More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (8. Upon Reflection)

Allen sent me a brick … err, an email today. Without specifically referring to my transgression, I could tell that he knew about Max. His tone was measured and non-judgemental. He apologized for being so inattentive these past few months. Apparently, work has been strained lately, and his company has needed to shed some of its workforce. He’s taken on more duties and is less able to travel than in the past.

That was a polite way of saying, “Let’s take a break.”

KNIGHT of SWORDS. Allen, perhaps … delicate and courageous, skilful and clever. He’s a thinking warrior.

Thinking that Allen would soon whisk me off my feet, I haven’t really made many friends here, yet. Of course, there are a few other musicians in the orchestra, and the rest of the horn section (but I must say they don’t always get along very well). I only became friendly with Max because he had no one else to talk to. Well, he came after me, very subtly, and timed so that he would leave me wanting more. In fact, inexplicably I want more every night after I shut down our Skype session.

I hate him. I hate what he has done to me. I hate how I feel about myself when it is over, and I hate how much I weed … seed … um, NEED it. Not him – it.

I’ve never been so full of hate before. (I don’t think I’ve ever really hated before.) I hate crying so much and worry that my tears might short out my keyboard as I write my blog. Yes, I’m crying now. I have been ever since Puddle-duck humiliated me tonight, ever since the others laughed, ever since I wore that Cool Whip bikini. (I would never have bought it if they didn’t demand it. I’m a Devon Custard girl – something I can’t find in St Louis.) I hate that I’ll be running out to buy a vat of corn oil and a rubber mat tomorrow, and that I’ll be sitting on that mat in front of my laptop around 11 pm waiting for their Skype request. I hate …

I hate.

I hate receiving emails from my Mormon cousins, not disowning Max’s obscure sect, but correcting my impressions of their faith. Yes, they are blood cousins. I’m descended from some of the first Mormons, although my branch of the family (through my mother) has been Roman Catholic for many generations.

On a positive note, I have an idea for another wank … whinge … err, story. This one is about a Scottish clan heiress who falls in love with a married man, and discovers she isn’t the first. Like me, she’s obsessive about her online life, although unlike me, she’s obsessive about Facebook and Twitter. (She’s pretty OCD altogether.) I might start up a separate web site for it and serialize it, as I don’t see it being long enough to be a novel.

It will be a little risqué, so maybe that will cheer me up.


More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (7. Preoccupied)

Christa phoned this morning and gave me hell about Max and his women – that is, after she cried on my virtual shoulder. Her parents had disowned her for getting pregnant and Tom’s parents think she ruined his life. They probably blame her for his death, too. Do I blame them? Yes. They could have been more supportive. Christa bore their granddaughter (at least they have one – at this point in my life, I never will), the only link left between them and Tom. Could I lecture them? Of course, they are probably younger than I am.

God, do I feel old now!

After Christa lectured me about Max, did I do the right thing? No. I let him and Puddle-duck boss me around again. How lanky … err, kinky can it get by video sink … um, link? Answer: very. You don’t want to know, but I was crying at the end, not from pain, but … no, I can’t tell you. It’s too demeaning. They were verbally pummelling me into submission. I should close my Skype account, but Allen probably wouldn’t like that … except that he probably knows what I’ve done and never wants to speak with me ever again.

Today’s card:

PRINCESS of DISKS. That’s probably Christa. I would have never thought of her that way until she met Tom. She is generous and kind, as well as prodigal. Definitely Earthy Earth.

I would never confuse any of Max’s harem with the Princess. Puddle-duck is dark and beautiful, but she holds no wonder in her. I wouldn’t even necessarily say she was a good … luck … duck … um, Mormon, but I’m no expert. She has a tattoo on her right breast that wouldn’t be visible. It’s a stylized dagger in the shape of an “L”, presumably for Lorelei, which I’ve discovered is spelled Lorelye. That’s a Mormon thing – unusual spellings of ordinary names (though usually biblical). She was probably born Mormon and betrothed to Max in the usual way. (I don’t know how Maximilian is spelled, perhaps MaXXXimilian.) I’m guessing that Puddle-duck is a convert. She’s too free with her body, and too exotic with her sexual adventures. (Did she seduce Lore?)

Did Max target me for her especially? I couldn’t say. She coaches him, begs him … err, eggs him on, pushes him to the basest desires. Max probably sleeps around whenever he travels.

I think I might phone for an appointment with my Ob-gyn tomorrow, just to be safe. I’m definitely not pregnant – that became near … clear today. Does he just sleep with everyone he fancies, just to try to get them pregnant and trap them into his farm … harem? I hope not. I’m much too old for him anyway.

I may be imagining too much. Puddle-duck is definitely the dom in that trio.

I’ve never really thought of myself as a sub before.

Maybe a leading tone …


Good night all.