I remember when we met | “1994” series

I was archiving my spiral bound diary of 1994. When closing it, the first page fell open and it just broke my heart.
It had a quote from Bear.
It was from a conversation we had, about our dreams.
Or his dreams, which fascinated and inspired me.
It may have been why he was so irresistible to me; He just did his own thing and I seemed to have little impact on his life. We only saw each other when it suited him.
Which was another thing I liked, no one understood.
How could I not take initiative to see each other? And didn’t I want him to be there for me when I wasn’t doing well? How could I give him all the power, controlling everything?
That not having a say in whether or not we were going to see each other, was actually one of the most intoxicating things about it, baffled them.
I usually added that I would initiate contact sometimes, to ensure he didn’t feel excluded. But he rarely accepted the invitation.
Late 1993, he had taken his physical exercise to the next level. It didn’t seem to take him any effort. He had been training every day since October, November, and he had been keeping it up.
I immediately started dreaming what I would be able to achieve if I did that.

But Bear reminded me this wasn’t the first time I was inspired by his discipline. He said he would be more frustrating than inspiring me, since I seemed to be having so much trouble to stick to a regiment.
I denied and ensured him 1994 would be different.
Starting with quoting him on the frustration thing, at the beginning of my journal.
Only to not read it again until January 1995 when archiving the journal.
And suddenly I felt so guilty.
Not for not keeping my word to Bear – regardless if he would have been more inclined to stay with me and not break up if I had become more successful at my fitness dreams.
No.
I felt guilty for not backing myself up.
It wasn’t just the fitness.

I vowed to become a writer in 1994, and then didn’t.
It wasn’t all bad, don’t get me wrong. Both Bear and me finished our thesis and got our Masters. We both started our working lives as well.
And then a month ago he broke up, and now it’s January 1995, and I m like:
Where did the time go? Where did my dreams go to workout every day (in my case yoga) and to become a writer?
It was all so very sad.
How full of life I still felt one year ago. Everything Bear and me had been sharing. Our five years of being lovers felt like a heart shaped bubble. A curated experience like something you could put in a museum.
The intensity, and the beauty of it just brought tears to my eyes.
For the first time I cried, thinking about our years together, and that he had moved on. Wanted a family. Wanted normalcy. Didn’t want me anymore, the girl who had asked him to have her first time sex with.
Because her boyfriend had ended it, right before her 17th birthday, and she didn’t want to leave this to chance or let it fall into inexperienced hands.
I remember how a burden had been lifted from my shoulders, when I had found him.
Just like the past month after the breakup, I had been devoid of emotion, and I had been pragmatic about what needed to be done. I was young but I was determined to find someone skillful to give me the first time sex.
And took all the steps on instinct.
Bear immediately sprung to mind, because I knew him from stories from two friends and had seen him on a number of occasions. We had been briefly introduced but never really talked.
Bear had been sexually active, and was notorious for not committing. Through the two friends (I can’t remember which one) I got his telephone number, I came up with some kind of excuse for needing it.
I rang him up, explained who I was, and that I wanted to ask him something. But that I could only do it in person. We set a date to have coffee together, and I was business-like about what I wanted from him.
It wasn’t until he said Yes, that I broke into tears.
Suddenly all the tension of setting this up, the fear of staying a virgin far too long, grief of having lost Jonathan at such an important time;
It all came out.
“I m sorry,” I sobbed.
Bear just smiled and took my hands over the table. Touched my face. I wanted to crawl away, I felt so vulnerable. Bear tried to look me in the eye, but the more he tried to stay connected with me, the more I started to cry.
“It’s going to be fine, okay?” he finally said when I had calmed down a bit. “You trust me?”
I nodded.
“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Do you understand?”
I didn’t explain that I wasn’t crying because of him doing something. But out of fear of him not doing something. Out of fear of him changing his mind and leaving me hanging. And a virgin.
But just like the daily exercise, Bear did what he promised.
The first time we didn’t go all the way, but stuck to the things I was already experienced with. And the second time we had real sex.
It was extremely emotional. It had been such a big hangup for me, and at first I really thought it was that stress, why I was crying.
But it would stay that way.
The fucking brought out so much tension, I cried more often than not. I felt like a baby in his arms, and it was all okay. More than okay.
It was wonderful.
And now he has ended it.
And there is this bubble of beautiful memories, that will never go away.
Our first date he had ensured me he would never do something I didn’t want;
He held true to his word.
All the way up to the end.
As soon as he wanted a normal relationship and possibly a family, he asked me for a similar coffee date as I had five years ago.
And he left.
Bear was right. 1994 Was not the year he would inspire me to great heights, and became the source of frustration instead. Not because he had stuck to his exercise regime and I hadn’t. But because our time together had come to an end, and had left me empty handed.
Finding the quote in the diary was the first time I cried for our breakup.
For not backing myself.
For making resolutions I didn’t keep.
For not being a writer.
Not having a lover.
Everything.
After two days I decided enough was enough. I was only 22 years old, and I still had my life ahead of me. I took a piece of paper, and drew out what I wanted this year and also for the upcoming years. Just as Bear had done for his.
There were way too many blanks to my liking.
With whom was I going to make love?
Cry?
In whom would I trust?
It was an incredibly lonely exercise, and I can’t say that I’m suddenly healed and looking to the future with hope and dreams.
But I will put one foot in front of another, and become a writer.
Alone if I have to. 
.
~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living
.

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I remember when we met | “1994” 
is the fourth chapter of
1994 part 2: A new life

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1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

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Sexual Innuendo | “1994” series

I finally cracked the code why the sexual tension keeps on building between the Slash-like painter I’m in love with, and me.
When we both seem very determined not to throw any fuel on any fire.
Want to guess?
Here’s what I wrote about the last time I saw him:
A Warm Safe Place | “1994” series

It was all extremely respectable.
So then why can’t I stop thinking about him?
Why do I keep having the feeling him raising his hand wishing me a happy new year and good luck with the cats, is not going to be the last time we see each other?

And even more so, that the tension not just keeps on building despite both of us not acting on it;
But because of it.
Our “distant” dynamics are like buckets of gasoline thrown straight onto the fire.
But why? Now I know why.
And I also know what either one of us would have to do to break the spell;
And that neither one of us, is going to do that!
But before I get into that, I want to first explain why things have gotten so heated.
.
Okay. So for starters, even though Slash and me seem to be behaving identically, we are both playing a different role. It only looks as if we re both distant, formal even.
But underneath the surface, our roles are different from each other…
Very, different.
When Slash holds his distance, sidelines me by letting me know he s married, tries to hook me up with his colleague even, he does it from a position of taking the lead.
His actions say: “I have no room for you in my life.”
He keeps it clear that our chance encounter when he painted my balcony was a one-off thing. The click between us might have taken him by surprise at the time, but that he s going to leave it at that.When he avoids physical contact and proximity for example by choosing to sit at the table instead of next to me on the couch, he s saying:
“I like you, but I m not going to act on this. And I want to be clear on that.”

However, that is not what my distance means.
My distance means:
I respect you.
I will never initiate.
You decide.
You don t owe me an explanation.

His distance communicates he s not available. But inadvertently (or intentionally?) makes him dominant.
My distance communicates I respect his choices, but also that I comply to his wishes.
It makes me submissive.

No wonder his rejection and my cooperative understanding have turned into a highly volatile situation.
He s taking the lead and I m complying.
It s like mini-sex.

Having said that, it is now blatantly obvious how either one of us can break the spell effectively: By breaking pattern.
The moment I try to seduce him or take initiative either sexually but especially verbally, by speaking to him about my feelings;
The spell is broken.
And vice versa the moment he puts me in the lead, for example by claiming to be overwhelmed by his feelings for me, or complaining he does not know what to do:
The magic is gone.

The reason I think neither one of us will let the magic die out by talking about it, is because we are both fascinated by it.
Even if we don t act on it.
Maybe especially then.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living..

Subscribe to 1994 

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Sexual Innuendo | “1994” 
is the third chapter of
1994 part 2: A new life

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coming soon: new books

1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

A Warm Safe Place | “1994” series

This may be the best January 1st in the history of my entire 22 year old existence.
And I am not sure why, because I am in an impossible position.
This is not one of those happily ever after stories because even if I would end up happy, others would not.

Technically, I could see how everybody could live happily ever after.
But since even Bear has set himself up for a life of monogamy and normalcy, I have given up on the idea that men can love multiple women, without blowing it with one of them. Or both of them.

It’s not that I cannot see how a marriage does not have to blow up if your Slash-like husband has fallen in love with a rock chick whose balcony he painted this summer:
It’s just that it’s not the most likely scenario.
And a hurt, angry wife, a divorce and children caught in the middle, is.
Yet I seem unbothered by this horror scenario.
Probably because I m still under the spell. His spell. Rationally I can see this is going to be a mess but emotionally I m in way over my head.
Because I encountered the Slash-like painter on the last day of 1994 with a bag of oliebollen (a Dutch treat for New Year’s Eve) in our building.

He was just on his way out.
I came home from shopping for my first New Year’s Eve when I was going to be all by myself. I have my own apartment, so I no longer have housemates. And I have cats now, and didn’t want to leave them alone with all the fireworks.
Slash threw me a big smile when he saw me and said:
“I left something at your door. I hope you don’t mind.”
The company he works for were delivering cards on behalf of the real estate company, thanking us for our cooperation during this year’s renovation.
If the tenant was home they would also get a box of oliebollen, but they were not allowed to leave them at the doorstep if no one opened the door.
Yet, the painter who looked like Slash, had.
He was wearing a black leather jacket.
I had never seen it, because I usually saw him in his work-gear and the two times I had seen him at Warhol’s, he had not been wearing a coat.
He was wearing black jeans and black boots. The perfect rock star ensemble.
The only thing that revealed he was not entirely casual was a black shirt, instead of a T-shirt or a sweater.
I assumed he was already dressed for a New Year’s Eve with his family, perhaps with an extra family or friends coming over.
Luckily enough, I was also decently dressed.
Since I didn’t have anybody to dress up for, I knew that if I didn’t make a conscious decision, New Year’s Eve would end up without make-up and without beautiful clothes.
A questionable way to start the new year.
So instead of waiting until later in the day, I was already wearing my festive outfit, and wearing makeup.
I considered myself so lucky that I ran into him.
He would be the last person I saw in 1994!
And I was looking amazing and he was looking amazing and we had just bumped into each other on a day neither of us were pressed for time. He had an excuse not to be home, because technically he was working, delivering cards.
I asked him, if he wanted to come up and eat the oliebollen with me.
And to my unspeakable joy, which I hoped I kept a bit hidden, he accepted.
He carried my heavy bags up, and indeed, there was a box of oliebollen with a card on my doorstep.
Slash seemed a little embarrassed that I was going to read it, with him being present. But there was nothing to be ashamed of, really. All he had done, was put his own name on the card that had been pre-printed by the company.
He had signed it:
Happy New Year
“Slash”
And he had drawn the little bald man with the big nose and big hands, looking over a ridge. The one he had pointed out to me on the Iron Maiden album cover.
There was no phone number or anything like that. It was really respectable, and I liked seeing the card before we went up.
I interpreted it as a sweet goodbye note.
Something like: “You were not crazy. We did have a moment together and I m sorry I m married and I never told you.”
But his way of saying it was better.
Regardless of me thinking his message was neutral, he felt embarrassed for a moment. Almost as if he had not realized that if he would go up with me, it would include me seeing the card.
So we went in, he took the groceries to the kitchen and I took the box and the card. We put our coats on the hooks, and just seeing his jacket in my hallway, covering my other coats, made me so happy.
It was as if it belonged there.
Like he was already my boyfriend, when I knew very well that he was not.
We went to the kitchen, where I simultaneously made coffee, heated our oliebollen in the oven (he originally wanted only one oliebol, but I told him that equaled zero and that they always came in pairs.) and I unpacked all the groceries.
He had to move around all the time, because he was always in the way of the fridge, the cabinet, the stove. And it was all very funny.
I don’t even remember what our topic of conversation was.
But I do know that it got interrupted all the time by me saying: “I m sorry but,” or him saying: “Oh, I need to move again.”
We were both, very deliberately, not touching the other person.
We even tried to stay as far away from each other as we could.
And not just in the kitchen, in my living as well.
I sat on the couch, but he sat at the table. No kidding. He even asked: “Do you mind if I sit at the table?”
No, I don’t. I didn’t.
It was obvious that we were both sensing things. It was as if the air between us was on fire, I have never felt anything like it. And yet neither of us mentioned it, and we both did our utmost best not to add fuel to the fire.
And in a way we succeeded.
Because nothing was said, no phone numbers were exchanged. No promises were made and we just parted raising our hand in the air: “Goodbye! Have a great new year!”
“Good luck with the cats,” were his final words, before I saw him descend from the stairs.
We did well.
Yet now all I can think of is everything about him. It was as if I finally understood that I should enjoy him being there. The first weeks after our balcony day this summer, and even the times I saw him at Warhol, I forgot to notice what he looked like. I didn’t know the color of his eyes, how tall he was or how he was built.
But now I tried to absorb everything about him.
The deep brown of his eyes.
The soft childlike features of his face.
His strong hands.
The tone of his voice, it was like a warm blanket. Although he did not have a very low voice but a friendly one.
Just like his body; It wasn’t threatening in any way.
I couldn’t sense his sexuality, and I still don’t know if we would be a match. Or – let’s be honest here – if he would be a match to me.
After 5 years with Bear, I’ve gotten so used to a man being dominant and I have promised myself I never have to be dominant in bed, or even seductive.
I don’t want that.
But I do know our great sex life was because Bear was sensitive to my needs. That although I usually say it was his dominance, that I could surrender to, it wasn’t. It was his sensitivity to what it was I needed, and he understood that most of the time this meant for him to be dominant.
To push me.
To take me.
But he would always look into my eyes, and never lose connection with me. He immediately picked up if my mood had shifted. Often before I did.
I don’t know if I will ever see Slash again.
But I do know that when I felt so attracted to him, without sensing his sexuality or without knowing if he would be dominant, that it was because those things really do not matter.
That the first thing I look for, when I m in love and wonder if we’re a good match, really isn’t if someone is dominant in bed.
It’s if someone is warm and feels safe.
And he did.
.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living..

Subscribe to 1994 

The subscription button to this blog is on this page,
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A Warm Safe Place | “1994” 
is the second chapter of
1994 part 2: A new life

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coming soon: new books

1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

Welcome to the jungle | “1994” series

Maybe I waited too long.
My
melancholic moments, my saddest moments, and certainly something that resembled tears (I only vaguely remember them…. it was all so strange) must have been the first days after Bear broke up with me.
That although I did not feel like I was feeling it, that was all that was gonna come, making it the best moment to write about the breakup when I was still emotionally involved.
There wouldn’t come a better time, when I h
ad more meaningful things to say.
But I didn’t believe that. 

Bear had meant so much to me and therefor I was convinced I would eventually break to pieces and lose my mind.
That “this” could not be it.
But nothing came…
And now I m on the verge of 1995 and I just want to have the breakup with the most important man of my life in my diary, especially since we no longer seem to be friends. He didn’t show up at a party we both had been invited to and that he had been looking forward to.
We had said our goodbyes with a big hug and actually saying:
“See you then.”
That had been another possible reason for keeping it together:
I still had something to look forward to.
Either way, the party came and no Bear. No explanation either and instead of being devastated I just interpreted it as a sign that he could be having more difficulty with the new situation than me.
Our breakup had not brought the peace of mind he had hoped for, and now he was cutting ties.
Yet, I was still okay.
And with that another good moment to reflect and to write, passed.
So now I had already missed the first days or the first week, when my feelings had been the strongest. Then I missed out on the second opportunity, which was experiencing that he didn’t want to see me anymore.
And then the third trigger happened, which didn’t have anything to do with my Bear, but with the second man I am in love with.
A Slash like painter who did my balcony, and whom I later went to see at Warhol’s because he had told me he usually went there on Saturday’s.
In Warhol he let the woman behind the bar in Andy’s room hijack our conversation, and almost pretended he had no idea who I was.
Afterwards I had seen him only once, when I was going out and we ended up at Warhol’s.
I now considered it my time to pretend we had no memorable connection.
He took it well, which I on my turn, found extremely sexy.
“Well played!” I thought.
Then just this month he started working on the building with a colleague. The scaffolding slowly moved up the street, alongside the building. After two weeks it was on our side, the final apartments that needed work.
Probably because I had been impressed with his relaxed attitude the second time at Warhols, and also because he had kept his cool every time I cycled by and casually said hi, I offered them coffee.
I didn’t invite them in, or anything.
And I treated him and his colleague entirely equal, nothing flirtatious. I was business-like even.
Which in turn, seemed to fascinate him.
As if he started to wonder if his imagination had been playing tricks on him.
“I thought she had come to the Warhol to see me, but now I m not so sure!”
Something like that, I don’t know.
Like I said, I wasn’t overthinking it. I was just normalizing whatever it was that had happened this summer, with strategic use of coffee and cookies.
I wasn’t bending over backwards to win his heart.
On my way out I passed them again. It was the end of the day, I had been working from home and was now going to a Christmas drink at the publisher’s.
They were breaking down the scaffolding, and as I was taking my bike out of the basement, putting my handbag at my steering wheel and getting ready to leave, the most peculiar conversation arose.
Something in the lines of my Slash-like painter making jokes to the other one, the he (the other one) was single.
But that he (the Slash painter) had a family.
It was all done in a casual boys will be boys kind of way, and it even included the suggestion that the other painter and me should hook up.
Or Slash addressing both his colleague and me in a way that suggested “we” were a group, or the singles or something.
What I also noticed was that the colleague did not seem to notice this was a strange conversation. Or he was too excited to be named in one sentence with me.
Like I said, it was not exactly clear what was said or anything, but I did understand that he was telling me he was involved with someone.
And I know it’s not with the woman who’s working in Andy’s room, that was super obvious. But if you have a family, and you have a sexy bartender who has the hots for you, it does explain why you’re not following up on the girl with whom you unexpectedly had a wonderful afternoon, when you were sent to paint her balcony.
It does explain that.
On my way to the Christmas party I kept thinking why it was that something seemed off with Slash’s remark. Something was… strange. I was too busy trying to get my finger on it, to realize that I had just been rejected.
That after Bear breaking up with me, and then Bear not showing up, I now had the other man I was in love with saying no.
I now had three reasons to feel lonely and rejected, and yet I still did not feel miserable. I was more like a detective trying to figure out “Whodunnit”
Although in my case, not having sex since July, the answer was obviously not “me”.
I had not dunnit for five months and both men were rejecting me.
It took me over a week to crack the puzzle. Everything. From why I wasn’t feeling totally devastated when he broke up, to why I was okay with him not showing up to the party;
To why I was unimpressed with Slash telling me he was taken.
The reason is one and the same:
I m still in the game.
It is as if these men have come up and said: “I can’t play.” but then expected me to respond with something.
To stop doing something.
As if I am running around in red lingerie sucking my fingers and winking: “Come here, sailor.” and am supposed to change that.
I don’t know.
But they are treating me, or talking to me, as if they are expecting something to happen with me. As if I am supposed to do something, as a response.
As if they want me to step out of the game.
When they are the ones who have just announced they are either not playing games or have stopped playing.
And now they’re looking at me to leave the board.
Why would I leave the board?
They are the ones who left.
I still like them, both of them.
I like Slash and I like Bear.
But I m not stepping off the board because they are not in a position to play anymore.
I said this to a friend last weekend. That I finally understood that these men had expected me to be defeated. And that even I had expected that. My constant waiting, expecting to at one point “feel” the breakup.
But I was fine.
“It is so strange,” I said to her. “I miss Bear, I really do. And I would have loved Slash, but he doesn’t even let me come near.
Yet I still feel excited. But why?”
“Because you’re still in the game,” she laughed. “And you’re a good player!”
I sure am.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living..

Subscribe to 1994 

The subscription button to this blog is on this page,
probably on the right.
Welcome to the jungle | “1994” 
is the first chapter of
1994 part 2: A new life

For the real current-day me: 
subscribe to YouTube for My Life in Bon Jovi songs.

Follow on Facebook or Twitter,
NEW connect on Linkedin

My diaries en erotica are available at 

my BOOK SHOP
25% discount on all prices
If you check your cart, you can select your store
f.e. Nederland or United States
with the flag in the upper right corner.

Nederlandse boeken kun je ook direct bij mij bestellen

coming soon: new books

1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

Dating from now on: Rules of engagement { 1994 project }

Molly Ringwald. Whose 80s pictures are frequently featured in my 1994 project

This is a goodbye post. 
But a very exciting one.
It is “Goodbye 2019” and “Hello 1994”

I m taking on my life as an art project, where I create an entire new persona, based on real life events, as well as on desires of what I want my life to be like.
It’s something I started four months ago, with the series “1994 fanfic inspired erotica”.
It was me trying out the concept of time-traveling, as well as feeling into it.
Was it as inspiring as it sounded?
Did it feel expansive?
And yes!
Taking 25 years off my life, turned out to be as good as it sounded. But I didn’t go all in. There was simply too much at stake, and too much going on energetically, I would even say.
I tried to figure out why I was feeling so awful, but it wasn’t until my lover broke up with me one week ago, that I knew the answer to that.
Our relationship had been falling apart.
And I had picked it up without knowing it.
Ultimately the conversation itself – you could even call it a date! – was the most painless, supportive breakup in the history of mankind.
Not because I wasn’t sad.
But because I had already shed all my tears, felt all the despair, and built myself up again. I had already done all the internal work.
And without a doubt, so did he.
It was two mature adults, who had learned that relationships can end, but anything that is worth saving, will last on in our hearts.
I felt like I passed my exam to adulthood.
With honors.
And now what, right? There was nothing left to do anymore. Not here. Not in 2019.
After this accomplishment, I would almost feel compelled to share everything I have learned. To become or stay an inspirational speaker, coach, yoga teacher. I ve always claimed I was good with relationships, and with the cum laude breakup I had proof I could really do it.
But I don’t want to inspire as a professional.
I don’t want that to be my work.
So I m at this point where I feel I have developed myself as a senior in the field of personal development, but it’s not my field. I am an artist.
Someone who plays.
Creates.
And then moves on.
I don’t identify with having any specific profession; I “just” channel it.
That’s what I ve done as a yoga teacher, a writer, a publisher. And I ll channel whatever profession will be next for me in real life.
The only profession you could “tie” to my identity, is being a play artist, or a performance artist.
Someone who is always changing, always playing, and consciously and unconsciously creating a new truth by first living it. Adopting it.
“1994” has started by taking baby steps, and exploring how it felt.
But with the departure of my lover, and my love life always being the main thing I write about and am interested in, I am free to really go all in.
I can start creating a new reality.
The love life I desire.

Disclaimer for lovers – Rules of engagement 1994

Although I can leave out, reframe, embellish or omit any event, experience or character in order to either fit into the 1994 time bubble, or to keep someone from appearing in my blog, there is one aspect where this is not going to happen;
My love life.
Love is what makes the world go round, and it’s certainly what makes me tick. I d rather never have a man in my bed ever again, than to give up writing.
Or to give up being in love with whomever I want.
Which means there are four non-negotiable rules, for whomever I get sexually involved with.

rule number 1: I m a secret/ Writer FIRST 

Any man with whom I have a sexual relationship, must take into account that our encounters, and my feelings surrounding them, will be written about.
And in order for me to be free to do that, you can never refer to me as your girlfriend or your lover, because it would mean that your friends are now reading our blog, and I can no longer freely write about it.

Your anonymity will be guaranteed, by writing about you as a fictional character, without matching characteristics. And the content, as to what it is I write, can be negotiated as well.
In particular with regard to protecting your privacy or your feelings.
In order to make this writing aspect as comfortable as possible:
I will always deny that you are my lover, and I strongly suggest you do the same.
There is an escape clause to this secrecy 😉 

See 4.

rule number 2: You must guarantee my safety, and be comfortable seeing me in public

If you’re married, wanted dead or alive, a singer in a rock and roll band, or if there is any other reason why I could get the cops or angry women on my doorstep if we’re seen together?
We call it quits.
The secrecy under 1 is just to avoid people from recognizing you in my blog, and to claim our boundaries as singles. It’s no one’s business what we do.
But the secrecy is not because I want to hide in hotel rooms, and never go out in public (as friends).

rule number 3: You must keep seeing other women

For a long time I thought this was a dominance thing.
That in theory, a man could also be faithful to me, and convey in this kind of arrogant way that HE was the one who decided what he was going to do with his body.
Not me.
But right now, that all sounds very far fetched.
I need you out there having adventures and me not knowing what you’re doing, or
my sexual interest will flatline before you know it.
If you are uncomfortable with me writing about having a lover who has other women? Don’t come.
In the rare case I absolutely have to write about something extremely dramatic that happened in your love life or other relationships – I will change our timeline, events and of course names for you.
Details of your love life (should I know them) will never be revealed. 

rule number 4 (going steady rule): we’re a team

This rule is not for those who are my lover:
This is for those who ultimately want more, which is to say to become my partner, and call me their girlfriend instead of friend.
We’re a team.
And I need you to be supportive of me.
You see, I m hard-wired to be faithful. It really is, a frickin big deal for me to be physically intimate with someone else when I am already involved.

But (at least in theory) I think I could be intimate with more than one man, because there have been times when I WAS in love with two men.
I have always figured it only took that second man to say “yes”, to turn me from being monogamous into polyamorous.
But does it?
Because so far when I was in love with two men, my main love-interest was already moving on, or turning away.
I have once written a book about this.
It’s called Dutch American Diary.
And it’s about me being in love with two men, and the agony that comes from that. It takes a while before I realize that I only fell in love with the second man, because the first could not meet the demands above, and we were completely stuck between me being a secret mistress and trying to break up.
We weren’t good at either one.
A second love interest was the only thing that would give me the power to stay away from him.
And this pattern of pulling in a second crush, as a response to realizing the first is no longer an option, has persisted.
Whenever a second man came into my life, or an old crush suddenly became current again, the main man in my life was already pulling back or had proven to come with the proverbial hornet’s nest.
All in all, I have more proof that I am absolutely incapable of having sex with anyone other than my main man, than otherwise.
However, I do not want to be selected or chosen, because I am this kind of dream woman who lets you fool around but she herself seems bound to an invisible moral code between her and God or something.
No.
Instead, I want you to be supportive of me.
I either want you to treat me as a secret lover, which means that we both could be dating other people and you make sure I don’t get to see any of your jealousy.
Or, if you want to be a part of my life, I want you to be there for me when I explore these things. Because my happiness is your happiness (as it is vice versa), and you know that what is true cannot be taken away.
I really believe that I will be the dream woman for someone, and that my dream man is out there.
And he will read this, all four points, and know it’s him.

Entering the portal to 1994

The past couple of months, I ve freely switched between my fantasy world in 1994 and my real life.
But today, is the day I m going all in.
Which as far as this blog is concerned, means I will no longer be writing about secret mistresshood since I now live in 1994, and my lover Bear was single.
And I will no longer be engaging in politics or any current day events that used to catch my attention, and inspire me to write.
Everything I write, will be in the series 1994, and once every two, three weeks, I will be writing a letter to my creativity coach Sara.
This letter to her, is where I will give a helicopter view of what my “real” life is like;
But otherwise, I will not be going back and forth anymore.
I will now teleport myself to 1994.
See you on the other side.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living

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Anything goes, Unfinished book on Consent Play | “1994” episode 6

In October 1994 I wrote my experience with consent play, in a notebook.
With the intention of publishing it one day.
I never finished it, as explained in the previous episode.

This is what I wrote about my consent play and my affair with relationship with Bear.

contains erotic elements
NSFW, not suitable for work
triggering

Monday 21- Tuesday October 22 1994
0.40

I don’t know how many words will go into this journal before it’s full. How many pages before this ballpoint is empty. How many stories I need to tell before I have said what I ve come here to say. But I do know the limited resources will work in my advantage.
On top of the boundaries set by the material, there is the slowness of it.
The thoughts that just drip onto the paper word for word.
A little pause at the end of every sentence.
And I ve set myself a time limit.
Not because I m in a hurry finishing or publishing it. But because I believe this unspoken confession is what is blocking the pathway to what it is I desire.
Or who.
All of them. The men.
But above all else: Not writing this out is blocking my way to becoming the person I would be in their presence.
The lover who calls herself, yes, what?
What is it, this unnamed role? Both “girlfriend” and “submissive” are equally misplaced. Neither one is what I want to be and at heart already am.
Just without words so far.
How do you name a woman who desires to be in a constant game for her consent?
Not just in the obvious, the play rape.
I did think that for a while.
That the most defining characteristic of my sexual preference was to be dominated during sex.
But now I know this consent is always played for, and withheld unless I feel I have his full attention.
And then we play.
Then I surrender.
Then he can dominate me.
But that my desire for power play is weaved into the bigger picture of two lovers only seeing each other for sex.
Or for a date of some sort
My sexual preference cannot “just” be defined as power play or rough sex, because that would imply that you could be married and have this type of sex at night and then discuss whose turn it is to stock the fridge.
That is not how consent play works- let’s call it that for now.
Consent play would ask: What fridge?
What tomorrow?
There is only the now.
It is like a perpetual tango. A game of attraction, where you hope you ll dance again.
There are multiple men I would like to tango with. But currently I m dating none of them.
I don’t have to answer to anyone right now. I m alone with my thoughts and with my desires. Between what was and what can become, who I can become.
And when I do the right man will come.
Plural, maybe.

Tuesday 22- Wednesday October 23 1994
Create the Truth
0.05

I tick off the things I want to do each day.
Cuddle enough with both cats.
Masturbate.
Yoga.
Some things are harder than others.
Writing in this journal is also on there and it’s one of the things I don’t want to skip. Not even if it’s after midnight before I start.
The reason I want to do this is because this activity is called “create the truth”. I know that by writing I want a dominant lover, I will create him.

I need to feel like I am the perfect match and then next to me, like magic, a vacuum will be created that will draw the right man and only the right man, in.
This man will automatically, when we make love, force me down, pin me down, restrict me, push me, command me, open me, enter me, hurt me, fill me, and it will be under that weight that I lean in and let go.
And that I am home.

Wednesday 23 – Thursday 24 October 1994
0.15

On days like this it’s so good to have this diary to come back to.
I didn’t do yoga, didn’t see friends or a movie. The only thing I did, which was good for my sexuality (or maybe it’s more a prerequisite than an aphrodisiac) is deep cleanse my house.
I feel thrilled by this.
I intend to do yoga AM! The PM thing is not working for me. I hope that a sexy yoga session every morning will keep my spirits up for the rest of the day.
That I ll keep identifying with my sexual ambitions, of who I need to be.
Right now I keep forgetting it until suddenly I remember after midnight, when I pick up this journal.
I need to start doing a hell of a lot more to straighten this out, than writing this book.

Wednesday October 30 1994
A League of their own
09.30

First day working from home, and immediately I take this journal and go to the cafe instead of spending the day behind my desk.
Don’t worry.
I ll make it up.
It’s just that I ve been in such a dark place that I m thrilled my desire to journal has returned.
The story has returned.
And it’s not the story I thought it was.
Maybe they were related: The story of consent play and my meltdown.
Consent play is a lot more complex than just a variation to SM.

And I am a lot more complex than just a college grad stuck in her first job.
I might have needed the meltdown in order to do justice to the story, as well as to myself.

Over the past week I ve discovered a really big chunk in my identity that didn’t seem to have a purpose.
Except as a place of strength.
Yesterday I was talking about this part to a friend and she said:
“Oh my God, you’re sitting just like her.”
She was referring to Catherine Tramell, Basic Instinct. A movie I ve seen more than any other.
Just this summer they played it at the discount theater and I added 4 to the list.
And I m thinking of getting a VHS.
What I mean with my identification with her being this big piece of a puzzle or chunk of my identity that I didn’t know where to put is well… literally that!
Where do I behave or feel like Catherine Tramell, if I m submissive in bed?
If I make myself as grey as possible at work? Not that I ve been very successful at that and I m glad I can start working from home but nevertheless.
I didn’t recognize myself.
I think cutting my personality in half was the biggest cause of me having suicidal thoughts over the weekend.
Not as an act of despair but as a happy thought. A comforting one. One I d rather thought of than how I was going to solve this.
But the signs that life was slipping though my fingers, had been earlier.
In no longer masturbating. No longer writing.
Cancelling appointments.
Quit eating sugar, which was the first moment death entered my thoughts. I wanted to lose weight because I wanted to bring my body back to its pre-college thinness before I died.
And there it was there: The thought of suicide.
I felt dead on the inside already and felt it needed to stay that way not to disturb the others around me. The only one who didn’t require me to be half-dead already, was Bear.
I have not heard from him in weeks, if not months. But I ran into him and he invited me over or suggested we should see each other soon.
But I rejected.
If he doesn’t want to see me, I don’t want him to feel pressured to invite me. I really believe he has someone else right now.
And the idea that we would meet up at my all-time low was out of the question.
On my way home I kept wondering why I had been so determined to reject him helping me. He had literally offered: “Maybe it helps to talk.”

Yet I knew that the moment I accepted this, it would not only ruin what we had-
but that it was also dangerous. Because I would become dependent on him.
I would be meeting him from a place of needing him when I want him to want me, not to pity me.
And suddenly I snapped out of it.
I saw why I felt suicidal, why I was so happy with my love life and could even bare the thought of him having someone else.
And where that giant chunk went!
I saw why I had seen Basic Instinct so many times, and why I should be buying a VHS.
And most importantly: I saw why my submission during sex was rooted in strength.
My relationship with Bear has been the only place, in all those years, where I have been able to show myself as a badass Catherine Tramell.
He never blinked.
Not when I asked him to become my lover and deflower me.
Not when I asked for anal sex.
Not when I asked for play rape.
Playing doctor.
Applaud him for staying sexually active with other women.
Watch him with great love, appreciation and understanding as others around him crashed into his stubbornness.
I saw that we had something that we couldn’t have with others because they needed it to have rules, form, agreement.
When we had none of those things.
We had a deep understanding and appreciation of each other’s strength and independence.
We saw each other as solitary beings.
Not as half of a couple in need of amalgamation.
My relationship with Bear had been my Catherine Tramell Sanctuary.
And the reason I had been starving myself, denying myself, creatively cutting myself off and ultimately the reason why I wanted to kill myself:
Because in all other aspects of my life I had not been Catherine Tramell.

Sunday November 17, 1994
Epilogue

I just typed out these notes on consent play, and I was right.
This really was, and is, all I can say about it.
Sometimes I think my depression and the current trouble we are going through are the effects of leaving university, and both of us trying to find our place in this world.
I m convinced we’ll stay in touch, over the course of our lives.
But right now I need to start implementing what I learned about who I want to be.
It’s almost 5 years ago that we started our affair. We were both still in high school when we met.
I have become an adult and stepped into my power, but only in my relationship with him. So therefor it was very limited.
You could say I m only half adult.
Or a part-time adult.
The rest of the time my own power scares me. Or the response I get from people is starting to scare me. Now more than ever, it seems.
My studies were filled with male friends, but at the publisher’s it’s mostly women.
I have definitely not been coping well with that. And I avoid their company, mostly.
With Bear out of sight, the only place where I ve felt good in my own skin, disappeared. No wonder I feel I m losing my strength.
Growing up is like shedding skin, isn’t it?
You can’t enjoy your new identity, if you keep paying attention to everything that has fallen off.
My old life, my student life, is over.
And maybe my relationship with the boy who grew into a man, at my side, is over too. Maybe our affair is part of the dead skin.
But maybe it’s part of the strong, vibrant beings that we became. And maybe we’ll always keep reinventing ourselves, together.
It reminds me of the final scene of Basic Instinct.
Nick and Catherine just had sex, and Catherine is unsure how they’re going to have a normal relationship. She seems terrified and confused, but you can’t see if she’s having relationship skitters because she’s so used to killing the people she loves. Or if she’s scared because everybody she loves ends up being killed.
After playing a game with the viewer, where you think she’s going to kill him, the movie seems to end in a passionate kiss, indicating she was never the killer.
After a fade out, Nick and Catherine come into focus once more but this time the camera moves under the bed, where you see an ice pick. Indicating she did intend to kill him, and she’s the killer after all.
I always thought that last shot was cheap and I didn’t buy it.
Not even the first time I saw it.
I didn’t buy it that Nick and Catherine would not stay together, since they were a match made in heaven. No one was playing at their level, and they both had enough experience to know that no one ever would.
Things like that don’t end.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living

Subscribe to this blog (subscription button somewhere on this page – most likely on the right) for the next episode of 1994.
You can read episode 1 to 5 here:
A letter from a stranger | “1994” fanfic inspired erotica episode 1 
Mutuals | “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica episode 2 
Think about you | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 3
Out ta get me | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 4
Rocket Queen |”1994″: fanfic inspired story episode 5  

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Anything goes, Unfinished book on Consent Play | “1994” episode 6
is the fourth chapter of
7-figure Rock Star Writer part 6: “1994”: Consent play

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Rocket Queen | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 5

If I tell you what I ve been up to, you will just laugh your socks off at my ignorance.
That I ever thought fall 1994, would be the time when I would write a groundbreaking book on consent play within unconventional and highly exciting relationships between dare I say “superior” minds?
I haven’t heard from my lover Bear for ages, and I would not be surprised if he is with another woman. Probably a less problematic one.
So suffice to say, I ve already been punished for my arrogance of calling us superior minds.
On the bright side; Since I m already in pain, this does entitle me to start speaking my truth. Because I m not exactly promoting a success lifestyle here.
I
t immediately illustrates the drawbacks of being so demanding in your love life:
“Yes. If it works, this relationship style will bring you the best thing you ever got, the best thing he ever got, and in all likeliness the best thing anybody going back three generations on both sides ever got.
But most likely it will not work and you’ll end up totally alone and everybody will believe you totally deserved it.” 
And I probably did.
You know what the problem is, aside from having pictured life differently than feeling old and terribly underused at age 22, is that once you’ve gotten used to playing at that level Bear and me did, there is just no way you’re ever going back.
If he wants a normal family life with someone else, or a woman who will inspire him to be monogamous?

Then I will not get in the way.
And I ve already proven that because every time he fell out of communication or put me on the back burner like now (and we see each other once every three months or so), I stay exactly where I am.
I don’t approach him to see where we stand, or more precisely: “Where I stand”.
I don’t make plans to end it and get someone else instead.

The only repeating pattern is that his absence makes me realize it would be better to have multiple lovers, because it’s just not ideal to have so little sex.
But owning my Miss Arrogance Catherine Tramell Basic Instinct persona:
Who says other people have sex this good?
Or a relationship this exciting?

Whenever I think not hearing from Bear is my cue to take action and start dating, or at least actively entertain the thought of getting a second lover (one equally good) it doesn’t happen.
And when I started writing this book on consent play, I originally thought it was limited to what Bear and me did between the sheets. Consent play would define as sex where
I play I am the victim of some sort of abuse.
To put it bluntly.
And I don’t think the word “play” does it justice, because it’s best known as a term in S&M, which is something entirely different from consent play. For multiple reasons none of which I will get into.
But “play” also makes us sound like really bad actors.
When in reality our words – each and every one of them – are improvised and meant to arouse and increase pleasure, both of ourselves and the other.

We are at different levels of reality, and we play/talk/act on these different levels, at the same time.
There is our real life selves, who are the main thing. Our normal conversation is still part of what we do, especially for quick check-ins. 

Then there is our play connection.
This can be mono – where we really deliberately play out one fantasy. But more often it’s an improvised scene, something one of us initiates. And then two or more concepts of consent play could be covered in one session.
Finally there is the connection based on our past as well as our future selves. Memories of what we did in the past, or things we’d like to do in the future. Fantasies. “How would you like it if one day..”

These multi-leveled sexual encounters were absolutely mind blowing compared to anything I ever had ever done with any other man.
But because I was still a virgin when me and Bear started out, I didn’t think much of it. I assumed that all people must be doing this. 

It wasn’t until after a few years that I began to understand how lucky I had been when I asked Bear to make love to me, just once. Because I knew he could do it (he was a player) and I was a virgin and wanted it to be done right.
When someone like that sticks around, it takes a while before you understand most men would not have been comfortable being asked so directly for sex, nor
would they have stuck around to discover your sexuality, and find the magical match where you (the girl) likes to be taken against her will and he (Bear) likes to do that.
So because of my relative inexperience, it had taken me a while to realize that Bear was worth his weight in gold.
A few weeks ago, I decided it was a good time to write the consent play thing down, since I didn’t seem to have a sex life anymore. It could serve as a guide for others but also for myself if I ever wanted a new man.
Having a manifesto on my first real relationship, would make sure I preserved what I had learned. Make it my own. Even if Bear would no longer want to see me, I would live on as the woman I became because of him.
Which was not the sexless, worker bee shadow of a woman, I currently was.

Late at night, before I went to sleep, I started writing in a journal.
It wasn’t the best time to write, but at least it was the last thing I did before I went to sleep. It was something that nourished me on a soul level.
Regardless of how bland my life was.
Things turned sour when I started discussing my relationship with friends. Or better yet, my preferred relationship style.
Why I appreciated Bear so much, and found it difficult to picture myself meeting someone that was “up for it”.

In these discussions I found a discrepancy between what I want from a man, and what seems to be accepted as normal.
And I realized it was impossible to explain what Bear and me have, without challenging limiting beliefs.
Here are some of the beliefs I encountered in others when I tried to explain my current (or perhaps past?) relationship with Bear:

1. A belief that monogamy is a trade-off

There seems to be the misconception that because Bear has other women “I can do whatever I want.” Implying having sex with other men.
Yes: I can have sex with whomever I want.
As can you and you and you and everybody in their right mind.
However: I don’t like men touching me with whom I don’t have a long-term understanding. I would find one-offs a nessecary evil for example because you desperately want to lose your virginity and don’t want to claim him. 
But the reason Bear is my only lover is because he is currently the only man I am in love with and with whom I have matching sexual preferences.
My fidelity is not because I feel I owe it to him, nor because I believe monogamy is the morally right thing to do. It just comes as a natural consequence of the current situation and my preferences.
As does the other side of the coin:

2. They believe someone who cheats/ has multiple partners is not serious and uncommitted

The reason I often let this pass, is because I don’t want to come off as if I m trying to prove that Bear loves me. I don’t know what I mean to him. And maybe he is uncommitted and not serious.
Who knows. Who even cares?
I think my biggest problem with this insatiable need to know if someone is serious, as in aspiring a life-long monogamous pairing, is because I find it of no value.
What I value is:
What does someone do to make our time together unforgettable?
And I do not mean any pre-planning going out for the day, which is by definition a disconnect from what feels good in the moment itself.
I mean:
Bear and me both show up clean, interested, funny, laid-back. Trusting, good-humored. To me to then start investigating if someone is serious, is as if you’re pissing in your own drink.
Don’t piss in your own drink.

3. They believe a good sexual match is either irrelevant compared to the other parts of your relationship; That good sex is sheer luck or that (last option) good sex is a natural consequence of liking each other. All wrong.

This was really the point where I stopped working on my book about consent play. When I realized that it all starts by making sex the main event in your relationship, in your life. Something you are going to facilitate and make a top priority.
Something to be taken into account with every move you make, and every decision as a couple:

“Is this beneficial, or detrimental to my/ our sex life?”
That it is absolutely impossible to aspire having a normal looking relationship on the outside, and enjoy meaningful, layered consent play in private.
Consent play, as it turned out, wasn’t a sexual preference at all.
It was a relationship style.
As in: the game we play when we’re not in bed.
The constant tension of not knowing if I will ever see him again, was what made me such a big fan of our play. Any man wanting to know where our relationship was going, or wanting me to take responsibility for his feelings, for his life, was not going to get anywhere with me.
To me, our mysterious undefined relationship, had been a prerequisite in order to do the consent play I intended to write about.
If I wanted to write a book that would serve the world, it had to be on the relationship style itself. Which I found a totally boring topic, I didn’t want to write an entirely boring book about.
But it was this relationship style, which me and Bear had accidentally invented, which was the basis for the great sex life.
The consent play had been the most remarkable aspect of what we did. And it was the aspect that got confused with S&M a lot, and partly because of that I had been so motivated to write an entire pleasure guide on consent play and how to do it;
But our consent play would never have existed without that Catherine Tramell, Nick Curran, Basic Instinct relationship style.
And with Bear gone, not a lover in sight, and my self-awareness reaching new lows after every workweek – there was nothing left to write about.
I need to get my act together and start doing what I had set out to do, the moment I started writing in that journal late at night. The real reason behind me claiming the level Bear and I had reached, was so that I would be able to keep it, long after he had left.
I had hoped the writing would help me to become the strong woman I used to be. But I was wrong. It was never in my writing.
It was in me.
Or it had been, because “it” wasn’t anymore.
I need to start remembering. Start becoming. Start embodying that bold virgin that asked him for an encounter over coffee, at a cafe December 1989. The young woman with whom he went to the movies, seeing Basic Instinct, in 1992. Several times.
And how we somehow knew we’d be the only people in that audience who would understand that this wasn’t about if she had done it.
That Basic Instinct was about Catherine Tramell’s and Nick Curran’s desire to live an exciting life. A life no one would understand.
Bear may have returned to his normal life.
But that should never again be a reason for me, to stop being Catherine Tramell.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living

Subscribe to this blog (subscription button somewhere on this page – most likely on the right) for the next episode of 1994.
You can read episode 1 to 4 here:
A letter from a stranger | “1994” fanfic inspired erotica episode 1 
Mutuals | “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica episode 2 
Think about you | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 3
Out ta get me | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 4

For the real current-day me: 
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Rocket Queen | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 5
is the second chapter of
7-figure Rock Star Writer part 6: “1994”: Consent play

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coming soon: new books

1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

Out ta get me | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 4

For all of you who’d rather have this diary entry in pictures, I created this  visual representation of what I m about to tell you.
Here it is:
For those of you who prefer swearing:
“How the FLYING FUCK did I let this happen?!”
And for all those willing to endure reading how I managed to “lose” both my lover Bear (nothing is certain), as well as miss out on the most promising lead I had in years – a Slash-like house painter who was basically just tossed into my lap by God – I have to warn you:
There are no easy answers, let alone satisfying ones.
I haven’t got a clue, how I managed to make this happen.
Or better yet, not make it happen, but I ll try to explain it as good as I can.
First off, Bear.
My dearest, sweetest, lover for the past four years and nine months, and the man about whom I still don’t know what he wants out of life. What kind of future does he want for himself? What does he want from me?
I honestly could not be more clueless.
To me our sex life, his entire presence, and all the wonderful hours we’ve spent together have been more than I ever hoped I would get out of being with a man.
Initially though, I thought he was entirely normal. Maybe it was this beginners luck that saved me?
In 1989 I more or less “recruited” Bear as my lover, since acquiring a sex life as a single had proven to be impossible for me. At that moment I simply put one foot in front of the other, and was very pragmatic. The sex was good, even though Bear was the first man I had real sex with, and it was so good we continued having it even after the first time.
It wasn’t until the few females in my life shared what they had to, dare I say, “put up with” that I realized how lucky I was.
That any other man would probably have failed the test, and might even have failed to fuck me or make me come. Which is saying something, because my body is beginner-friendly.
But my faith in the average level of men’s love making skills was gone and I started cherishing Bear, even more than I already did. As long as he still wanted me, and wasn’t (yet?) in a relationship he wanted to remain faithful in, I would enjoy him.
However, I did notice that our dates were becoming less frequent
And this summer when we were both transferring from being college grads to working lives, I wondered if it was still enough.
If being in such a dry office environment wouldn’t require a little, or a lot, more juiciness between the sheets. I wouldn’t say that I opted for a weekly gang bang, but having sex only once every 2, 3 months would no longer be cutting it.
So when I opened the front door two weeks ago, and discovered a Slash-like painter who wanted to paint my balcony, I thanked the Lord for his swift moves. It was before my first workday, just in time!
The painter and me didn’t kiss, nor did we openly flirt really. But there was definitely a lot of chemistry between us. When he mentioned he went to Warhol’s every Saturday, I understood the hint.
But guess what?
The first Saturday – he wasn’t there. I felt like an absolute idiot.
But this was nothing compared to what I felt the second Saturday!
Because this time he was there, but he let the bar lady hijack our conversation deliberately. It was clear that some kind of loyalty issue was at stake here and I lost.
I lost, plain and simple.
Whatever she had to offer him, I didn’t. Maybe it were just quiet nights at Warhol’s that he didn’t want to sacrifice. Or perhaps they did sleep together occasionally, or planned on doing so.
It is hard to believe we had something, for those few hours.
When he came in for the last batch of his painting materials I noticed his tobacco pouch was still on my desk. I quickly picked it up, and because his hands were full I slipped it into his pocket. For a moment I felt the warmth of his thigh, through the boiler suit.
We smiled, both slightly uncomfortable. As if we had both felt it. At that moment I just interpreted it as nerves, or healthy tension.
But seeing how miserable things turned out, maybe I did overstep his boundaries and missed something important.
On a different note:
The neighbor just had a tantrum. He lives alone, so I m afraid it was directed at his cat. Heard something similar when he moved in, and then he literally yelled at the cat for being stupid. I hoped he was just a handyman, and not the new neighbor and owner of the cat.
But I must have suspected even back then, there was more to it. Because on my way to the city my heart started aching so badly, I cancelled my plans and dropped by at my mother’s because I was feeling totally miserable.
The heart problems have intensified last few weeks, now that I m working.
With the neighbor having his second tantrum, and working life stressful, I ve decided to go see a doctor for this.
My heart really does feel broken.
.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living

Subscribe to this blog (subscription button somewhere on this page – most likely on the right) for the next episode of 1994.
The idea of this retro series is that they are erotic stories, but this was just a story – not erotica 😉 
You can read episode 1, 2 and 3 here:
A letter from a stranger | “1994” fanfic inspired erotica episode 1 
Mutuals | “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica episode 2 
Think about you | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 3

For the real current-day me: 
subscribe to YouTube for My Life in Bon Jovi songs.

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Out ta get me | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 4
is the tenth chapter of
7-figure Rock Star Writer part 5: “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica

My diaries en erotica are available at 

my BOOK SHOP
25% discount on all prices
If you check your cart, you can select your store
f.e. Nederland or United States
with the flag in the upper right corner.

Nederlandse boeken kun je ook direct bij mij bestellen

coming soon: new books

1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

Think about you | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 3

It seemed to happen at exactly the wrong moment. Which might explain why I am so confused, and am still no clearer than 24 hours ago.
In fact I feel even more confused since I barely slept last night, and had my first workday at the publisher’s office.
I made a super quick salad, and here I am writing and eating at the same time.
I have a few hours before I really should go to bed, so that I m fresh tomorrow.
Originally I had planned on doing yoga now!
Made sense to do something physical since I will be spending the rest of my life sitting on my ass, now that I have entered working life.
I do take my work very seriously.
No more Sunday night’s sneak peek movie for me, for instance!
I never got home before 11 PM; Way too late.
But it wasn’t just skipping the movies. I had also planned on choosing my outfit yesterday night, and to get up extra early so I had time to prepare lunch and take that with me.
When in reality I didn’t do anything anymore, after The Guy left.
I was just there all afternoon and night, on my balcony smoking and staring or something. I don’t even know what I did!
Time stood still.
I didn’t pick an outfit, barely slept, got out of bed way before the alarm went off, yet still had to rush to get out the door.
I survived my first workday, but already dread going back tomorrow, because I forgot all the instructions I received on how to do my job.
Fuck, this really is messed up.
Oh, and then make matters worse, like I said, I still don’t have a clue on what to make of it, or what to do. I don’t know what was worse: Being haunted by my untold story – as if it could escape me if I didn’t bring it home safely by 6 PM. Or to still have no idea what the story actually was.
And every hour that went by, made that more painful.
So here I am.
Still not knowing.
I will just share all the thoughts in their disturbingly unclear form.
Yesterday, the bell rang. When I opened it I saw a man in white painter coveralls.
He had long black curls and he was wearing sunglasses that seemed to be so much a part of who his was that he didn’t take them off even though it was heavily clouded.
He had an odd way of speaking. As if he was shy, but then wasn’t. I don’t know, it was weird. Anyway, he said the landlord had sent him to paint the balcony, and this made sense because I had told them I had accepted a job and would not be present during the day anymore.
They have done a big renovation before I moved in here, but some things still needed work and now the landlord had sent a painter to my house on a Sunday afternoon.
He went back to get his gear from the van, as I waited in the doorway to prevent the cats from escaping.
I remember that right at that moment, my head was already spinning.
This was all just a little too close to what I had been dreaming of, more intensely than I care to admit.
A few months ago, I received a Bon Jovi VHS tape by mail, along with a fan fiction story that the seller had written.
We had been on the phone for what had seemed hours, and she had actually asked me if I cared to read it. It wasn’t the type of thing you’d send to someone uninvited, because this was hardcore pornography.
At one point it became too much even for me, but the character who had been written into the story to execute such cruelty, stuck to me:
Nikki Sixx.
It wasn’t that I desired my skin to be cut open, nor to be humiliated or bruised. But I did desire someone who would play with me, if I did want it. Or even someone who had to restrain himself from hurting me, because he was a medium-sized sadist underneath, who liked the idea of owning and abusing me.
That, was what I wanted.
Initially I thought that Bear might be willing to date more often, and bring us back to where we started over four years ago:
But I seriously doubt that now.
I think he is ready to go bigger and bolder: Just not with me.
Maybe he desires an older woman who can teach him and dominate him. I can only imagine being the one in charge, must get straining at some point.
Boring even.
When I asked him to become my lover, it was initially just to lose my virginity or maybe a few times more. But then, when he was sooo good being dominant, I realized I could develop myself with him. He had all the cookies in store, all I had to do was ask.
And I did.
But he? Has he really been able to develop himself sexually?
I really doubt it.
He carefully stayed within my limits, and now that we both graduated and our working lives have started and I am ready to invest in my sex life again, he isn’t there to pick it up.
I still think he’s seriously toying with the thought of settling down. That unlike me, he doesn’t rule out starting a family.
The only thing I think I can pride myself on, is that I don’t believe someone has approached him the way I have. With a business-like invitation over coffee, rather than a passionate or “couldn’t help ourselves” love affair.
It was premeditated, and that made it so erotic.
An unorthodox arrangement that once made him confess he was surprised girls like me really existed.
Yes, I exist.
But after four and a half year with Bear, I need more.
First to get my sex life back to the level where we used to have it, before months could go by without seeing him.
And after that, I want to go further. The Nikki Sixx route: To have him lead me to a point where I say: “No, please. I can’t take it anymore.”
Just like I had to quit reading the story.
I just couldn’t take any more.
And it was all so real to me that I half expected a Nikki Sixx-like man to come rocking out of the bushes “Tadaa!”
As if I was summoning a genie, instead of looking for a lover.
But a Slash-like man ringing my doorbell was close enough to send a shiver through my spine, and to make me nervous. I couldn’t afford to fuck this up. I really couldn’t.
And I don’t think I did.
It’s just that over 24 hours later, I still don’t know how to proceed.
Or maybe I do…. just that I m afraid of rejection or pain. Of losing Bear. Losing myself.
As determined as I was when I folded that fanfic story away, to go out and make sure I would be challenged in my love life again; that’s how nervous I am now.
If all my dreams come true and he’s my new lover, will I be able to take this?
Will my aids phobia come back?
My general fear of STD’s? Will I dare to give him a blowjob without spending a week in bed in shivering, cold anxiety?
All questions that were already running through my mind yesterday, when I should have been focusing on getting to know him. I was so nervous I didn’t even look for a wedding ring. And he actually may have told me if he was in a relationship, but that I would have missed it.
Being together was totally strange but he was also impossible to look away from and it was so promising. I broke off the conversation to go inside and leave him to work.
Not because he made the impression he wanted that, but because we just kept grinning at each other. I thought we would be able to have a conversation, as he was working on the balcony. But instead he kept looking at me too, and grinning!
It was idiotic, fun, but sooo strange!
People don’t do this!
They look away, pretend it to be casual.
But it was as if the air between us was already filling with what we wanted, even tough we said NOTHING sexual! Absolutely nothing!
And like I said, as far as I remember nothing about if he has a relationship, nor if I have one. Nothing.
All in all I spent time with him three times.
Once when he was setting up his things. When the grinning became too uncomfortable I excused myself and went inside.
Then after an hour or something, I asked him if he wanted coffee, and he did. He drank it black with a lot of sugar (my favorite type of man!) and we both smoked, chatted and drank our coffee.
This was our longest conversation.
I asked him about the sunglasses. Why he was wearing them, and that he didn’t have to answer if he didn’t want to. Strangely enough, he took them off immediately when I asked, and gave them to me!
Why, right?
It seemed more like an instinctive thing.
Just like I instinctively put them on, and tried them out. I looked at him (grinning some more) and he said they looked good on me.
They were aviators, and way larger than the small round sunglasses I usually wear.
I gave them back.
And oh fuck I so wish I had seen the color of his eyes! It went by so quickly! I guess I also failed to take notice because the moment he had his sunglasses off, I had put them on. Either way, I have no idea. Most likely brown, I m almost sure they were brown.
Also because his hair is black and it’s not dyed.
So anyway, he said he had sensitive eyes, and that he had barely slept because he went out last night. I asked where, and teased him saying:
“You probably go to The Star, or something.”
The Star is a hardrock cafe but it’s mainly for old people.
He laughed and said: “Noooooooo. I go to Warhol’s usually. Ever go there?”
Warhol’s is by far the coolest place around. I used to go there when I was still in my teens. And in my first college years too.
Firstly because I was living straight above it, but also because none of my peers went there. Not even Bear.
Warhol’s was no place for college students, and that had been its appeal. It was my own little bubble of coolness.
“Used to go there a lot,” I said. “You probably sit at the bar in Andy’s room. With a Black Label on the rocks.”
He grinned again.
“Maybe.”
I didn’t really know what to make of that, if he was inviting me to meet him there, or not.
But maybe that was the whole point? That he didn’t want to make this too easy for me.
One hell of a way to start a relationship, but it definitely fueled my thoughts on his dominance.
The third time we talked was around the time he left.
He was bringing everything in and closing the door.
The balcony he painted is in my study, where I also have my stereo and music collection. We both seemed a little reluctant to part, although we both tried to hide it.
Before he left he said:
“I saw you have some good music,” and nodded to the albums. “Death Angel. That’s impressive.”
I laughed (oh God, I really could just not stop grinning!) and answered:
“I know!”
He said: “There are weird things on that Iron Maiden cover. Did you know that?”
I said I didn’t, took it from the shelve and handed it to him.
We both studied it and were standing really close, side by side, as his fingertip traced the hieroglyphs on the pyramid.
“Here’s a little man.”
It was one of those drawings I used to make in high school, from a bald man with a big nose peeking over an edge. It said: “Wot? No Guinness?”
There was a reference to Indiana Jones and a Mickey Mouse.
It was like I was holding my breath.
I knew he would be leaving in minutes and there was nothing I could do. It was as if any hint or flirt would hurt my ears. It all seemed so blunt and ugly, as if it would stain the entire afternoon. Ruin it all.
I just couldn’t make myself.
He had said he went to Warhol’s, and with that he had already told me where I should be spending my Saturday nights, if I ever wanted to see him.
It’s 24 hours after and I already know I will do anything to see him.
If only to be rejected, I don’t care.
I ll be there.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living

Subscribe to this blog (subscription button somewhere on this page – most likely on the right) for the next episode of 1994.
The idea of this retro series is that they are erotic stories, but this is just an introduction so I called this 1994 one just a story – not erotica 😉 
You can read episode 1 and 2 here:
A letter from a stranger | “1994” fanfic inspired erotica episode 1 
Mutuals | “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica episode 2 

For the real current-day me: 
subscribe to YouTube for My Life in Bon Jovi songs.

Follow on Facebook or Twitter,
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Subscribe to 7-Figure Rock Star Writer

The subscription button to this blog is on this page,
probably on the right.
Think about you
is the nineth chapter of
7-figure Rock Star Writer part 5: “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica

My diaries en erotica are available at 

my BOOK SHOP
25% discount on all prices
If you check your cart, you can select your store
f.e. Nederland or United States
with the flag in the upper right corner.

Nederlandse boeken kun je ook direct bij mij bestellen

coming soon: new books

1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

Mutuals | “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica episode 2

I haven’t written like this in over two years, but this story is NSFW.
And for when you re (to be on the super safe side) 18 years old or older.
Sorry.
Or “You re welcome.”
.

The heat wave is finally over.
Not that that ever stopped me and Bear from having sex, but it was almost like this time it did.
My notes from the last time we made love are still untouched. They’re a curse: I know he won’t call until I process them.
After receiving the fan fiction, the dozens of copies of handwritten pages, sent to me together with a Bon Jovi VHS, it made me realize how important it is to start writing about my sex life again.
That I can’t just let 1994 go by, the way I did with 1993, and to a lesser degree even 1992. I can’t just hope and pray our sex life will magically pick up, and become the debauchery it used to be. When I know perfectly well which part I used to put in (not punned) that I stopped doing (not punned either).
My diary was the sacred place where I shared that the meeting with Bear went well, in December 1989. He had agreed to be the one I would lose my virginity with.
And that the cuddling, the oral sex, the getting to know each other was just as pleasant as with Jonathan, even though I was definitely less in love with Bear.
(or was I?)
That I had planned my deflowering, but that he was the one who had smoothly led us through it.
Afterwards I started crying, while he was still inside of me. I was so relieved I had finally gotten what I wanted. It made him slightly disgruntled, as it still does every time I cry. He knows it’s not a bad thing, but he’s clearly uncomfortable with it.
Anyway, it’s such a strange idea that in my entire life, my pussy only had his dick in there. Yet I don’t feel like a woman who’s been with only man. Perhaps because he has been with other women?
There were girls before me, girls during, and there will women or girls after, if there actually ever comes a time when we stop doing this.
I m still not sure what to wish for really.
But I do know that those first years I wrote in my diary about our adventures and all the things he learned me, or did “to me”, were the best. And that me quitting writing about our sex life, went hand in hand with it getting a lot tamer, and his visits less frequent.
Hand in hand with worry.
A nauseous sickening feeling, right beneath the surface that I just don’t want to think about because it stands for everything I don’t want to happen.
And for everything that I don’t want our relationship to be about.
If we’re growing apart, catalyzed by me finding a job (I didn’t do any job hunting during the heat wave), and the spark goes out, then so be it.
But I don’t want it to be because I am too embarrassed to put pen to paper, afraid that my diaries will be found. It’s almost as if it required the unbearable stress of having all these sex stories inside of me, before the consequences no longer intimidated me, and I wrote them down.
When our encounters became less frequent and less bold, I didn’t need my diary anymore. There was plenty of time to digest in between dates. And there wasn’t really that much to digest to begin with.
Maybe I did let the flame die out.
The fan fiction stories I received in the mail – male/male pornographic stories  – reminded me of what we used to have, and of the dreams and fantasies we never fulfilled.
They reminded me I want back what we have lost. And more.
During the ten day heatwave I spent a lot of time thinking why I like reading about men having sex with each other. I just knew there was something about me, a trait, a preference, that was revealed simply by the fact that I liked reading about two men having sex.
What could it be?
What I ve deducted so far is that for me reading about two men having sex, is how I like to see myself. That underneath my submissiveness, my love for pain, especially during fucking – Oh god, who can resist that excruciating blow of pain when his dick hits something deep inside, especially in doggy style – I like to think that Bear and me are completely equal.
I am that other man.
Male-male porn is not burdened by a history of sexual oppression of women, and allows for fantasies about dominance and non-consensual sex.
Which are my favorite.
But I feel exposed because of it.
Other men than Bear scare me, yet sometimes I long for a new lover.
The more extreme chapters of the fan fiction, made that clear to me. They were about a dominant Nikki Sixx. His dark, threatening sexuality excites me.
I m ready for more.
Yet my fear of being seen as “easy” because I am submissive, is holding me back.
Having said that: Bear, my current lover, may already be the man I m looking for.
He has always matched me, always given me what I was ready to experience. If I want more he may want to give it to me.
The second reason I like the male-male fan fiction is that at the heart of it, is love. It’s never about hookup sex, not even when it’s a one-time thing.
And the stories which were too violent to my liking, had moments when the dominant made sure the other one was alright.
Exactly the way Bear used to do when he play raped me, or when we played a more subtle form of abuse, where I had to spread my legs and let him do whatever it was he wanted.
Which is how our first time consent-play happened.
The first time all my buttons were pushed, and the core of my sexuality became known.
It was all shortly after we had my first time. I was no longer a virgin and Bear was shaving off all my pubic hair.
It started out as a mutual thing, something we had both wanted. Or at least I wanted it, and he played along. I never know if a fantasy is his, or if it becomes his because he knows it’s my fantasy.
I also wonder if it even matters.
It’s not that I worry that he’s doing things he doesn’t want to do (I don’t) but it’s more that I m curious.
Because if these are my fantasies, then what are his?
Considering how much shame I feel, for wanting to be dominated, then how must he feel if he thinks about dominating women?
Assuming his mind is full of unspeakable things, does make it easier for me to share my fantasies.
The pubic hair shaving, was the first.
It started out as two teenagers experimenting, but soon turned dark and delicious. Lying on my back, with my knees pulled up as if I was at the doctor’s office, was pretty charged in itself. But I also had to lie still, because of the shaving.
And I think the idea of cutting me, must have made him snippy. I liked the roughness in his voice, lying there completely vulnerable.
I wasn’t allowed to move.
Between strokes he would clean the knife in a bowl of water. The cool air between my legs, water dripping on the towel under my hips. The occasional swipe of a washcloth.
I had my eyes closed.
Then instead of putting the razor back onto me, I felt his fingers slipping inside of me. It took my breath away. Before I had decided if I wanted to open my eyes, I heard his voice.
It was not the harsh voice, it was soft. If I had looked into his eyes they would have been compassionate.
I know that now.
“You’re wet,” the whisper said.
I smiled, I was no longer scared. He was normal again, the bubble had burst and the fingers between my legs suddenly felt unpleasant.
“Do you want to go on?”
Of course I did. But I felt like crying for already having lost that special thing. It had been there for the first time since playing doctor in my childhood. Before I recognized it, it was already gone.
“It feels nice,” I said.
There was a pause I did not expect. He cleared his throat. And he spoke again, neutrally.
“If you want to stop, just say it,” he said.
I didn’t understand what he was making such a fuss about, and hoped my closed eyes hid my tears for the lost fantasy.
The fingers slid out of me, and he said still in his everyday voice, matter-of-factly: “I m going to sit between your legs.”
I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. The position I was in, with him on the edge of the bed, and me in patient-mode, had been the last element that had made it special. Well, and that he was still fully clothed.
I didn’t want him on the bed.
He ignored my disgruntled look as I watched him moving the bowl of water onto the bed, the razor between my legs, and my body shifted from his weight coming onto the mattress.
“I m not done yet,” he said.
Coolly.
He shot me a glance with his piercing blue eyes and then picked up the razor. “You can cry all you want, doesn’t make any difference. Do you understand?”
I nodded, trying to find him. Just one sign of recognition. He didn’t even blink.
“I may have to do things you don’t like.”
Now I really felt like crying, but this time it was for the right reasons and my hips inadvertently wiggled. Hot tears started running down my cheeks.
“Please don’t,” I sobbed.
He completely ignored it, and gently pushed two fingers inside of me. Concentrated face, staring between my legs.
He completed the shave, methodically working from the outside, to the middle.
Every time I heard him clean the razor in the bowl, I knew he would start by fingering me.
Sometimes he waited before he went in, and then my protesting moans were clearly more directed at getting more, than at him stopping. But in general I managed to make my No convincing enough for myself to get a kick out of it. And as he worked towards the labia it got more intense. Having his fingers there, on the outside, pulling the skin tight, stretching it:
It was uncomfortable, humiliating, and terribly hot.
He must have understood, way before I did, what it meant for me to be this passive. That this passivity, was not only fully intertwined with my sexuality:
It was something that didn’t have a place in real life.
I was taken somewhere I had not been since childhood, and he was there with me. This was what would bind us, we must have felt it. Although to this day I do not exclude the possibility that he has something similar with other women.
After all, he was the one who knew how to make this work.
A caress over my knee, my leg. A squeeze.
When I opened my eyes he was looking at me with a friendly face. His fingers buried inside of me, stroking slowly.
“Would you like me to touch you from behind?” he asked.
I was scared he’d reject me. I said No.
“Okay.”
I don’t really no what happened after. The shaving was done, he must have fingered me some more. And I know that just like the earlier interruption, it took a while before I felt the vibe of it again.
I guess it was just so hard for me to believe that he actually got this. That even if he stepped out of it, he would go back and pick up our play. That I didn’t have to fear he’d leave me, or reject me mid-sex. But that will always be my thing I guess. At every sign of him wanting to stop, I get this urge to pretend I want to stop too. Or that it didn’t happen.
I can’t remember how we got back into it, just that at one point he got a mirror.
“Look. You’re done.”
My pussy was cleanly shaven, the lips swollen, the entrance wet, lips wet. Again, I felt embarrassed with my legs spread like this, and the mirror between them. I wanted to break the spell, but before I could, he took over.
“Lie down,” he said briskly.
I did what he said. Happy that he was so decisive and that he had snapped me out of my embarrassment. He started fingering me again, and this time he did it in a blunt, greedy way.
“I m going to fuck you hard and deep. You got that?”
I nodded. Maybe it was the burn from the shaving cream, and the tenderness of the skin that had been shaved for the first time. Or the rough, unkind way he had filled me up with God knows how many fingers.
But I literally felt on fire down there.
Not to mention that I had loved the bald, shaven, pussy.
I had lost my virginity a few weeks prior to that, but this felt like my real initiation. I was now a real adult, ready to be taken.
Hard and deep, just like he said.
He didn’t bother to take of his clothes, which excited me because it added to the aura of superiority. And to my status as the one who would be victimized.
He put on a condom, climbed on top of me, and entered me in a simple missionary. It was otherworldly experience. I wonder if I ve ever been that wet since. If the buildup has ever been that long.
I must have cursed, begged, wrapped my legs around him. He kept his cool, his dominance, I remember that much.
And then my fantasies and reality start melting together. From back then, to current day, to everything I hope we ll start doing again. Damn, I ve got tears in my eyes, just from thinking about everything we may have lost.
But maybe it’s not too late.
I m taking my notes, wait… I want to make this right. And don’t want this to end with the realization that we’re over, and that I need Nikki Sixx to beat me back to life. I can’t accept that.
[….]
I’ve read my notes.
Our last time was a promising, intense experience. I knew that, but because I never wrote them out, I was starting to believe something was wrong with it.
Nothing was wrong.
This is what my notes said.
.
It was a really hot day and we cuddled on the couch. Ate ice lollies. We suggested putting one in my vagina, notes don’t say why we didn’t.
Perhaps I refused because of the stickiness of the sugar.
We didn’t discuss the sensations. The pain of the freeze, or how we were going to handle that. We acted as if it was all fun and games. But the real appeal to me, and the reason I was kind of sorry we didn’t pursue, was because it would not be a nice feeling at all.
And he would do it to me.
.
I verbalized that I found his body so attractive. That there was something about it that just makes me want to eat him. The longer we re together, the more I start to believe this may be love, but that it’s definitely a physical thing too.
Or maybe “an energetic thing” is a better way to put it.
It’s like his entire body is this huge fridge filled with my favorite food.
He’s exactly right.
.
He mentioned something about women who have children, and I asked him, if he had been with women who have children.
I d already heard rumors that he’d moved from the familiar pond of our peers, to women older than us. But when he said that he had, it was still a surprise. Also because we rarely ever talk about his other lovers.
But to hear him say it, was so mature.
“You ve had sex with women who ve had children?” I repeated.
I still couldn’t believe my luck.
Bear laughed it off. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s quite normal for women to have children, you know.”
I couldn’t let go and must have been staring at him with a permanent jaw drop.
He said:
“You want to watch some time?”
I wanted to say No. It would be awkward to be with another woman there. But as I opened my mouth to decline, I felt a rush of heat going to my loins.
“Yes.”
He shook his head in disbelief.
“And then what?”
As if it was a question that didn’t need answering.
And maybe it didn’t.
.
Our foreplay, right after eating the ice lollies, was so hot. We were fully clothed, rubbing our bodies together but it was as if our genitals were talking to each other through our clothes.
It was insane. Our bodies liked each other so very much.
I was so grateful that he was on my couch, see also the paragraph about his body being so juicy. And I said something about that, but I can’t make up from my notes how it all went exactly.
However the rock group Rockbitch came up, and that they trow a golden condom into the audience and whomever catches is, can have sex with a band member on stage.
I said to Bear I was so happy with him, and grateful for any way he wanted to share himself with me. And he said:
“Even if I tossed a golden condom and you had to fuck me on stage?”
“Any way you want to,” I confirmed.
We kissed deeply, and that must have been about the time we went to the bedroom.
.
Our sex was insanely simply and insanely hot. Just two positions, starting with me on top. I lowered myself onto him, and almost immediately climaxed. 
My body was so high-strung, it was as if it could break at the first thrust.
Naturally Bear didn’t thrust. He gave me time to adjust, catch my breath.
Does every penis have this?
Does every penis fit exactly right, as if your inside and his outside, are based on the same blueprint?
I started to move, and almost immediately collapsed onto his neck, chest, in despair, pleasure, grief. I have difficulty to put a word to it, in all likeliness it was all of those things. We talked (oh, I like the talking sooo much) mostly fantasizing about what we would do if we’d be living together.
Not that we have any plans to, since I just got my own rented apartment, and Bear is happy where he is, until he can buy an apartment.
But we fantasized about having sex all day, every day.
And he asked: “Anal too?”
Which drew an: “Oh God yes.” from my lips.
Adding to the already intoxicating mix of my body in permanent stage of climaxing, talking with Bear and his husky voice, and my emotions being all over the place.
It was far too much, and I took it to full orgasm at least two times. But I also remember being so overwhelmed by sensations and emotions, that I stopped an equal number of times.
“It’s so much, it’s so much,” I said, as I leaned forward, and let myself be hugged.
.
I was the one who asked it to be switched around to doggy style, with which I have an ambiguous relationship. Physically, it’s a nightmare. Bear can hurt me so easily. The way around it is to penetrate me shallowly, but we hardly ever stick with that.
I don’t have bad memories of Bear hurting me when I wasn’t ready for it, and if he did, it must have been by accident so that explains why I forgot.
But the problem is, that I choose doggy when I want it to hurt.
And Bear knows that.
I had already climbed off of him, and he was getting up to his knees, when another fantasy came into play.
I didn’t introduce or explained, but just said:
“I had way too much pleasure on top. You’re not paying me for that.”
We kissed so deeply, and the pleasurable hell that was doggy style awaited me.
I turned around on hands and knees, he pushed and instructed me further down. I protested but lowered, face and hands buried into the pillow.
It was unclear what excited me more:
The sitting on top, being in full control of what happened and having so much pleasure I had to stop and be comforted because of everything that brought up.
Or being face down in the pillow, knowing that the only thing what awaited me was to be fucked, in a painful, demeaning manner.
He slid in smoothly, but I was expecting it to hurt so much, that it only made it worse that I couldn’t immediately feel what I knew would happen.
He started fucking me, slowly building it up. Talking to me – got to hand it to him, he knows how to take the sharpest edges off – and then when he did hurt me and I groaned in pain, it wasn’t because I wanted him to stop.  
He’s always careful not to give too much.
Even when we both know we’re in doggy because I want it to hurt, he doesn’t pound away. I get enough time for the sharp pain to fade, while he’s fucking me more gently.
Maybe I was crying again, all I know is that I had this strong sense of arousal, of wanting more, or wanting my limits pushed.
I reached back to the hand on my hip, his thumb was pressing into my flesh already. At the first touch of my fingertips reaching his hand, he withdrew, taking his hand to the small of my back.
I followed it, touched it again,and this time I pushed it back where it came from, just closer to my ass. As I was doing it, I remember I was moved he had been so quick to respond by backing down.
He couldn’t know that I wanted the exact opposite.
When I took my hand back, grabbing the pillow under my face with both hands, I could feel his thumb sliding in smoothly.
And I groaned, with pleasure this time.

..
It’s tempting to stop the story here. A real erotica story should have. Because I don’t have any more notes. There’s no real anal sex, or anything. This really is as far as we dare to took it the last time we were together. And it was the first time in a long time, we actually did that.
Our final year has been so straining. We seemed both weary not to break what we had and ended up largely avoiding each other.
Our time abroad for our internships and the stress of our theses wore us out, but we suffered alone. Connecting based on everyday things is not our style.
But our stress played out in the bedroom, and I m still unsure if by blaming it all on our studies, I m not missing more clues on what was wrong.
And maybe still is.
But what I want to share at the end of this story, is a paragraph in my notes, written in the third person.
I had forgotten I had written it, but it is such a clear description of what I feel. Regardless of the doubt that sometimes gets to me, with regard to his other women, our future, and the option that maybe I should find a Nikki Sixx and reboot this sex thing at a whole new level.
This paragraph explains why my deepest desire is still to be with Bear. Regardless of how incomprehensible or even fucked up our relationship might seem to the outside world. Or how strange it is that I ve only been with one man.
This is what I wrote:
“She could feel how everything had shifted, and that there wouldn’t be an end to what it was they could do together.
That this was the man she wanted to make love to, for the rest of her life.
The thought of how many sexual adventures they could be sharing was overwhelming.”
.
Maybe that is the whole thing with this fan fiction thing: It’s not about the sex, regardless of how twisted it all seems. Or how ruthless.
That in the end all those stories are romantic in nature.

And so am I.
..

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living

For more on Lauren’s fan fiction story, her sexually troubled teens,
and her love for Jon Bon Jovi, read part 1
“A letter from a stranger”

OR PART 3!
Where Lauren meets a potential lover who looks like Slash
“Think about you” 

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..

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Mutuals | “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica
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