence than to her powers. Marcel says she is gone, but I can’t say I believe it. She’s done something irreparable to my soul, to my desire, to my …

I’ve become like her, not in the eat-your-soul sex-in-your face respect, but a more subtle taint. I need … what do I need? I just need. I can’t just now see that feeling go away. I just have to separate my wants from my needs. I need that man between my legs, but I don’t necessarily want him. I want to be respectable. I want to love someone first. I want to respect them.

I want to respect myself again.

I’m not sure that will ever happen.

It’ snowing outside. I’m cold.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (17. The Hermit)

Another few days … I’m sorry I’m so constipated … inconstant.

IX. THE HERMIT. Illumination from within. Divine inspiration. Wisdom. Prudence. Retirement from current events.

I think the last just about covers me. There are still a couple of weeks before the next full moon, so I’m stuck indoors. Marcel drops off sludge … um, food late at night, but I still leave a couple of hours until I emerge to bring the bags inside. He’s left notes to suggest possible dietary additions to curb the power that has latched itself to my soul. None have worked, and the power flows … mows … err, grows to the joint … point where the fetish no longer farts … works.

I’ve removed it. At least the pong is gone … only to be replaced by the smell of semen. Whose? I don’t know, but I like that aroma much too much for my own good.

Someone is watching the mouse … house … several people (probably men) at any given time of the day. During daylight hours, someone knocks on my front door hourly, but I dare not answer. Someone will get hurt, and it won’t be me. They may die, even.

I feel Ms. Ball’s power over me. I sleep very little now (never at night), as I’m in a constant state of arousal. Just thinking of an orgasm … brrr … causes one to happen … and it happens more often than I would wish. I’m sweating a lot, and have lost ten pounds this week. I didn’t think I had an extra ten pounds to lose. I may disappear before the month is up.

I’ve stopped checking my email, so don’t bother sending me anything. I couldn’t check through thousands of emails pleading for sex just to find one real one. I’m still typing my blogs and then posting them whole with Ms. Ball’s additions at the end. What can I do?

Just out of sheer boredom, I answered one of Max’s rings … clings … um, pings. I can’t be sure what he sees me as, but in my current state I’m happy to do whatever he wants me to. At least he was alone, so I wasn’t harassed by his balls … err, wives. What did I do this time? I sang for him. He seemed to like enough to join me in an orgasm … brr, not again! … I didn’t have to do anything to myself. My song seemed to change him, visibly … I mean … shit.

Damn. I own him body and soul now. How do I appear to him? Surely, as a siren or Lorelei … like the real one that bewitched men to plough their ships into the rocks. What did I sing? Whatever came into … brr, again – wasn’t expecting that one … my head. I made up words and the melody.

Or maybe she did.

Perhaps answering that ping wasn’t a wise idea after all. So much for wisdom. Divine inspiration. Is Chastity Ball divine? Do I worship her? Will there be anything of me left when the moon turns full again?

No more contact with the outside world (except for my blog). That’s it. Funny she doesn’t interfere with my Eirica stories.

life everlasting awaits for you in my womb … come to me now … do not delay … claim your prize … drink of my purity … my divinity …

Survival Instinct

No, this won’t go in the Annethology, but it’s one of my favorites, written on the eve of my birthday, which is not tomorrow, but in June – in the heat of the summer … well, a few days before the official start of summer. June is my favorite month – not too hot or cold, just right. (That’s me Goldilocks … err, Burgundilocks? I can make them golden if you want.) Too bad it’s February. Hold on!

 

 

Breathe. Yes, now. Keep breathing.

When the mirror crystallized back into view, I found myself back in my familiar body, albeit flushed and sweaty, but still panting.

I couldn’t stop panting.

A drop from my chin splashed between my breasts. Was that sweat, or had I been drooling?

I rolled off my calves, which stung as blood returned to them. Pain, sweet agony! Sweet bliss!

Breathe!

The tips of burgundy hair around my ears dripped with sweat. I must have been at it a long time. I couldn’t read the clock reversed in the mirror, but I was too exhausted to turn my head, too tired to wash my slimy right hand, too depressed to blow out the candles, even though there were only four of them, one for each point of the compass.

I was alone in my circle, still struggling for breath after making love with my reflection.

How long had I held my breath? It’s something I do when I get close, and when I get close to getting close, and maybe even getting close to getting close to getting close to a false alarm. A minute, two? Then relax and try again. Gulp some air. Go for it. Gulp and try again. How long? How many times?

Dizziness usually accompanies the bliss, and I can’t reach that height with a man. They have no stamina. Probably not with a woman either, but I wouldn’t know. If they’re like me, they wouldn’t have the patience. How long?

Deep breath now.

I wiped my hand on my chest and spun my legs around in front of me. I wished there was more and that it didn’t dry so quickly. Corn oil never quite did it for me. I can feel them again, every inch, and the intensity of sensation matches the pain. Every muscle aches with exquisite agony – both of me, but my reflection is left-handed.

Wipe that grin off your face.

I couldn’t help it. I used to do it all the time, but I’ve limited myself to once a month in a circle at the time of the full moon. Only the Goddess could watch me then. Abstain and then do it right for the most intense pleasure. Take an hour or two. Lick your fingers. Well, I don’t always do that, but sometimes I dribble saliva down the front of me and pretend it’s his … yes … his … mmm.

Pepper. That’s the smell of my sweat, but not like after a run. Athletic sweat smell is more like ammonia. Post-coital sweat is peppery, like a pepper sauce on a lean sirloin.

I’ve stopped thinking of him on nights such as tonight. It happened too quickly. Besides, why should I waste my passion on such a loser? Now I take my time and think of my own pleasure. That’s where the mirror comes in. I keep myself to myself. Yes, that’s selfish, but I’ve been by myself for long enough. Why not share? Share myself with myself.

At the height of oxygen deprivation, it is almost as if I inhabit both my body and my left-handed reflection. My instincts will take over if I go too far.

Breathe.

I occasionally pass out, but not tonight. That’s a survival mechanism, automatic to my body, almost as necessary as what I’m doing for my soul on this night.

Survival.

I couldn’t live without love, even if it was self-love. Yes, people love me, my family, my friends. I even have several admirers. They all seem to want to chat over the internet – I’m so virtually beautiful and so good in that invisible virtual bed. I do have real admirers, too. One, I think, even loves me.

I don’t think he would understand. I don’t think many would. It’s a sin in their Christian world. In my Catholic world? I don’t know what I believe any more. The Pope and I don’t see eye to eye at this moment in time, and the last one wasn’t any better. Dare I wait for another to come around to my way of thinking?

Instinct. That is why I have to do it.

I’ve stopped smiling. It’s because I’ve started to think of the outside world. That’s so depressing and why I drew this circle around me. I’m here in the world of my own making, performing an act of love, sitting in my own fluids, on my floor of my spare bedroom in the house that I own.

I’d start over … but that’s not allowed. I’ll pencil my next date into the calendar in my head.

There’s the smile, cheeky girl … cheeky girl with the long thin legs and tiny breasts. He always wished my eyes were blue, but I’ll take the hazel I was given. They change with the light, my surroundings, my mood, and not unlike my hair, but that comes in a bottle. Gemini live for change. Hey, what day is it? Tuesday! Tomorrow’s my birthday. Thanks for the lovely present, Reflection.

Cake? No. I’ll have a lean sirloin with a pepper sauce. It will remind me of you, of tonight, and of the next full moon.