CM’s Crazy Chronicles #1

So, a strange fact to start off. My left nipple keeps buzzing. Just that one, not the right one. I was rolling them in my fingers this morning imagining someone in particular, and I started to notice the buzzing this afternoon. At first I thought it was just the way I was walking. But it’s coming more often now, buzzing in a really weird way, like my phone when it’s on vibrate. That’s the exact sensation. As if a vibrating phone was pressed against my nipple.

Just the left one. Super weird.

ANYWAY, this is the first of my Crazy Chronicles. I have been feeling super psycho lately, and I think writing a bit of it down might help. Just a brief warning, if you have sensitive sensibilities or aren’t fond of explicit material, stop reading. If you like that sort of thing, well hell, knock yourself out.

They diagnosed me as bipolar, but I think I’m just insane. I’m thinking maybe multiple personality disorder. Let’s call it SYBIL RETURNS. You know Sybil, right? Sally Field did a damn fine job with that one. Whoa – my nipple just buzzed again. This is so weird. ANYWAY, back to it.

I was mega high yesterday, but today I’m mega low. I’ve been in a black hole all day with dark shadows swirling over me. Tears loaded behind my eyes, but they never fell. I think they’re going to let loose later on after a few more drinks.

And yet, there was one strange thought that consoled me somehow. I hurt so bad on the inside, I wanted to hurt on the outside, too. I thought of cutting myself again, but razors just don’t do the trick. It hardly even hurts when you do it, especially when you’re drunk. Which I always am at night. It hurts like a motherfucker over the next few days, but that’s not really a good kind of hurt. It’s just a pain in the ass.

So, as to what I imagined. I wanted someone to tie me to a concrete pole in the middle of some basement. I’d be completely naked, my hands bound so tight, my knees chafing against the concrete underneath me. The lighting is dim. Standing behind me is a shapely woman in a black bra, black panties and a black ski mask. I’d told her earlier I don’t want to see her face. I don’t want to know anything about her. I just want her to hurt me.

She’s holding a huge black whip, made of leather and so cruel-looking. She’s a dom and I want her to hurt me.

“Whip me,” I say loudly.

She doesn’t hesitate for even the briefest moment. She cracks the whip for show, then draws it back to do its work on me. I hear the crack, the first lick is like fire on my skin. I feel the blood drip down. Ooooohhhh this is what I wanted so bad. The outside hurt is matching the inside hurt, it’s pushing my haze away. The haze I’m always in. The nondescript haze that reminds me my life is meaningless. But isn’t everyone’s?

“Again!” I scream.

I hear the crack. Feel the fire. This dom seems to know what I want, she doesn’t stop. She just keeps pulling the whip back, striking it against my naked flesh. There’s so much blood, I can see it dripping down onto the grey concrete. I’m sinking down against the pole, only half-conscious, my mind almost entirely clouded by this intense pain. But I welcome it. It’s making the inside pain go away.

I’m like Jesus of Nazareth, I’m like Robert Powell being whipped by the Pharisees. Only difference was, He was pure. I am so dirty and disgusting.

I sink down to the concrete, unable to remain upright any longer. Miss Black-Clad Dom throws down the whip, walking briskly towards me in her ridiculously high heels. I’m down on the floor, but my hands are up on the pole, bound so tightly. The raw cuts will leave permanent scars.

“Want me to fuck you?” Miss Black-Clad Dom inquires. “You paid for it, after all.”

“Get the fuck away from me,” I whisper, my cheek lying in a pool of my own blood down on the concrete. “I just wanted you to destroy me.”

“Did I succeed?” she asks, a smile in her stupid voice.

“Yeah,” I mumble, sinking back down into the blood. “You did.”

“Adios, then,” she says, turning to leave. Her black heels clack-clack-clacking against the concrete.

I’m still tied up. There’s no one here to untie me. But I really don’t care.


I Am A Bad Girl (But I Don’t Mean to Be)

No, no, I really don’t mean to be bad. But I have been being bad lately – in almost all areas of life. I don’t think about God, I drink to excess, I can’t shake this extra 20 pounds and I am feeling FRUSTRATED. So today I went back on my diet, feeling OK on that score, though of course I’m still drinking and won’t quit for a bit yet.

I’ve been spending a little too much money, and I know it, but I can’t help it. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I’ve also started replying to the numerous DMs I get on Twitter from horny guys. I’m not quite sure why I’m doing that. I felt a little cruel tonight, because this one guy seemed pretty nice, and of course I had no interest in him. LESBIAN. DUH. Guess he forgot to check my profile!

Anyway, he wanted to talk on Skype, and I said no. But do you know, if I didn’t live in a house where people would be all up in my business, I probably would have done it? Not that it’s a big deal, I just feel like I’m being dishonest and unfair.

It’s hard to deal with loneliness, though. You have that one person whom you want more than anything, and they’re the sweetest, but they’re just not interested in you that way. So you go looking for attention elsewhere. If I could have, yeah, I would have Skyped with Jerry tonight. He’s not a bad-looking guy. Hell, I probably would have even taken my top off for him. Just as long as he said something nice to me.

In some ways, I feel like I’m growing stronger emotionally – but on the other hand, I feel like I’m spiraling downhill. My inhibitions are decreasing, and it’s hard to tell what’s right and what’s wrong. Maybe there’s no such thing as either one. I feel like I can take on the world, in a way, but at the same time I just want to curl up and have somebody hold me.

Does that make sense?

Red Lipstick

So, I’ve got this strange habit of writing blog posts and then deleting them. I feel like I say too much and then I cancel them. I talk way too much online, but in real life I say next to nothing. I sit next to my 86-year-old neighbor for half an hour in the car while I’m driving her to her doctor’s appointment, and I just say “Right,” and “Yep,” in response to all of her numerous inanities. Sometim es I say nothing at all, and she just goes right on yapping.

My brain is tired. How does your brain feel? Ah, whatevs. Not snorting any sugar tonight, just drinking the usual vodka. Maybe a little more wine if I get past ten mixed, though I know I’ll be numb in the morning.

So I thought of this lady I met in my mind at the bus stop (though I own a car and don’t take the bus) . . .

IT WAS A BRISK AFTERNOON IN LATE AUTUMN. I walked towards the Plexiglas cubicle that shielded those who waited for the bus from the rain, tugging my hood around my head and wishing I owned an umbrella. Fuck being poor. Fuck it all to hell.

I saw the middle-aged woman just sitting there, smoothing on lipstick in a handheld mirror. Her hair was short and curly, her pale face was firm and pert. Her red lipstick looked perfect under her dark eyes.

“May I sit next to you, ma’am?” I inquired, gesturing to the bench.

“It’s a free country,” she replied. A sly smile before she added, “Or so they say.”

I sat down next to her. She was an incredibly striking woman. She was tall, you could tell she was, even while she was sitting. Her clothes were impeccable and her makeup was perfect. I loved her red lipstick most of all. It looked very kissable.

But then, without warning, she drew a small silver flask from the pocket of her grey twill pants. She twisted off the top, then took a long swig.

“You can’t imagine how many times I have to refill this over the course of the day,” she said, smacking her lips and looking up at the grey, pouring sky.

“How many?” I inquired wonderingly.

“Six or seven,” she replied nonchalantly. “Maybe more.”

“What do you do during the day?” I asked.

“I’m a bookkeeper,” she answered. “For a charity. But let me tell you, young lady – charity is a very loose expression. It’s more of a business than anything else.”

I looked at her with narrowed eyes. “You can’t mean that,” I said quietly.

“Ah,” she said, looking at me with her deep, dark eyes. “Poor young girl. Do you still believe in innocence?”

I thought about it for a long moment, but finally realized that I didn’t know. So I didn’t answer.

A bus was coming – and it seemed like it was her bus.

“Wait,” I yelped as she rose to leave.

She looked back patiently.

“What are you doing later on?” I asked politely.

She gazed at me with an equal measure of politeness. “I’m too old and jaded for you, my dear,” she replied.

The bus pulled up alongside her and swung open its doors. She went up the steps with shapely legs shod in sensible black flats. I watched her as she went, marking her movements as she took a seat four rows back.

Much to my surprise, though, she looked back down at me. She blew me a kiss, then mouthed the words “Maybe later.”

At least – I think that’s what she said.

Snorting Sugar

Okay, so I just did something really weird.

I was eating sour chewy candies out of one of those little bags, and when I dumped them out they left a pile of sugar on my table. Sour chewy candy sugar. It kinda looked like cocaine.

There was no around but the dog, and he was sleeping. Albeit a little fitfully, but he was sleeping. So I said, I wonder what would happen if I snorted that sugar?

I formed the sugar into a thin line and tried to snort it. But nothing happened. Turns out you have to inhale super hard. I only snorted half the line of sugar, but I feel great. Yikes. There was a little red on the tissue when I blew my nose afterwards, but I suppose that’s normal.

(*Question posed to people who snort coke: “Is that normal?”)

God, I get weirder and weirder with each passing day. Please, people, don’t start snorting sour candy sugar. Let me linger alone in my strangeness.

But, you know, if you ever wanted to come to visit I wouldn’t mind

OctoberFlashFic: M

My name is Emma, and I’m sitting here in my plush red chair, feeling completely alone.

I realize I’m more fortunate than many, but as I sip at my drink and tap at my keyboard, I feel like a ghost cut off from the entire human population.

There are so many memories – so many reminders of failures. But there’s also that last remaining spark, that thing that whispers in my ear, trying to let me know it’s not over yet. “Bank account doesn’t have to be fat,” it reminds me. “Keep working, it’ll be all right.”

And then there’s the fact that she’s still with me. If I were her, I would have taken off running months ago. But she’s still here. My pretty girl.

I sip at my drink, and I tap at my keyboard. The world is a vista of endless possibilities.

OctoberFlashFic: Unsure

I loved her, and she loved me.

Did she love me? I was never sure.

I was fat, and she wasn’t, but she never seemed to mind. She went down on me as if I were a supermodel. She clutched my back rolls like they were holy sacraments, burying her face between my thighs to make me believe she really loved the way I tasted.

“You don’t have to,” I told her. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

Then she smiled mischievously at me. “What the hell else would I do on a Tuesday afternoon?” she inquired.

That was why I loved her. I think she loved me, too – but I was never sure.

Smoke on the Water

Chilling in between the sun and the shadows

Relatively free of weight

A light synth beat in my head

Broken angel wings strewn across the bed

Shining with dew and fairy dust.

Open curtains at the windows

Letting in late summer light

Autumn on the horizon with its scent of death

Carried on ghostly fingers like a lover’s breath

Trembling with the fragility of time.